A crude raft had been built. That part of the work had been easy, and it was swiftly performed. But three trips with the small raft had been needed to bring over the tent, the supplies, the push cart and everything belonging to the old camp. Now the new camp stood pitched at a short distance from the cave, but near to the edge of the lake. The tent had been put up in a natural clearing, behind a line of timber, so that the canvas was not visible from the other side of the lake. At trout fishing Dick had proved himself more than an expert. Now that darkness was coming, Dick was bending over a low fire, watching a frying pan in which four speckled beauties, well dipped in batter, were sizzling merrily. "This is the finest food I've ever had," declared Greg Holmes, swallowing another mouthful of trout and leaning back with a contented sigh. "It certainly is great," agreed Dave Darrin. "Fellows, I've wasted some of my life in the past, for I never before knew the taste of brook trout." "I tried 'em once," said Reade, "but they didn't taste as fine as these. With trout, I've heard, a tremendous lot depends upon the way they're cooked." "Of course the cooking has a lot to do with bringing out the full flavor," Dick admitted modestly. "But, Tom, perhaps you hadn't done any hard work before eating trout that time. Exercise brings hunger, and hunger is the best sauce that food can have---as we all ought to know." "Exercise?" repeated Tom, with a laugh. "Yes; I've had that this afternoon, all right. You had me guessing when you told me you had such an important job for me. I didn't know, then, that you wanted me to boss the raft building and transporting the camp over here. It was exercise, all right. We ought to have taken an entire day to it." Dick rose with the frying pan, dropping hot trout on four plates in turn, omitting only Holmes. "You shall have a trout out of the next serving, Greg," Dick promised. "I'm not worrying about myself," Greg returned. "But are you going to have anything left for yourself, Dick?" "I'm not worrying about that, either," laughed Prescott. "It was mighty nice of you fellows to do all the work this afternoon, and leave me to enjoy myself all the time at sport. So the trout belong to you fellows." "I don't suppose you worked at all, Dick," said Tom quizzically. "Of course whipping up and down a stream in rubber boots, over stones and all sorts of obstacles, isn't anything like work." "It would be pretty hard work for a fellow who didn't like trout fishing, I suppose," Dick answered. "But, to me, it was only so much glorious sport. Here's your trout, Greg. Who else wants some more?" "Don't ask foolish questions," chuckled Danny Grin. But at last the five boys had to admit that they had eaten their fill out of the splendid result of Dick's afternoon of sport. There were still several trout left, all cleaned and ready to be dipped in the batter.