“Wake up, Bill, there’s a big fish on your line.”

“I should worry,” replied Bill as he lay on his back on the bank of the McKenzie River. “Let him do the worrying. I am having a marvelous time just lying here thinking how wonderful it is to be here in the Oregon woods. Perhaps in a day or two I will get sufficiently accustomed to the big outdoors, the gigantic trees and the wildlife to get enthusiastic over a fish. In the meantime, let him bite.”

Bill Bruce and Bob Finch were officers in the United States Army Air Service. They had been boyhood friends in Flower City, Long Island. At the outbreak of the World War they had enlisted as Flying Cadets and had been sent to the Ground School at the University of California, at Berkeley. They had both finished the ground work and then completed their flying training at the aviation field near Lake Charles, Louisiana.

A West Indian hurricane broke the monotony and routine of their training at the flying school and Bill was sent as a test pilot at an airplane factory. Bob had been sent to the aviation field at Mineola. Bill’s new duties required that he test out the latest type airplanes produced for the squadrons in France. It was here that he ran afoul of the dastardly work of a German sympathizer.

While Bill had been at Berkeley, another cadet by the name of Andre had become rabidly jealous of Bill. Andre had tried to discredit Bill and make out that Bill had cheated in an examination. Andre was fired. While at the airplane factory Bill had several narrow escapes, when airplanes which he was testing were found to be maliciously damaged. Andre was the culprit. He was caught, convicted, and was being taken to the penitentiary, but escaped.

Later Bill was sent to France, presumably with plans of the latest type airplane being produced, the Le Pere. While on board the ship, as Adjutant, he made frequent inspections to insure that the regulations concerning lights on deck were being carried out. On several instances he escaped being assaulted on the dark decks by a very narrow margin. His cabin was searched and it was quite evident that someone was endeavoring to secure the plans.

Finally, as the ship was nearing the coast of Ireland, Bill saw someone flashing lights from the deck. He tried to catch the miscreant, but was not successful on account of the darkness. The next day the ship was torpedoed. As the small boats were floating around, the sub came to the surface and took someone from one of the boats aboard. It was Andre. The Germans then tried to find Bill Bruce, but were prevented by the timely arrival of the U. S. destroyers.

Bill served at the front in the 94th Pursuit Squadron with Freddie Rickenbacker. He shot down his first plane, however, before joining up with the squadron. He was shot down between the lines in No-Man’s-Land and had several thrilling escapes during combats in the air, but came out of the war with a wound, several decorations and the title of “Ace.”

Following the war, Bill served on the United States-Mexican border with the Ninth Squadron. The work of the squadron required that they make frequent aerial patrols to prevent the smuggling of liquor, dope and aliens into the United States. Here again they ran afoul of Andre, who was masquerading under the name of Andrajo. Andre had organized a large gang of cut-throats for the one and only purpose of smuggling.

The squadron helped the border officials materially in uncovering this work. They were assigned the part of the border extending from San Diego, California, to Yuma, Arizona. Captain Lowell Smith was commanding the squadron and Bill Bruce was his senior flight commander. The pilots had been able to catch an airplane in the act of transporting dope, had broken up Andre’s attempt to make a forcible entry into the United States with four hundred Chinese, and thus had broken up the gang of renegades.

In the Fall, Bill had entered the trans-continental airplane race from San Francisco to New York and return. Bill met Andre again before and during the race. Andre sneaked across the line at El Centro and removed all the safety wires and cotter keys from the controls of Bill’s plane. For a while it looked as if Bill would not be able to get to San Francisco in time to participate, but he arrived the evening before the start.

Once in the race, Bill thought that he was entirely out of Andre’s reach, but on the return trip Bill’s plane was completely burned at Buffalo. Andre had again shown his hand. Bill secured authority to fly another plane, and after many difficulties and much hard flying won the race in spite of the fact that he landed at the finish with a dead engine. It had been a most spectacular and uncertain race from start to finish. Bill had won it by inches.

After the race the Ninth Squadron was relieved from border duty and sent to San Francisco for duty. Here they established a new airdrome along the shores of the bay almost within hailing distance of the Golden Gate. During the Winter and Spring, the pilots had been kept very busy with routine flying. It was now June and Bill Bruce and Bob Finch had taken a few days’ leave to get away from military routine. They had driven to Oregon by automobile and were spending their time fishing along the McKenzie River.

“A fine young fisherman you are,” said Bob as he ran over and grabbed Bill’s rod. “Did you come up here to fish or to day-dream?”

“Both,” answered Bill as he watched Bob struggle with the fish.

It was very evident that it was an unusually large fish, for it was putting up a hard fight. The rod bent almost double when the fish made a run for freedom. Bob was forced to let out more line to keep the fish from breaking the leader or snapping the rod. Bill was entirely satisfied to watch Bob’s endeavor to land the fish.

The stream was in general clear of snags and rocks, but there was one large tree trunk with several branches in the water toward which the fish always headed. To make matters more complicated, the banks of the river were lined with small bushes.

“I should say that it was a large fish,” said Bill after Bob had vainly tried for several minutes to bring it in. “It will get away from you yet.”

“Why don’t you come here and take your own rod then?” asked Bob.

“You are getting along very well. I wouldn’t think of depriving you of the pleasure of landing the first trout,” said Bill as he stood up and walked over to the place where Bob was working with the rod.

“Get the net,” called Bob. “I am getting it in close enough for you to catch him.”

The bank had a drop of about five feet. Bill took the net and stood looking for a place to get down to the water’s edge without getting his feet wet. He walked a short distance upstream and then slowly worked his way down to the water.

“You poor boob,” said Bob. “How can you get the fish way over there? There are a dozen bushes between us.”

“Swing your rod around this way,” called Bill.

“Come closer, I am not fishing with a telegraph pole.”

“Give me time,” said Bill. “This bank is slippery and I am liable to get wet.”

“Hurry up,” answered Bob. “I can’t keep working this fish forever.”

Once more the fish gave a violent pull on the line and Bob had to give it more line. Then he had the job of gradually reeling in the line as fast as he could while the fish darted around in large circles in the water. Once it made straight for the old tree trunk and both young aviators were sure that the line would get afoul of one of the branches, but by careful manipulation Bob managed to get the fish back into open water.

Bill meanwhile worked his way along the bank toward Bob. The point where the line entered the water came closer and closer to the shore. Bill reached out with his net, but could not quite stretch far enough.

“Bring it in a bit,” called Bill.

“Your rod is almost bent double now,” replied Bob. “Do you want me to break it?”

“Well, you’re the fisherman of this crowd,” said Bill. “It was you who suggested a vacation in the Oregon woods. I admit that I don’t know how to use this net. What do you do with it, immerse it gently in the water under the fish or make a wild swoop with it and scoop up the fish?”

“How do I know?” replied Bob. “I never saw one before.”

“I would rather have a shotgun and then I would be sure of getting the fish,” said Bill. “Don’t slow up on bringing him in while you are talking, for now that you have him this far, we ought to have fried trout for lunch.”

Bill stood on a stone near the bottom of the bank. There was just room enough for one of his feet. The other was dangling over the water. He was holding on to a small bush with one hand and leaning out over the water with the net in his other. Bob gradually worked the fish in closer to the shore.

“Bring him in closer. Reel in on your line,” called Bill. “I can’t stand down here forever.”

“I am trying to,” replied Bob. “There he is; catch him.”

The fish was now in close enough to be seen. It was a large fellow and must have weighed about two or three pounds. For a while Bill could do nothing but watch it as it worked its way back and forth against the taut line.

“Well, do something,” called Bob.

Bill then gave a violent swing with his net. As it hit the water with a splash, Bill lost his balance and fell prone into the water. For a while, line, net, fish and Bill were all tangled up in one small space. Bob did not know what to do. If he slackened up on the line, the fish would escape. If he didn’t, Bill would probably break the line.

“Get out of there, you will make me lose the fish,” yelled Bob.

The water was not deep and Bill came up after the splash in a kneeling position. He blew the water out of his mouth and nose and looked around. It was at that moment that Bob had called to him.

“You don’t think that I am here because I am enjoying it, do you?” he replied.

Then it was that Bob realized that the tension on his line had ceased. The fish was gone. Evidently the splashing around in the water had been enough to slacken the line and the fish had taken advantage of the opportunity to make its getaway.

“Well, the fish is gone,” said Bob. “You are a fine help. Come on out of the water.”

“What’s going on here?” called a deep voice from the bank.

Bob looked around to see who had asked the question. He saw a tall, lithe, dark-complexioned man in a grayish-green uniform. He wore a broad-brimmed felt hat, with the crown coming to a peak, and had a badge on his shirt.

“We’re fishing, and Bill fell into the water,” said Bob.

In the meantime Bill scrambled up the bank.

“I am the District Forester. My name’s Cecil. Have you a fishing license? Have you a campfire permit?”

“What I should have had was a bathing permit,” remarked Bill as he started to wring the water out of his clothes.