“I guess I’ll just run down to the pond a few minutes, and see if there’s any fish there. It aint more’n three o’clock; Father’s gone up to Morgan’s with that load of hay, and he won’t be home before five o’clock. I can get back and hoe a lot of corn by that time.” He cast his eyes critically toward the sun, hesitated for another minute, and then, shouldering his hoe, started down the hill toward the lake; but before he had gone half-way to the water’s edge he stopped and stood still, nervously chewing a spear of June-grass, and glancing alternately back at the cornfield and forward to the tempting waters of the lake. “I don’t care!” he said at last. “I can’t help it if it aint right. If Father’d only _let_ me go a-fishing once in a while, I wouldn’t want to sneak off. It’s his fault; ’cause I’ve got to fish, and that’s all there is about it.” In a swampy place near by he dug some angle-worms for bait. Then, taking a pole and line from the long grass behind a log, he skirted the shore for a short distance, climbed out on the body of a fallen tree that lay partly in the water, and flung off his line. Joe had not long to wait. The lazy motion of the brightly painted float on the smooth surface of the lake gave place to a sudden swinging movement. Then the small end dipped till only the round red top was visible. In the next instant that too disappeared, and the pole curved till the tip of it almost touched the water. For a second only Joe played with his victim. Then, with a quick, steady pull, he drew the darting, curving, shining fish from its home, and landed it among the weeds on the shore. Flushed with delight, he hastened to cast his line again into the pool. Scarcely a minute later he pulled out another fish. It seemed to be an excellent day for the sport. Indeed, he had never before known the fish to bite so well. They kept him busy baiting his hook and drawing them in. He was in the high tide of enjoyment. The cornfield was forgotten. Suddenly he became aware that some one was standing behind him among the low bushes on the shore. He turned to see who it was. There, confronting him, a frown on his face, stood Joe’s father. The pole in the boy’s hands dropped till the tip of it splashed into the water; his face turned red and then pale, and there was a strange weakness in his knees. He drew his line in slowly, wound it about the pole, and stepped from the log to the shore. As yet no word had been said by either father or son, but Joe had a vague sense that it was for him to speak first. “I thought,” he stammered, “that I’d come down and see--and see if--if the fish was biting to-day--” “Well,” said his father, grimly, “are they biting?” “They’ve bit first-rate,” responded the boy, quickly. “I’ve got fourteen in this little puddle here.” “Throw them back into the pond,” commanded Mr. Gaston.