It was not more than a mile across the mouth of a deep bay to the brook in which they had elected to fish. With no wind to object, the most dabbily propelled guide boat travels with considerable speed, and before Herring had managed to tie the flies which Phyllis had selected to his leader (with any kind of a knot) they were among the snaggy shallows of the brook's mouth. The brook was known locally as Swamp Brook, its shores for a mile or more being boggy and treacherous. Fishermen who liked to land occasionally and cast from terra firma avoided it. Phyllis had selected it solely because it was the nearest brook to the camp which contained trout. If she had remembered how full it was of snags, and how easily guide boats are turned turtle, she would have selected some other brook, even, if necessary, at the "Back of beyond." It had been easy enough to propel the boat across the open waters of the lake, but to guide it clear of snags and around right-angle bends, especially when the genius of rowing demands that eyes look astern rather than ahead, was beyond her powers. The boat ran into snags, poked its nose into boggy banks, turned half over, righted, rushed on, and stopped again with rude bumps. Herring, that fatalistic young Bostonian, began to take an interest in his fate. His flies trailed in the water behind him. His eyes never left Phyllis's face. His handsome mouth was as near to smiling as it ever got. "Do you," he said presently, "swim as well as you row?" She stopped rowing; she laughed right out. "Just about," she said. "Good," he said seriously, "because I'm a dub at it, and in case of an upset, I look to you." "The truth," said Phyllis, "is that there's no place to swim to. It's all swamp in here." "True," said Herring; "we would have to cling to the boat and call upon Heaven to aid us." One of Herring's flies, trailing in the water, proved, at this moment, overwhelmingly attractive to a young and unsophisticated trout. Herring shouted with the triumph of a schoolboy, "I've got one," and sprang to his feet. "Please sit down!" said Phyllis. "We almost went that time." "So we did," said Herring. He sat down, and they almost "went" again. "Now," said Phyllis, "play him." "Play him?" said Herring. "Watch me." And he began to pull strongly upon the fish. The fish was young and weak. Herring's tackle was new and strong. The fish dangled in mid-air over the middle of the boat. "Sorry," said Herring, "I can't reach him. Take him off, please." It has been said that Phyllis was a good sport. If there was one thing she hated and feared more than another, it was a live fish. She reached forward; her gloved hand almost closed upon it; it gave a convulsive flop; Phyllis squeaked like a mouse, threw her weight to one side, and the boat quietly upset. The sportsmen came to the surface streaming. "I can touch bottom," said Herring politely; "can you?"