“Not tall.” Bright Star shook his head. “Not heavy. But big nose. Hair plucked out. Only scalp lock left. Brave, heap brave! Pale-face run like rabbit when he raise war-whoop.” The Pottawattomee seemed on the verge of saying more, but suddenly closed his lips tightly, leaped to his feet, and again caught up the fishing spear which he had thrown to one side when he sat down to eat. While the young chief again took post on the rocky ledge, spear ready, looking down sharply into the lake waters, the two white boys got out their lines, with hook and sinker attached to each. “Guess we’ll have to catch some grasshoppers for bait,” mused Tom. “Maybe so,” agreed Ben, “but grasshoppers don’t make the best bait in the world. Little Bennie is no Isaac Walton, but he knows that much about fishing.” At this, the keen-eared Bright Star again threw down his spear on the ledge, and with a few long bounds stood beside them. “Me get bait,” he said. “Heap good bait.” For a moment or two he walked along the shore, carefully surveying the rocks at his feet. Finally he bent down and turned over a flattish stone. “Come!” he invited, beckoning to the whites. “See!” With a dusky finger he pointed to a queer-looking creature, seemingly half bug and half worm, which lay beneath the stone. “Nice bug,” he stated. “Fish much like.” “What do you call it?” quizzed Ben. “Now, Ben,” broke in Tom, with mock severity, “do you mean to state that you don’t know the name of that peculiar little thinguma-jig?” “Of course not. How should I? And you don’t know the name of it either, Mr. Johnny Wiseacre.” “Yes, I do, Ben. Have you forgotten the teachings of the great Eliphalet Doolittle, Professor of Biology at good old Litchfield Academy, back home in Connecticut? No wonder you squeezed through that course by the skin of your teeth.” “Gosh, Tom,” pleaded Ben, a trifle sheepishly, “I never could remember the names of all those confounded little bugs, beetles and butterflies.” “Well, my boy,” went on Tom, assuming an owlish look, “the correct name for this curious little creature is helgramite. And to elucidate further, it is a larva, meaning the immature, wingless, and often wormlike form in which metabolous insects hatch from the egg, and in which they remain with increase in size and other minor changes until they assume the pupa or chrysalis stage.” “Very well, smart Alec,” grinned Ben, “you win. But will the dad-blamed little things catch fish?” “Bright Star says so. Let’s proceed to find out.” For more than an hour, it looked as if the doughty Bright Star were wrong, very wrong. Not a solitary nibble did either Tom or Ben secure. And although the young savage kept constantly alert with his sharp spear, he was unable to entice a fish within suitable throwing distance.