CHAPTER V.
ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP Casting his flies across the eddying mouth of one of those cold streams which feed the crystal bosom of Silverwater, Uncle Andy had landed a magnificent pink-bellied trout--five pounds, if an ounce! "Hi, but isn't he a whopper ?" he cried exultantly, holding up his prize for the inspection of the Babe, who had been watching the struggle breathlessly.
"A--whopper ?" repeated the Babe doubtfully.

His idea of a whopper was something that objectionable little boys have been known to tell in order to get themselves out of a scrape.

No full-fledged fisherman as yet, he did not see what it could have to do with a trout.
Uncle Andy seemed to divine his difficulty.
"I mean," he explained, "isn't he a big one?
_Tremendous_ ?" At this again the Babe looked doubtful.

The fish was certainly a very beautiful one; but to the Babe's eyes it did not seem in any way remarkable for size.

Yet he did not like to appear to disagree with Uncle Andy.
"Is it _big_ ?" he inquired politely.