I had picked my trout up. He wasn't so awful big, after all; only about fifteen inches long, which means two pounds. He was an Eastern brook trout. They grow larger in the cold water of the West than they do in their own homes. But I looked for Jed--and then dropped my trout and waded over to help _him_. He was out in the water, up to his waist, and something was jerking him right along. "I can't get him out!" he called, as I was coming. "How big is yours?" "Fifteen inches." "This one's as big as I am--big native!" And you should have heard Jed grunt, as the line just surged around, in the current. "Want any help?" I asked. "Uh uh. If he can lick me, then he ought to get away." "Where'd you catch him?" "Against the bank." "Swing him down the current and then lift him right in shore!" "Look out he doesn't tear loose!" "He'll break that pole!" Fitzpatrick and Major Henry were yelling at us from the fire; and then Jed stubbed his toe on a rock and fell flat. He didn't let the pole go, though. He came up sputtering and he was as wet as I. "Swing him down and then lift him right in!" kept shouting Fitz and Major Henry. That was the best plan. "All right," answered Jed. "You take the pole and start him," he said to me. "I'd have to haul him against the current." I was below him, of course, so as to head the trout up-stream. He tossed the butt at me and I caught it. That was generous of Jed--to let me get the fish out, when he'd been the one to hook it. But we were Scouts together, and we were after meat for all, not glory for one. I took the pole and with a swing downstream kept Mr. Trout going until he shot out to the edge of the pond, and there Fitz tumbled on top of him and grabbed him with one hand by the gills. When we held him up we gave our Patrol yell: B. S. A.! B. S. A.! Elks! Elks! Hoo-ray! Oooooooooooo! CHAPTER IV THE BEAVER MAN For he was a great one, that trout! He was the big fellow that everybody had been after, because he was twenty-six inches long and weighed four pounds and had only one eye! That was good woodcraft, for a boy twelve years old to sneak up on him and catch him with a willow pole and a line tied fast and a grasshopper, when regular fishermen with fine outfits had been trying right along. Of course they'll say we didn't give him any show--but after he was hooked there was no use in torturing him. The hooking is the principal part.