crickets. There are lots of old boards and
stones there; turn them all over and you'll get enough. I'll stick to
this field and get the 'hoppers."

They separated, and were soon hard at work, both using their hands to
catch the wily bait; Ned said he never had any luck with 'hoppers or
crickets that were caught with a butterfly net. After an hour they
decided they had enough, and turned down toward a small stream which ran
through the meadow, and got a dozen or more frogs, and so complete in
all the details of their plan they came into the house and sat down to
lunch. It seemed to both the boys entirely too long, and Joe fidgeted so
much that his father noticed it, and tried to find out what the cause
was.

"No, nothing's the matter, only we want to hurry up and get to the lake.
We've got a scheme, and later we're going to have a swim."

"What is it, Joe?" said Mr. Thompson. "What's up? You're not going to
catch that Jonah's whale you told me about with dynamite or anything
like that, are you? You had better try putting salt on his tail," he
added, jokingly, and he quietly passed the salt-cellar to Joe. "Come,
fill your pockets; you'll need it."

Now it might as well be said right here that Mr. Thompson owned many a
fine split bamboo rod, and two or three beautiful guns, and that there
were pictures of partridges and woodcock in his den. Two fishing
pictures in particular, which had always been Joe's delight, hung near
the door, one of a great trout rolling up to take a fly as it skimmed
the surface of the water, while the other, its mate, was of a fine
small-mouthed bass clearing the water, and shaking himself in the air in
his efforts to break away from the hook which had tempted him. In fact,
Mr. Thompson was a sportsman of the truest kind. Little did Ned and Joe
know how near he came to adding set lines to dynamite when talking
seriously before he mentioned the salt. If he had been told "the scheme"
this story would never have been written, but the boys went off unaware
of what Mr. Thompson's views were on the method they had devised to try
the bass in Laurel Lake. They took their rods and bait, of course, but
kept mum about what was rattling under the seat as Jerry drove Tot up to
the door.

A mile and a half and they turned in at old Farmer Sayre's, hitched and
blanketed the pony, and with their variety of equipment went down to the
shore of the lake, where their boat was made last.

"Go ahead, Ned, you row