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if anyone couldn't see that! Furious at Attean, at the fish, and at himself, Matt examined the break, unable to face the Indian. He had lost more than a good fish. His hook had disappeared as well. The only hook he had.
    Of course Attean noticed. Those black eyes never missed anything. "Make new hook," he suggested.
    Without even getting to his feet, he reached out and broke a twig off a maple sapling. Out came the crooked knife again. In a few strokes he cut a piece as long as his little finger, carved a groove around the middle, and whittled both ends into sharp points. Now he stepped into the water and tied Matt's line expertly around the groove.
    "Put on two worms," he said. "Cover up all hook."
    He didn't offer to find the worms. Matt had lost all interest in fishing. He knew that somehow or other he would just provide more amusement for Attean. But he couldn't refuse.
    He didn't have to wait long before another fish caught hold. This time he landed it neatly.
    "Good," said Attean from the bank. "Big."
    Matt was trying to get it off the line. "He swallowed the whole hook," he said.
    "Better white man's hook," Attean said. "Turn around inside fish. Not get away."
    Back on the bank Matt slit the fish and extracted the hook and his line. But the thin twig had broken in half.
    "Easy make new hook," Attean said. "Make many hooks."
    Of course. Looking down at the simple thing in his hand, Matt realized that he never again need worry about losing a hook. He could make a new one wherever he happened to be. It was another necessary thing that Attean had shown him, just as he had made the snare. He wasn't sure why Attean had bothered. But grudgingly he had to admit that Attean had proved to him once again that he didn't always have to depend on white man's tools.
    All at once he was hungry. The sun was straight overhead, and it would be a long tramp back through the woods before he could cook his fish. Now he saw that Attean had the same thought.
    The Indian was heaping up a small pile of pine needles and grass. He drew from his muskrat-skin pouch a piece of hard stone with bits of quartz embedded in it. Striking it with his knife, he soon had a spark, which he blew into a flame.
    I could have done that myself, Matt thought. In fact he had done it many a time, but he had not realized that he could use a common stone as well as his flint.
    "Get fish ready," Attean ordered now, pointing to the two fish on the bank. Matt did not like his masterful tone, but he did as he was told. By the time he had the two fish split and gutted and washed in the creek, Attean had a fire blazing. Matt was curious to sec how he would go about the cooking.
    He watched as Attean cut two short branches, bending them first to make sure they were green. He trimmed and sharpened them rapidly. Then he thrust a pointed end into each fish from head to tail. A small green stick was set crosswise inside the fish to hold the sides apart. He handed one stick to Matt. One on each side of the fire, the two boys squatted and held their sticks to the blaze. From time to time Attean fed the fire with dry twigs. When the flesh was crisp and brown, they ate, still silently.
    Matt licked his fingers. His resentment had vanished along with his hunger. "Golly," he said, "that was the best fish I ever ate."
    "Good," said Attean. Across the fire he looked at Matt, and his eyes gleamed. He was laughing again, but somehow not with scorn.
    "What did you say to that fish you threw back?" Matt was still curious.
    "I say to him not to tell other fish," Attean said seriously. "Not scare away."
    "You actually think a fish could understand?"
    Attean shrugged. "Fish know many thing," he replied.
    Matt sat pondering this strange idea. "Well, it seemed to work," he said finally. "At least the other fish came along."
    A wide grin spread slowly across Attean's face. It was the first time Matt had seen him smile.

CHAPTER 11
    O N E M O R N I N G M A T T L A I D H I S S T I C K S I N A R O W .