The sun was just low enough to fleck the river with warm pools and shady eddies. Soon Toby exclaimed with pleasure, the pleasure finding a worm gives only when one intends to fish. She had bisected a fat, tempting rascal, assuring one trout, at least. When the sun was an hour lower, and it was getting a trifle chilly for fish to bite well, I unearthed another, a long, anæmic, dyspeptic victim, which gave us renewed courage. Either worms were scarce or trout fishers had dug them all. We decided to give it up, and fish with what we had. It took much less time to get rid of our worms than it did to find them. Undoubtedly the trout fought to get on our hooks, but by the same token they fought still faster to get off again. We doled out Mutt and Jeff, as we dubbed our treasures, inchmeal to the rapacious brutes, but we were not proof against their popularity. “This is the last piece,” I said to Toby. And, of course, when she dropped it into the water, there came a timid tug, and a rush. Victorious Toby pulled out a trout, and threw him back in disgust. He was all of two inches long. It was four and after when we returned to our trenches and started digging again. Then a splash, and through the speckled shade a cavalry officer came riding. We called after him. “Any worms in this place?” “Any what?” His horse was carrying him further downstream. “Wor-rums?” His voice came faintly back,--“Dig near the water.” We dug near the water for another half hour. Then we gave it up, and hot and discouraged made for the empty cabin on the hill, hoping someone might have returned and could advise us. The house, though open, and invitingly adorned with beautiful Apache baskets, a rarity since the Apaches became too lazy to make them, was as empty as before. The tinkle of the telephone which suddenly sounded, emphasized its loneliness. Toby and I had the same idea, but always more active, she had the receiver down while I was crossing the room. A forest ranger twenty miles away was making his accustomed round by ’phone, tracing the spread of a forest fire whose smoke we could dimly see. “Hello!” he said, “Hello!” “Hello,” replied a female voice, in cultured Cambridge tones. “Where do you dig for worms?” But a forest ranger learns to be surprised at nothing. Instantly his reply came back, “Look under the stones at the river’s edge.” “Thank you,” said Toby, hanging up the receiver. Thanks to his advice, before sundown we caught a dozen dainty brook trout, beauties all, which, when dipped in cracker crumbs and lemon juice, and fried in butter over hot coals, were as good as they were beautiful. It was the first time I ever fished by telephone. CHAPTER XVIII THE LAND OF THE HOPIS