A billow of reddish dust rolled over the roadster as it came to a sudden halt. It was not a smart machine. One had only two guesses about it. Either its owner had purchased it second-hand or he could not afford to buy a new one. The rumble seat in the rear had been thrown back. The foot space held a suitcase, a tin box, and an aluminum rod case. All over the great North Woods there would be cars similar to this in appearance, luggage, and ownership.
The young man at the wheel leaned back and contemplated the stream. It had everything—white water, pools smooth and rippled, deadfalls which reached halfway across the stream, big granite bowlders and, above all, music. The run had been chanting lovely symphonies since the beginning of the new time, and countless trout had died of old age on the bottoms.
“Lord, what a trout run!” the young man cried out.
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