"Sh! Wait. Don't let 'em hear you," warned Frane, Junior. Then he added: "Get down here 'side o' me. When I spot him I'll let you squint through this too." Russ understood now that his companion was trying to see one of the fish that lived in the stream--perhaps the "big fellow" Frane had spoken of. Russ grew quite excited and he took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He knelt down beside Frane, and finally lay right down on his stomach and likewise peered over the side of the log. The log-bridge had been made quite flat on its upper surface with a broadaxe, and all the bark had long since worn off. It was all of thirty feet long, but it was just as firm as the arch of a stone bridge. "There!" whispered Frane. "I saw a flicker then. Yep! He's there! Right below the edge of that stone!" "I don't see anything but water. I can't even see the bottom," observed Russ, in a low voice, too. "Don't you see him below the stone?" "I don't even see the stone," complained Russ. "Hush! He'll hear you. I see his tail wiggle. He's a big cat." "Now, don't tell me there's a cat in this brook!" said Russ Bunker, shortly. "I know there isn't anything of the kind. Cats hate water." He had already learned that Frane, Junior, was apt to exaggerate. Russ thought the Armatage boy was letting his fancy run wild at this present moment. "It is a cat," murmured Frane. "I can see his whiskers moving. Yep, a big fellow! Want to see?" and he took his eye away from the bark cylinder. "Can you see his teeth and his claws and his fur and his tail?" demanded Russ scornfully, and without offering to take the cylinder. He did not intend to be fooled so easily. "What are you talking about?" hissed Frane. "And speak quietly. You'll drive him away." "Cats aren't so easily scared," said Russ. "You have to peg stones at 'em to drive 'em away." "Huh!" sniffed Frane. "Funny cats up North. I don't believe you have any up there." "You're right we don't," agreed Russ, and now he laughed again. "Not any cats that swim. Cats hate the water----" "Aw, shucks! I'm not talking about cats!" exclaimed Frane. "I'm talking about catfish." "Oh!" ejaculated the Northern boy. "You know a catfish, don't you? It has feelers that we call whiskers. Awful nice eating, for they only have a backbone." "Oh!" murmured Russ again. "I guess I didn't understand. Let me see the fish, will you, please?" "You can look," said Frane passing him the cylinder of bark. "But maybe we have scared him off, talking so much." The big catfish, however, had not been scared away. After a few moments, and with Frane's aid, Russ Bunker got the wooden spyglass focused on the proper point. He saw the imbedded rock Frane had spoken of. Then he saw the fish basking in the water below the rock's edge. It was almost two feet long, with a big head and goggle eyes, and the "whiskers" Frane had spoken of wriggled back and forth in the slow current. Russ grew excited.