“Man overboard!” shouted Grant, running forward as he called. He did not know whether to laugh or to be worried. One thing was certain though and that was that George like his three companions was perfectly at home in the water. All four were expert swimmers so that barring accidents they had little to fear from falling overboard.

“He’s all right,” cried John. “Help me hold this anchor, somebody.”

Grant grasped the chain and one more heave was sufficient to bring the anchor up on the deck of the Balsam. Before this could be done, however, George came to the surface choking and spluttering.

“I’ll fix you for that, String,” he gasped, shaking his fist at John.

“For what?” demanded John.

“You know all right.”

“Why, Pop,” said John reprovingly.

“Keep her up into the wind, Fred,” shouted Grant who was seated at the tiller. “Let your sheet run. Here, Pop, give me your hand.”

“I’d better go down to the stern and get aboard there,” said George. “I think it will be a little easier.”

“All right; go ahead.”

George floated alongside the Balsam until he came to the stern and a moment later had swung himself on board the boat. He was drenched to the skin but laughing in spite of himself.

“Do you want to change your clothes, Pop?” asked Grant.

“No, it’s hot to-day. They’ll dry out in no time.”

“Ease her off then, Fred,” Grant directed. “We may as well get started.”

Fred put the helm over, the sail filled and the Balsam began to slip through the water at a good rate. The four boys sat around the tiny cockpit, Fred at the tiller and Grant tending sheet. In a few moments they had emerged from the little harbor and had entered upon the open waters of the lake.

“Well, String,” observed George who was busily engaged in wringing water from the bottoms of his duck trousers, “you certainly did it well.”

“Did what well?” demanded John.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You meant to shove me overboard and I know it so there’s no use in you trying to bluff. You were very skillful about it and I guess you got square with me all right. We’ll call it even and quit.”

“I did do it pretty well, didn’t I?” grinned John.

“Yes, you did, but I think the way I soaked you and Fred was just as good.”

“You didn’t see a water bug then?”

“No, and you didn’t slip either.”

“Yes, I did; on purpose though. Let’s call it off now.”

“I’m agreeable,” laughed George, “even if you did get the better of me.”

“How about me?” demanded Fred. “Pop wet me just as much as he did String and I don’t see that I am even with him yet.”

“You ‘tend to your sailing,” laughed George. “That’ll have to satisfy you.”

“I can steer you on a rock you know,” warned Fred.

“Don’t do it though,” begged Grant. “I’m an innocent party and I’d suffer just as much as the others.”

“Where shall we sail?” asked George.

“Fred and I thought we might go down to the other end of the lake,” said John. “There’s a camp down there, I believe, and we might see who is in it.”

“Go ahead,” exclaimed George. “Meanwhile I think I’ll try to get my clothes dry,” and suiting the action to the word he divested himself of everything he had on, which was not much. The few articles of clothing thus taken off he spread flat on the deck of the boat so that they might get the full benefit of the sun’s rays.

The day was bright and not a cloud appeared in the sky. A gentle breeze blew across the lake barely ruffling the water. Consequently the Balsam sailed on an even keel and scant attention was necessary to keep her pointing in the right direction.

“How about trolling?” exclaimed Fred all at once.

“What do you mean by that?” asked George.

“You mean to say you don’t know what trolling is?”

“If I had I wouldn’t have asked you, would I?” laughed George.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Fred. “Trolling is fishing in a certain way. When you troll you sit in a moving boat and trail your line out behind you. As a rule you use a spoon or live bait so that it gives the appearance of swimming. People usually fish for pickerel that way.”

“Let’s try it,” cried George enthusiastically. “Who’s got a spoon?”

“I have,” said Grant. “Hold this sheet and I’ll put it on my line.”

“Any pickerel in this lake, I wonder,” remarked John.

“There ought to be lots of them,” said Fred.

“Bass and perch too, I guess,” John added.

“Perch are fine eating,” exclaimed George. “I’ve eaten them cooked in a frying pan with lots of butter and bacon,” and he sighed blissfully at the recollection.

“Did you ever eat brook trout fried in bacon and rolled in corn meal?” asked Fred.

“Not yet,” laughed George. “I hope to before long, though.”

“Well when you do you’ll know you’ve tasted the finest thing in the world there is to eat,” said Fred with great conviction.

“Is it better than musk melon?”

“A thousand times.”

“Whew!” whistled George. “Is it better than turkey?”

“A million times.”

“Say,” exclaimed George. “Is it better than ice cream?”

“It’s better than anything, I tell you,” Fred insisted.

“I’ll take your word for it,” laughed George. “I’d like to try it myself pretty soon though.”

“Here’s your spoon,” said Grant, holding out the rod to George.

“You’re going to fish, yourself,” said George firmly.

“Not at all. I got it for you.”

“Why should I try it any more than you?”

“Because I want you to. Go ahead.”

“If you insist, I suppose I’ll have to,” laughed George and dropping the spoon overboard he let the line run out.

“How much line do I need?” he asked.

“Oh, about fifty or sixty feet I should think,” said Grant.

“Well, I don’t know much about it,” remarked John breaking in on the conversation; “but it doesn’t seem to me that we are making enough headway to keep that metal spoon from sinking.”

“I’m afraid not myself,” agreed Grant. “The wind seems to be dying down all the time and we’ll be becalmed if we’re not careful.”

“I’ll try it a few minutes anyway,” said George. “I might get something.”

“All you’ll get is sunburned, I guess,” laughed Fred. “You’d better put your clothes on or you’ll be blistered to-morrow.”

“That’s right, Pop,” said Grant. “I’d get dressed if I were you.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” George agreed. “Here, String, you take the rod.”

Scarcely had John taken the rod in his hands when he felt a violent tug at the line. The reel sang shrilly and then was still.

“You’ve hooked one,” cried Fred excitedly. “Reel in as fast as you can.”

“Bring the boat around, Fred,” shouted Grant. “Come up into the wind.”

Fred did as he was directed, while John strove desperately to reel in his line. At first there was no resistance and then all at once the rod bent double.

“Say!” exclaimed George, “it must be a whale!”

“It’s bottom,” said John disgustedly. “The old spoon sank just as I said it would and I’ve caught a log.”

“Don’t break the line whatever you do,” warned Grant. “Swish your rod back and forth.”

“It’s caught fast,” said John, following Grant’s directions.

“Keep it up, you’ll get it loose yet.”

Suddenly the hook was released and as John reeled in there was no resistance to be felt at all. A moment later the spoon appeared and pierced by the hook was a small chip of water-soaked wood showing that it was some sunken log that had deceived the boys at first.

“That trolling business is great all right, isn’t it?” laughed George, now completely dressed once more and ready for anything.

“I’ll take you out in one of the canoes some day and prove to you that it’s all right,” said Fred warmly. “You—”

He suddenly stopped speaking and looked up. “I thought I felt a drop of rain,” he remarked in surprise.

“You did,” exclaimed Grant. “Just look there. Here comes a squall and we’re in for it all right. This is no joke.”