“There comes another boat,” Teena said, pointing to one of the orange-and-white Anderson’s Landing rowboats about a hundred yards out from the wharf. “Well, now,” Mr. Anderson said, smiling, “don’t you be staying around to clean that one up. I’ll take care of it.” “Teena, look,” Eddie said. “It—it’s those same two men we met at the cove last week. You know, the tall one called Simms and the chubby one called Roy.” “Roy Benton,” Mr. Anderson said, consulting his rental slips. “He signed for the boat this morning. Second Saturday they’ve rented one. Hope they’re steady customers. I can always use the business. Don’t know how long they’ll stick with it, though. They didn’t catch a thing last week.” “Bet they didn’t catch any this week, either,” Eddie said. “Not if they fished over the sand bar again.” “I tried to tell them about good fishin’ spots,” Mr. Anderson said, “but they didn’t seem to be listening. Didn’t even ask me what kind of bait was best around here. Well, there are all kinds of fishermen. One thing I’ve learned in this business is not to go around giving advice when no one asks for it. Fishermen can be mighty touchy about that. Best to let them use up their own pet ideas, even if they don’t catch fish.” “I can’t figure why they would want to take trout rods out with them to do ocean fishing,” Eddie said. “Trout rods?” Mr. Anderson asked. “They rented poles from me. I didn’t see any trout rods.” “Well, remember that metal tube they had last week? About two feet long? If that wasn’t a carrying case for a jointed trout rod, what else could it be?” “I don’t recollect them having anything like that,” Mr. Anderson said thoughtfully. “And I sure would have noticed it. I helped them get loaded in the boat. All they had was a small box which I figured was their lunch. Same thing this morning. No metal tubes with knock-down trout rods or anything like that.” “Let’s go, Eddie,” Teena prompted. “I’d just as soon not have to meet them again. They were pretty cranky.” But the tall man at the oars already was maneuvering the boat clumsily up to the wharf. Mr. Anderson leaned down, took the painter from the fat man’s hand, and snubbed it to the dock cleat. The tall man, Simms, shipped oars and turned around to hand them up to Mr. Anderson. He spotted Eddie and Teena. “Well, so it’s you two again,” he said with no show of friendliness. “You keep turning up, and we’ll think you’re spying on us.” “We’ve been helping Mr. Anderson,” Teena defended. “No fish again today?” Eddie said, looking into the empty boat. “Snagged a couple whoppers,” the portly man said, “but they got away.” “Did you hook them over the sand bar?” Eddie asked. “Why not?” Simms said sharply. Eddie glanced at Mr. Anderson. You just couldn’t hook big ones over the sand bar. The boat owner shrugged at Eddie’s inquiring look, but he said nothing. “We’ll get them next week, though,” the man, Roy Benton, said. “You save us a boat for next Saturday, huh?”