CHAPTER XIX
A MIDNIGHT ALARM
WHEN they reached camp and the Slow Poke, Dick and Roy were busy about the fire, while Dr. Emery, in a pair of old gray knickerbockers and a blue flannel shirt, was cleaning fish on a stone at the edge of the water.
“Look here at this one, Chub!” called the doctor, proudly, as he held one of his trophies up by its tail.
Chub examined it with interest and had to acknowledge that it was pretty nearly as big as his own famous fish.
“You didn’t get so very many, though, did you?” he asked.
“No,” answered the doctor, “we didn’t. I don’t believe it’s a very good stream any longer. About fished out, I think. There’s a large summer boarding-house up there, about a mile in, and then we came across a good-sized camp of Gyp-{center|282}}
