I found my occupation quite lively for a sultry morning, and not without a certain amount of adventure, as I also discovered, for one ignorant of the precise difference between a grasshopper and a hornet. Finally, enough were caught and imprisoned in an empty wine-bottle to serve for bait, and Jack was sure we were going to catch a load of fish. My confidence in fishing was only in proportion to my experience, very meagre, and after several hours fruitlessly spent in trying various places, great was my astonishment when the lance-wood rod bent double in my hands, and the next instant a large fish appeared struggling on the surface of the water. “Don’t lose him!” shouted Jack as he came forward, and snatched the rod out of my hands and landed the fish. “A fool for luck!” said my cousin. “I beg your pardon, old boy, but there won’t be a better fish caught here this summer.” It proved to be a splendid specimen of black bass, and weighed, according to Jack’s estimate, every ounce of six pounds. Several smaller fish of the same species, together with a few small perch, were the result of our day’s sport. The big bass made a sufficiently large Friday dinner and supper; the other fish we saved for our last breakfast. Alas! for some episode, before we row down to Ticonderoga and take the steamer on Lake Champlain to Whitehall, and the cars thence to Albany 90 and New York. Our tent did not blow away that night; and, although the storm beat fiercely, not a drop of water touched us, thanks to the little furrow which Jack had traced with a sharp stick, to carry off the drippings from the tent-cloth. Starting bright and early next morning, we rowed past a steep smooth cliff running almost perpendicularly for about four hundred feet and then down into the lake. “That’s ‘Rogers’s Slide,’” said Jack. “The deuce it is! He must have worn a stout pair of pantaloons!” “Oh! but he didn’t actually slide, you know!” replied Jack, and then proceeded to recount the famous escape of Major Rogers in 1758, who here eluded the pursuit of the Indians, and, having thrown his knapsack over the precipice, turned his snow-shoes and made off by another route. In a few hours, we had left our little boat attached to the steamer to be taken back to Caldwell. A stage ride of several miles brought us to Ticonderoga and Lake Champlain. That same evening, at ten o’clock, we snuffed the hot and fetid breath of the great metropolis, and Monday morning saw us re-entering the shades of Hawkins & Smith. A word to Jack and a stare at me were the only greetings of the junior partner, as he passed through the salesroom. “Ah, boys!” said the cheery Hawkins, “glad to see you; look as if you’ve been having a good time. Plenty of bone, muscle, and brown skin, eh? I guess Mr. Smith will think that it pays to give you such a _rest_. You haven’t been wasting your money at Long Branch or Saratoga, I’ll bet.”