"Yah, yah," the big miller assented, cheerfully, "it's a very goot mill. For over five year now by me it has worked. Von't you step on the insides for a minute, young shentlemens?" "Sure thing," said Tom. "Come on, fellows. It isn't often you get a chance to see a real mill working. Old Pete can wait, I guess," and so, led by the good-natured Herr Hoffmeyer, the trio entered the mill. For the better part of an hour they wandered around to their hearts' content. The miller showed the working of the mill wheels, and led the way into every nook and cranny, explaining as they went. At last, when they had seen everything there was to be seen, the boys thanked their host heartily, and started on their way once more. Before they rounded a bend in the road, they turned for a last look at the mill. At the door stood their erstwhile host, honest, round face shining like the moon, while the rays of the sun glanced off in little golden darts from the smooth surface of his bald head. "Well, that was some adventure," Bert exclaimed. "I've always wanted to see the inside of a mill, and now I've realized my heart's desire." "I like Herr Hoffmeyer, too," Tom said, "even if I did think he was a trifle weak in the head at first. Isn't this the pickerel stream?" he asked, a minute later. "Yes, but the fellows say that the big pickerel is further down the stream. Come along." With these words, Bert led them down the bank until they reached a shady spot, shaded by spreading trees, and carpeted with green and velvety moss. "This place looks good to me," said Dick; "let's camp here." "I guess this ought to be about right," Bert agreed. In a few minutes the reels were fixed, the hooks were baited, and the lines were lowered carefully into the clear depths of the stream. "This is what you might call comfort," said Tom, as he leaned lazily against a convenient tree. "Bet your life," Bert agreed. "Now, if Pete will only consent to come along and get the hook, like any other respectable, right-minded fish, my contentment would be absolute." "Huh," Tom grunted sarcastically. "He'd be likely to do that, wouldn't he, especially if you keep up this gabfest?" "I guess a little polite conversation won't scare that wary old reprobate. I imagine he's heard so much conversation that couldn't be called exactly polite, especially when he calmly detaches the bait from the hook without stopping to leave his card, that he wouldn't mind our talk at all." "Shut up," said Tom, in a low voice, "I've got a bite, and the line's pulling hard." Then, amid a breathless silence, Tom gave a quick, experienced pull to the line, and landed--not the renowned old Pete, but a small-sized sunfish, that wriggled and twisted desperately in its efforts to get away. At this minute Bert happened to glance at Tom's face, and the look he found there was so eloquent of absolute dismay and chagrin, that he burst into a shout of uncontrollable laughter, in which Dick joined him.