I could write in detail of the next three days, but the narrative would only bore you, for nothing of special interest happened. In brief, then, they made an early start the morning after the escape from Mr. Ewing and the arm of the law, and were soon rounding the bend in the river opposite Peekskill. By one o’clock they were in sight of West Point and so kept on until they found a mooring at the steamboat pier. There they ate dinner and afterward spent two hours “doing” the Military Academy. Dick declared that if they didn’t see another thing, that alone was worth the whole trip, and the rest agreed with him. At twilight, they sidled the _Slow Poke_ across to shore almost under the frowning face of Storm King. There was deep water there, and when the mooring ropes were made fast they could step from the deck of the house-boat right onto the bank. The map showed dozens of streams and several small ponds, and it was decided that they would remain there for a while and try the fishing. They slept on board that night, but the next afternoon they rigged the little shelter tent which they had brought between the trees at a little distance from shore, and made camp. Dick and Roy fashioned a fireplace of stones and when the weather was fair the meals were prepared over a wood fire. Chub declared that he preferred the flavor of wood smoke to kerosine. For two days they tramped around the neighboring country and fished to their hearts’ content, finding several good trout pools. It was on the second day that Chub caught his “two-pounder.” To be sure, Dick and Roy declared that it didn’t weigh over a pound and a quarter, but Chub retorted that that was only their jealousy and that if there was a scales on board he would soon prove his estimate correct. But there wasn’t a scales to be found and so Chub’s claim was never disproved. He held the trout out at arm’s-length while Roy photographed it, and when the picture developed the fish looked like a salmon rather than a trout. “You might as well call it a ten-pounder as a two,” said Dick. “Anyone would believe you. Why, that fish is half as big as you--in the picture!” Chub viewed him sorrowfully and shook his head. “That,” he replied, “would not be the truth, Dickums. When you know me better you’ll find that not even a fish can tempt me from the path of honesty. Perhaps, however, there wouldn’t be any harm in calling it a three-pounder; what do you think?” Roy and Dick had good luck, too, although their trout were smaller than Chub’s “two-pounder,” and during their stay at Camp Storm King, as they called it, they had all the fresh fish they could eat. The day after Chub’s famous catch he informed the others that he was going back to the scene of his victory for another try. “We’ll all go,” said Roy, pleasantly, with a wink at Dick. “It must be a dandy place.” “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” replied Chub, shortly. “That pool is my discovery.”