Dear Lee,—­How are you getting on on old Casket Ridge?  It seems a coon’s age since you and me was together, and times I get to think I must just run up and see you!  We’re having bully times in ’Frisco, you bet! though there ain’t anything wild worth shucks to go to see—­’cept the sea lions at the Cliff House.  They’re just stunning—­big as a grizzly, and bigger—­climbing over a big rock or swimming in the sea like an otter or muskrat.  I’m sending you some snells and hooks, such as you can’t get at Casket.  Use the fine ones for pot-holes and the bigger ones for running water or falls.  Let me know when you’ve got ’em.  Write to Lock Box No. 1290.  That’s where dad’s letters come.  So no more at present.

From yours truly,

Jim Belcher.

Not only did Leonidas know that this was not from the real Jim, but he felt the vague contact of a new, charming, and original personality that fascinated him.  Of course, it was only natural that one of her friends—­as he must be—­should be equally delightful.  There was no jealousy in Leonidas’s devotion; he knew only a joy in this fellowship of admiration for her which he was satisfied that the other boy must feel.  And only the right kind of boy could know the importance of his ravishing gift, and this Jim was evidently “no slouch”!  Yet, in Leonidas’s new joy he did not forget her!  He ran back to the stockade fence and lounged upon the road in view of the house, but she did not appear.

Leonidas lingered on the top of the hill, ostentatiously examining a young hickory for a green switch, but to no effect.  Then it suddenly occurred to him that she might be staying in purposely, and, perhaps a little piqued by her indifference, he ran off.  There was a mountain stream hard by, now dwindled in the summer drouth to a mere trickling thread among the boulders, and there was a certain “pot-hole” that he had long known.  It was the lurking-place of a phenomenal trout,—­an almost historic fish in the district, which had long resisted the attempt of such rude sportsmen as miners, or even experts like himself.  Few had seen it, except as a vague, shadowy bulk in the four feet of depth and gloom in which it hid; only once had Leonidas’s quick eye feasted on its fair proportions.  On that memorable occasion Leonidas, having exhausted every kind of lure of painted fly and living bait, was rising from his knees behind the bank, when a pink five-cent stamp dislodged from his pocket fluttered in the air, and descended slowly upon the still pool.  Horrified at his loss, Leonidas leaned over to recover it, when there was a flash like lightning in the black depths, a dozen changes of light and shadow on the surface, a little whirling wave splashing against the side of the rock, and the postage stamp was gone.  More than that—­for one instant the trout remained visible, stationary and expectant!  Whether it was the instinct of sport, or whether the fish