Dan wrinkled his brows. He had been sent to look after Granny, and look after her he would. But she didn't seem to need any looking-after right now and the forest surrounding the hill was an inviting place. He asked, "Is everything all right, Granny?" "Land! It's right as rain since you got here. Haven't felt this safe in a dog's age." "Would you still feel safe if Pal and me went down in the woods this afternoon?" "Can you beat that? I was just about to ask you if you would! What you goin' to do there, Dan?" "Look around and make sure nothing's lurking too near." "Good! Good! If you can spare the time, you might bring a few trout for us to sup on." "Oh, boy!" Dan whooped from his chair. With Pal bustling at his heels, he ran out to the garden. He loved to fish, his father had taught him how to catch trout, and Granny's accustomed tackle, a hook and line tied to a willow pole, hung over the door. In the spring's damp overflow Dan grubbed until he had filled his pocket with fat worms. Then he snatched the pole from over the doorway and raced down to the little stream that from the hilltop wound like a silver ribbon through the forest. He strung a worm on his hook, crawled cautiously up to a pool and dropped the worm gently, watching with bated breath the ripples that spread. A trout surged from the depths, struck viciously, and Dan drew his wriggling catch in. Deftly he slipped it onto a willow stringer. Stringer in one hand, pole in the other, he sneaked up to another pool and caught another trout. Mindful of the pies Granny was making, he decided that he needed no more than two trout for himself because his appetite must be saved for more important things. Granny might eat three. Dan had four trout on his stringer when Pal growled. Hackles raised, ears alert, nose questing, he peered up-stream. Dan stopped, not knowing what was coming but sure that Pal wouldn't growl for no reason. Dragging the dog with him, the boy slipped into the brush and a moment later Barr Whitney appeared. He was fishing, too, but instead of a willow stringer he carried a buckskin creel into which he slipped trout as he caught them. Dan held his breath and at the same time did his best to control his rising rage. He wished mightily that he had brought the shotgun, but so far there had been no indication that he would need it. Watching Barr come nearer, he made himself very small. If he did not move, maybe Barr wouldn't see him. But when the man came opposite Dan, he swerved and splashed across the creek. Trousers dripping, seeming like some wet monster that emerged from the water, he had only a glance for the growling Pal. But he thrust a hand inside his shirt and the boy knew that he had a weapon of some sort concealed there. Dan quieted the growling Pal by gently stroking him. "What be ye doin' here, boy?" Dan glared. "I don't talk to no blamed Whitneys!" Barr's eyes clouded. "Mind your tongue, boy."