“Reel in,” commanded Dan. “I am reeling, but――――” Walter stopped abruptly as a savage pull upon his line interrupted his declaration. The contest continued several minutes, neither of the boys speaking. Walter’s excitement was intense, and he stood up in the skiff to enable him to look for the struggling pickerel. “Sit down!” ordered Dan a trifle sharply. “I can see better when I’m standing,” replied Walter. “There it is!” he shouted as his victim came within sight. “It’s a beauty! It’ll weigh more than six pounds! It’s the biggest pickerel I――――” “Look out! Don’t let him touch the boat!” broke in Dan, as the huge pickerel made a sudden rush beneath the skiff. “There! You’ve lost it!” he added grimly, as the fish tore itself free from the hook and with a swift turn darted beyond the vision of the excited Walter. “That’s strange,” muttered Walter, as in deep chagrin he resumed his seat. “I don’t see how it got away. You couldn’t have hooked it very well in the first place, Dan.” The young oarsman smiled a trifle derisively as he said: “A good fisherman doesn’t have to have a fish strapped and tied to land it. I told you not to stand up.” “What difference does standing make?” “You have to balance yourself as well as handle the rod. Only an expert can do that. Let me have your line. Your bait is gone.” As Dan drew in the line and again baited the hook Walter laughed as he said: “Oh, well, Dan, I’ll soon get the trick of it again. You must remember that we don’t fish very much in the streets of New York.” “So I hear,” quietly responded Dan as he handed back the fishing-rod. “This time I’ll be careful, Dan,” continued Walter, as he resumed his seat and let out his line again, while his oarsman sent the skiff more swiftly ahead. “You’ll get it next time.” “Let us hope so. Dan, how is the Rodman nine this summer?” “Pretty fair. We have a game to-morrow.” “Who is to be the victim?” “I’ll tell you later about that.” “What nine do you play?” “The nine from Benson.” “Same team you played last summer?” “Yes.” “Let me see; the score last year was thirty-seven to nineteen, wasn’t it?” laughed Walter. “Yes.” “What’ll it be this year?” “I’m no prophet.” “Seventy-four to thirty-eight?” Dan smiled good-naturedly as he replied: “We’ll have an umpire this year that can tell the difference between a foul ball and a bunt. There’s a fellow staying at the Wright place that knows baseball like a book.” “Who is he?” “Moulton.” “What Moulton?” asked Walter, interested at once. “He’s pitcher on one of the college nines.” “It isn’t Moulton from Princeton, is it?” “Yes.” “How long has he been here?” “About three weeks.” “Great! He’s one of the finest! He struck out sixteen men in his first game this year?” “Did he?” “He did that,” said Walter, his interest becoming still more manifest. “He’s one of the greatest college players ever known. The New Yorks offered him four thousand dollars a year to join their team.”