“Thrue for you,” said Pat, “an’ it’s mesilf would like to do the good turn for him. He’ll have frinds to the fore in Ogleport, or I’m mishtaken.” “’Deed he will,” said Puff, very emphatically, for him, “and I’ll teach him all there is to learn about boatin’ and fishin’ in these parts.” “It’s yersilf knows it all thin,” said Pat, and he went back to his grist with a muttered: “Wondher ave Zeb Fuller and the b’yes know about that same.” CHAPTER XVII SKANIGO LAKE A little more than a mile from the outermost homes of Ogleport, in a direct line, lay Skanigo Lake. A beautiful sparkling sheet of water was Skanigo, and it always mixed itself up, somehow, with Puff Evans’s ideas of Paradise; but the Rev. Dr. Solomon Dryer could never forget his great attempt, one December “examination day,” to obtain a physical description of it from Zebedee Fuller. Not, however, because his questions were not fully and accurately answered, somewhat as follows: “Of what shape is Skanigo Lake, Master Fuller?” “Round, sir.” “Round?” “Yes, sir; ’round among the hills, ’way up, as far as it can go.” “Ah, yes. You do not altogether comprehend my interrogatory. But what profundity does it attain? How deep is it?” “Varies very much, sir.” “Exactly. An admirable response. But when is it deepest?” “In July, sir.” “July?” “Yes, sir. No depth at all in winter. Bottom freezes hard and gets on top, sir.” “We will put you in natural philosophy, next term, Master Fuller. But what are the longitudinal and lateral extent--the width and length, I mean, of Skanigo?” “Has none, sir.” “No length or width?” “No, sir. Puff Evans told me he’d caught everything there was in that lake. All his fault, sir.” The Baptist and Presbyterian ministers came to Dr. Dryer’s assistance at that point, for they were both good fishermen, and Zebedee escaped from the remaining geography of Skanigo. In that brief ten minutes, however, he had won the lasting good-will of Euphemia Dryer and the settled enmity of her stepmother. On the morning after the bell and heifer mystery, no sooner was breakfast over than Bar and Val gathered together their fishing-gear, and were off to make acquaintance with Skanigo for themselves. The walk was nothing at all, nor was it difficult to find the way to the curiously constructed dwelling of Puff Evans. The land thereabout was the supposed heritage of a non-resident family of “minor heirs,” and Puff had settled himself in a little cove with no more trouble of mind about his lack of title than a wild Indian or a Western “squatter.” He did no manner of harm. In fact, he had actually “improved” a few acres, managing to have, as Zeb Fuller said: “The kindest-hearted, best-natured crops in the world; the only potatoes ever heard of that did their own hoeing.”