it had only one outlet, and that was Rat Brook. It, too, was frozen solid on top, although by listening intently they could hear the soft rippling and gurgling of the water beneath. It was about twelve feet broad at its widest and flowed off eastward between birch and alder and witch-hazel to North Pemberton and, eventually, the Chicontomoc River. “It would be sort of fun to skate down the brook,” suggested Bert. “How far could you go, do you think?” “Most to North Pemberton, I guess,” said Hal. “There isn’t much fall to it. Maybe you’d have to walk around here and there, though. We’ll try it some time, eh?” Joe wasn’t nearly rested when they started on, but he dropped from the bridge heroically and went, too, trying his best to copy Hal’s easy motions and to keep his strokes long. He thought he was doing pretty well, too, but pride goeth before a fall, and suddenly the ice rose up and smote him heavily and complacency was swiftly jarred out of him. The others, well ahead, waved consoling hands, but didn’t stop. They were used to seeing Joe tumble. When he picked himself up he no longer tried to emulate Hal, but continued in his own safer, if less attractive style, reaching the camp some time after the others, rather tired but suffering from no further contusions. They chopped holes through the ice a little later and rigged their lines, not without difficulty. By that time their thoughts turned toward food and the fishing operations were postponed until afternoon. Then, with a good fire burning on the shore, they baited their hooks and sat down to watch the tiny wisps of cloth, which, torn from an old red tablecloth, shone bravely in the afternoon sunlight. They sat there nearly an hour before any of the three flags showed signs of life. Then Hal’s jerked upward and Hal, scrambling to his feet, skated swiftly toward it, so swiftly, in fact, that he over-skated the hole. But he landed a fair-sized pickerel and was proudly displaying the agitated fish when Joe gave a shrill yell and went plunging, floundering, arms waving, to where, further up the lake his particular little red flag was threatening to follow the line under the ice. The others, watching, whooped with glee at Joe’s antics and roared when, losing his balance at last, he crashed to the ice and arrived at the hole on the seat of his knickers! He, too, captured his trophy, which, on comparison, was found to be a half inch longer than Hal’s, although Hal did his utmost to stretch his pickerel enough to offset the difference. At dusk they had five fish. Hal had caught two, Joe had caught two and Bert one. But Bert’s was so much larger that there couldn’t be any discussion. It measured just seventeen and five-eighths inches by the yard stick. Bert was very insistent on the five-eighths! Both he and Joe disclaimed any knowledge of the gentle art of cleaning fish, and so that duty fell to Hal. Supper that night was wonderful, for fried pickerel――even if