“It will beat sleeping on a hard board all hollow,” said Harry. Next came the firewood; and this was stacked up close to the door of the lodge, while a fair portion was piled up in the living-room, for use when a heavy storm was on. Each of the boys chopped until his back fairly ached, but no one complained. It was so different, chopping wood for an outing instead of in the back yard at home! “And now for something for supper and for breakfast,” said Joel Runnell, as the last stick was flung on the woodpile. “Supposing we divide our efforts. Joe can go with me into the woods on a hunt, while Fred and Harry can chop a hole in the ice on the lake, and try their luck at fishing.” “Just the thing!” cried Fred. “Wait and see the pickerel I haul in.” “And the fish I catch,” added Harry. “Will we have to lock up the lodge?” asked Joe. “Hardly,” answered the old hunter. “I don’t believe there is anybody, but ourselves inside of five miles of this spot.” The guns were ready, and Joel Runnell and Joe soon set off, for the short winter day was drawing to a close, and there was no time to lose. But the fishing outfits had still to be unpacked, and the boys had to find bait, so it was half an hour later before Fred and Harry could get away. Arriving at the lake shore, the two would-be fishermen selected a spot that they thought looked favorable, and began to cut their hole. As the ice was fully sixteen inches thick this was no easy task. But at last the sharp ax cut through, and then it was an easy matter to make the hole large enough for both to try their luck. “I’ll wager a potato that I get the first bite,” observed Harry, as he threw in. “What odds are you giving on that bet?” came from Fred. “I didn’t think you were such small potatoes as to ask odds,” was the quick answer; and then both lads laughed. Fishing proved to be slow work, and both boys became very cold before Fred felt something on his line. “Hurrah, I’ve got a bite!” he shouted. “Here is where I win that potato!” And he hauled in rapidly. “Be careful that you don’t lose your fish,” cautioned Harry. “We can’t afford to lose anything just now.” “Huh! don’t you think I know how to fish?” grunted Fred, and hauled in as rapidly as before. But then the game appeared to hold back, and he hardly knew what to do. “Coming in hard,” he said, slowly. “I think——. Ah, I’ve got him now! Here he comes!” And then the catch did come—a bit of brushwood, with several dead weeds clinging to it. “That’s a real fine fish,” said Harry, dryly. “What do you suppose he’d weigh, in his own scales?” “Oh, give us a rest!” “The potato is yours, Fred. You can eat it for supper, along with that fine catch.” “If you say another word, I’ll pitch you into the hole!” “I never saw a fish exactly like that one. Is it a stickleback, or a hand-warmer?”