The three Warren boys, launching their boat in the cove, rowed down to the point and joined the party, consisting of Henry Burns and Harvey and Tom and Bob, who were just putting off in the _Viking’s_ tender. When they had rowed down the shore a way, they were met by Harvey’s crew, and all proceeded in the three boats a short distance farther, a half-mile or more below the crew’s camp. They baited up their hooks and threw out. “This looks nice and social,” said George Warren, surveying the three boats, with their eleven occupants. “It’s the first time we have all been out here together this year. We ought to make this a prize contest.” “Good!” exclaimed Harvey. “What do you say to one of those new dollar yachting-caps at the store, for the one that catches the most fish? We’ll each put in nine cents to pay for it. Got any money, fellows?” “Lots of it,” replied young Tim. “We’re in for it.” “They’re regular millionaires, nowadays, since they made those lobster-pots,” remarked Henry Burns. “There’ll be one cent left over,” said young Joe Warren. “What do we do with that?” “That goes with the hat,” said Henry Burns. “You can buy peanuts with it, if you win, Joe.” “Well, I’ve got the first fish, anyway,” cried young Joe, who had felt a tremendous yank on his line. Up came a big flounder, which was skittering about, the next moment, in the bottom of the boat. “I’ve got a bigger one,” cried Joe Hinman, excitedly; but, when he began to haul in, nothing came of it. Little Tim Reardon, who had given a sly tug at Joe’s line when the other wasn’t looking, snickered. “That would have beaten Joe’s, if you’d got him,” he said, grinning. “I’ll beat you, if you try that trick again,” exclaimed Joe Hinman, eying Tim sharply. The fish began coming in lively, from little harbour pollock to sculpins with monster heads and attenuated bodies, and cunners, that stole the bait almost as fast as the boys could throw overboard. “Everything counts,” said Henry Burns, as he drew in a huge skate; and added, as he took the hook out of the fish’s capacious mouth, “Wonder how Old Witham would have liked him for a boarder.” “Hello!” exclaimed Harvey, “here comes another boat; and it looks like Squire Brackett in the stern.” “Yes, and it’s young Harry, rowing,” said Arthur Warren. “First time I’ve seen him working, this summer.” The squire and his son were, indeed, coming out to the fishing-grounds. “Something new for the squire to be doing his own fishing,” remarked Arthur Warren. “He must be saving money.” “Well, we ought to salute him, anyway,” said Henry Burns. “Say, fellows, one, two, three, all together, ‘How d’ye do, squire,’ just as he comes abreast.” The chorus that greeted Squire Brackett made him jump up in his seat. He didn’t reply to the salutation, but glared at the boys, angrily. “Always up to their monkey-shines!” he muttered. “I’ll teach ’em to have respect for me, some day yet.”