Dick and his two companions thoroughly explored the shore as far as they went on the lower part of the lake. From time to time Prescott consulted his watch. In all the time that they were out they passed only one building, a tumble-down, weather-beaten shack that looked as though it had not been inhabited in twenty years. Not even a vestige of a craft was found. "It's time to go back," said Dick at last. "Too bad we couldn't find anything." "There must have been boats on this lake at one time," hinted Dave, "or else there wouldn't be that broken-down old pier near the camp." "I guess there was a time when this lake was a fishing ground to supply the Gridley and other near-by markets," Dick went on. "But, fellows, there's a curious thing about these fish markets that I don't know whether you've noticed. There are several fish stores in Gridley, and yet in all of them you couldn't buy a pound of fish except the kinds that are caught in salt water. I wonder if there are any fish markets in this part of the country that make a specialty of fresh-water fish?" More slowly, Dick, Dave and Greg retraced their steps. "Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo!" signaled Dick as they neared their camp. From away up the shore the answering "hoo hoo!" came faintly. "Tom didn't give up the search as easily as we did," commented Dave. "Poor old chap, he will be seriously disappointed if he hasn't found something that will float. He's the one sincere fisherman of the crowd, and the bass certainly have hypnotized him." "Race you back to camp," offered Dick. "Come back," laughed Dave, "and make a fair start." But Dick kept on, laughing back at his distanced comrades. Prescott ran like a deer, as was to be expected from one who had played left end on the invincible Gridley High School eleven. Just as he bounded on to the camp ground Dick's glance fell on a packing box some four feet long. "This doesn't belong here," he muttered, bounding forward, then dropping on one knee beside the box. In amazed wonder he read the following inscription, from a card tacked to the box: "Will Dick Prescott accept the enclosed and keep it as trustee for Dick & Co.? From a most appreciative friend---two of them, in fact!" "Now, what on earth can this be?" Dick demanded, as Dave reached his side. Darry read the message on the card with growing wonder. "Greg," directed Dick, "trot into the camp and get a hammer and the cold chisel. Hustle!" Full of curiosity, Greg Holmes carried out the order at a run. "Here you are!" panted Holmes. Dick took the cold chisel, placed the edge against one side of the lid, and was about to strike the first blow when Darry snatched the hammer from his hand. "What ails you?" Prescott demanded. "Suspicion," Dave replied dryly. "In fact, I've a bad case of suspiciousness." "What are you talking about?" Dick insisted. "I don't know," Dave admitted. "But I've something of a shivery hunch that perhaps we'd better not open that box."