“Ginger! see him go,” cried Crane. “He must be a bouncer. Grab the paddle, Pipe, and follow up.” Having reeled in, Sleuth did as directed, and at the first dip of his blade the boys saw the fish leap clear of the water, with a tremendous slap, as it tried to shake the hook free. With a splash, he fell back and took to running again. “Shades of the Pilgrim Fathers!” gasped Sleuth in envious admiration. “He’s a monster. He’s the father of them all. Why didn’t I have the luck to hook him?” “It’s a salmon, and a peach,” fluttered Crane, reeling in as the fish yielded. “Have that net ready, Pipe.” “No hurry,” returned Sleuth wisely. “Don’t you get the idea that that fellow is going to let us dip him in a hurry. You’ve got your work cut out for you for some time, old man.” He was quite right about this, for the gamey fish fought like a shark, resorting to all the devices and stratagems of its kind. Time after time the salmon leaped high out of the water, and whenever it did so both boys were filled with apprehension until the tautening of the line again told them that the creature had not broken away. At least twenty minutes were consumed in the delightful, nerve-racking task of playing that fish, and Crane repeatedly brought him close to the canoe, only to have him turn and run with a fresh burst of strength and a persistence that threatened to leave the reel bare of line. At last, however, with the soft twilight thickening, the salmon betrayed unmistakable evidence of weariness. Slowly and resentfully it permitted itself to be brought closer, its efforts to run becoming shorter and weaker. Grasping the bamboo handle of the landing net, Piper awaited the proper moment, ready to dip. “Work easy, Sile—work easy,” entreated Piper. “Don’t let him fool you. He may be playing possum.” “Jest yeou be ready to do yeour part of the job,” advised Crane. “That’s all I want of yeou.” To Sleuth’s credit, he did his part well, and the very first dip of the net secured the salmon, who came out of the water writhing in the meshes and shining beautifully, despite the semi-darkness. “Bate he weighs five paounds,” exulted the triumphant angler, removing the capture from the net. “Oh, say, Sleuth, what do you think of that! Them fellers that ketched a little mess of brook traout this morning are beat to death.” Sleuth had nothing to say. He sat there in the bottom of the canoe gazing dejectedly at the beautiful fish, his heart heavy with chagrin because his was not the glory of the capture. “But there may be others around here,” he suddenly exclaimed. “Perhaps I’ll get the next one.” “Do you realize that it’s dark and we’re clean over on the side of the lake opposite aour camp?” asked Sile. “It’s too late to fish any more tonight, old feller, and we’d better be hikin’ for Pleasant Point.” “That’s it!” rasped Sleuth. “That’s the way of it! You don’t want me to catch anything. You want to hustle back with this big fellow, so that you can crow over me.”