Benny Ellison stood on a bank by the edge of a deep pool, a favourite swimming-place, where he and his cousins, and Little Tim, too, had had many a swim. The water was inviting, with the sultriness of the afternoon. Tim's heart beat high as he saw Benny Ellison plunge headforemost into the pool. Then Tim's hopes were realized. Benny Ellison, a good swimmer, struck out into midstream toward a reef that protruded a few feet above water. Crawling on hands and knees, Tim quickly gained the shelter of the log where the other had thrown his clothes, with the fish dropped just alongside. Tim made sure of his fish, first. He pulled it hastily from the stick, leaving the one that Benny Ellison had shot, afterwards, unmolested for the moment. Then he dragged Benny Ellison's cotton shirt down behind the log. Seizing the sleeves, he proceeded to tie the thin garment into hard knots. It was the old schoolboy trick. He had had it played on him many a time in swimming--and done the same by others; but he had never entered into the prank with half the zest as now. He tugged at the knots and drew them hard. "That shirt's a bird," he said softly, eying the shapeless bundle, with a grin. Then he served the trousers and the "galluses" the same way; likewise Benny Ellison's socks. Finally, having it all dona to suit him, he stood erect upon the log and called out to the swimmer. "Say, Benny," he cried, "here's your bird." And, stooping and picking up Benny Ellison's pickerel, he hurled the dead fish far out into the stream. The fish struck the water with a splash, as Benny Ellison, turning in dismay and wrath, started back with vigorous strokes. "There's another bird on the log for you, Benny," called Tim. Then, picking up his own fish, he scampered. Benny Ellison's slower steps could not have equalled the pace set by those bare feet, had he been ashore. By the time he was on land again, Little Tim, his pole and string of fish regained, was half-way to the Ellison dam. A voice stopped him as he was emerging on to the main road, just below Witham's Half Way House. He turned and saw Bess Thornton. "Hello, Tim," she called, "what's the matter? Anybody after you? My, but I guess you've been running fast." Tim Reardon, wiping his face with his sleeves, told her what had happened. The girl danced with glee, while her bright eyes sparkled. "Oh, goody!" she exclaimed. "Wouldn't I just like to have seen that fat old Benny Ellison try to catch you. My, but you always have the luck, don't you? That's a grand string of fish." Tim Reardon, unstringing two of the pickerel from the rope, transferred them to a twig of alder that he cut from a near by bush, and handed them to her. "I've got more'n I want," he said. "Thanks," said the girl, and added, "Say, Tim, I'll tell you something. I saw four trout in the brook this morning, and one of them was that long." She measured with her hands, held a little more than a foot apart.