crotch of an alder branch, together with the big fellow
that Little Tim had caught. Tim's eyes snapped as he saw the fish.

Benny Ellison, chuckling to himself, passed the tree where Tim crouched,
high above him. Almost within the shadow of it, he stopped and laughed
heartily, as he glanced down at the big pickerel.

"It's a bird," he cried. "Shot it in a tree--what luck!"

Not until he had gone some distance did Little Tim emerge from hiding,
scramble to the ground and follow. Dodging from tree to tree, and
pausing frequently, he saw Benny Ellison finally seat himself on a log
beside the stream. Tim waited. Then a smile of satisfaction crossed his
freckled face as Benny Ellison began stripping off his clothes for a
swim.

Little Tim, crouching low, almost crawling, crept closer.

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.