But Peer, ever ready, had hit on the novel idea of
making one end fast to the trunk of a small fir growing at the outermost
point of the ness, and carrying the line from there out over the open
fjord. Then a stone at the farther end, and with the magic words, "Fie,
fish!" it was paid out overboard, vanishing into the green depths. The
deed was done. True, there were a couple of hooks dangling in mid-air
at the shore end, between the tree and the water, and, while they might
serve to catch an eider duck, or a guillemot, if any one should chance
to come rowing past in the dark and get hung up--why, the boys might
find they had made a human catch. No wonder, then, that they whispered
eagerly and hurried down to the boat.
"Here comes Peter Ronningen," cried Martin suddenly.
This was the third member of the crew, a lanky youth with whitish
eyebrows and a foolish face. He stammered, and made a queer noise
when he laughed: "Chee-hee-hee." Twice he had been turned down in the
confirmation classes; after all, what was the use of learning lessons
out of a book when nobody ever had patience to wait while he said them?
Together they ran the boat down to the water's edge, got it afloat, and
scrambled in, with much waving of patched trouser legs. "Hi!" cried a
voice up on the beach, "let me come too!"
"There's Klaus," said Martin. "Shall we take him along?"
"No," said Peter Ronningen.
"Oh yes, let's," said Peer.
Klaus Brock, the son of the district doctor, was a blue-eyed youngster
in knickerbockers and a sailor blouse.
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