at the perch hole. I captured more trout than both the other rods, and if I had felt so inclined, could have returned some of the left-handed compliments they paid me when it was found that I could not catch a perch in twenty feet of water; but being peaceably disposed I said nothing. While the tent was being put up, a muffled voice came from the chest in which the canvas canoe was packed away. The cover being shut down, I had to listen intently in order to catch what he said to me.
"Didn't I hear some one say something about trout?" asked the canoe.
"I think it very likely," was my reply. "There are lots of them in the brook; almost as many as there in the spring hole at Mount Airy."
"Then I know where we are," said my imprisoned friend. "Did you see an ugly looking snag about a mile below? Well, there's one there, and it's the one Jake Coyle ran into the night I was sunk in the creek. The fight I told you about took place right here. Have you seen or heard any thing of the squatter?"
