Just above Corbin the river narrowed somewhat and the trees gave place to thickets of alder and witch-hazel and storax. Here and there black oaks, pond pines, or ash trees formed small islands of verdure above the level of grassy bog, and occasionally a group of black willows hung over the water. The launch nosed its way into the unruffled water of The Flat an hour or so before noon and Pud dropped the little anchor off the lower end of the nearer island. Already there were a number of fishermen on hand. One or two occupied skiffs, but most dozed from the sterns of flat-bottomed punts. Several shanty-boats were in sight where the river entered and where the absence of weeds offered access to the shore. Some forty yards away from where the launch had anchored floated a dilapidated punt occupied by a man and a yellow hound. The man, who was simply attired in a cotton shirt and a pair of khaki trousers, and who wore a conical-crowned, broad-brimmed straw hat turned down over his lean face, glanced at them briefly and returned at once to his observation of the cork float that depended from the end of a long bamboo pole. The dog wagged his tail in friendly fashion and sniffed in their direction. Then he, too, went back to watching the bob. They had bought a dozen small green frogs on the landing at Corbin, and now they proceeded to bait up. Neither Pud nor Tim had had any experience in bass fishing, and at once they were faced by the problem of depth. They had anchored in about twelve feet of water, and now whether to put sinkers on or allow their frogs to choose their own positions below the surface bothered them. Harmon didn’t approve of frogs, anyway, and was pessimistic from the start. ‘If’n I had me a good ol’ worm,’ he muttered, ‘I’d sure catch me somethin’, but I ain’ ’spectin’ much of these here hop-frogs.’ Pud and Tim sought to learn how their neighbor’s line was furnished, but as it remained quietly in the water they failed. Finally Pud elected to fish without a lead and Tim decided to use one. Harmon, who was using a home-made rod of his own devising, merely tied some ten feet of line to the tip, impaled Mr. Frog on a leaderless hook and dropped him overboard. Then he lay back on the stern seat, cocked his right leg over his left knee, rested the pole between his first and second toes and fixed himself for a nap. After that quiet fell over the scene. The sun was almost overhead and the breeze was of the faintest. Now and then, acting on the advice of the man from whom they had purchased the bait, Pud and Tim drew their frogs from the water and allowed them to take some more air aboard. A half-hour passed. Harmon was breathing loudly in the stern, fast asleep. Then there came a sound from the nearby punt. The yellow hound was peering over the stern and wagging his tail deliriously. The big cork float had disappeared and the man was gingerly paying out on a taut line. Pud and Tim, forgetting their own fortunes, watched absorbedly.