This caused Springer to laugh at last. “The idiom of the West is certainly expressive,” he observed. “And one time we thought you a fake because you didn’t say ‘galoot’ and ‘varmint’ and such bub-book lingo of supposed-to-be Westerners.” Simpson made no retort, and, as he continued to sit there, the boys gathered up their tackle and the basket containing the trout and prepared to depart. “If, on further consideration,” said Grant, turning to him, “you should hold to the notion that you still have a grievance, you’ll find us over at Pleasant Point.” “So long, Simpy,” called Phil, unable to repress a parting fling. “Hope your headache don’t lul-last long.” They were some distance away when they heard him, his courage revived, shouting after them: “You better git! Come round this brook again, and see what happens to you!” “Well,” chuckled Springer, as they pushed their way through the thickets, “this has been a real lul-lively morning. We’ve had sport enough for one day.” “I’m glad you called to me just when you did, Phil,” said Rodney. “I was getting a touch of that old blazing rage that always makes me lose my head complete.” “A tut-touch of it! Great Caesar! I wish you could have seen your own face. I thought you were going to obliterate Mr. Simpson then and there.” At the camp Stone and Crane were waiting, and the smoke of the brisk fire rose into the still air. The sight of the white tent, the dancing blaze and their waiting friends was good indeed to the returning anglers, who gave a hail as they approached. Sile answered the call with a question: “Did you fellers ketch anything? I’ll bate yeou ain’t had a bit of fun.” “Oh, is that sus-so!” scoffed Phil hurrying forward with the basket. “Fun! We’ve had more than you could sus-shake a stick at.” “But have you ketched anything?” persisted Crane. Springer waited until he could place the basket before them and lift the cover. When this was done they broke into exclamations of admiration and delight. “Jiminy cripes!” sputtered Sile. “Here’s a breakfast fit for a king. Yeou _must_ have had fun, sure enough.” “All sorts,” said Phil; and then he proceeded in his whimsical faltering way, to tell of the encounter with Jim Simpson. “Just one cuc-crack, that’s all Rod had to hand him,” he finished. “It cooked his goose quicker than you could say Juj-Juj-Juj-Jack Rob-bib-bib-binson.” “It sartain wasn’t so very quick,” returned Sile, “unless it was done quicker than yeou can say Jack Robinson. I’ll clean the fish. Ben, yeou get ready to fry ’em.” “Where’s Sleuth?” asked Grant. “Oh, he isn’t up yet,” said Stone. “Not up?” whooped Springer. “Then I’ll pup-pull him out in a hurry.” But Piper had heard them and was dressing. Presently he came forth, looking grouchy enough, and had no word of applause for the success of the anglers. Nevertheless, when the fish were cooked he ate his share. CHAPTER IX. CARL DUCKELSTEIN FISHES.