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“We could have had fish and chips if we had kept one,” one boy grumbled. “What are we going to do?” Christopher sighed.
Quite soon, however, he was jolted awake by a dark shadow above his head. It wasn’t a cloud, he thought, because the sky was cloudless. And it wasn’t a floating log, because it was big and rectangular.
On one such hot afternoon, Roscoe was lounging on the ledge beside his exercise rock, just inside the mouth of his cave, alternately reading boying adventure magazines and dozing, when heavy raindrops startled him awake. . .
One Friday evening in the middle of July, Roscoe was sitting at the Minnow Bar, idly sipping a foam shake, when Rose darted by and hurriedly whispered, "Have you heard of the new amusement park over by Wellesley Island?
Despite the possibility of meeting Quin, Roscoe was not about to give up his day at the amusement park. He had outsmarted Quin once, and he could outsmart him again.
“We have to let Quin know that he’s in danger.” “That won’t be easy,” said Rose. Roscoe twirled his eyeballs, which helped The plan began to take shape as they lost no time heading back to the fireworks stall . . .
Over the winter, he had been taking a class and studying the Boying Manual to become a Boying Guide. At the graduation ceremony, he proudly had received an official Canadian Boying Guide license and badge.
Roscoe had little time to make a plan. Just then, he began to feel a low, rumbling, vibration through the water.
After bouncing around in the lock, Roscoe and Rose were exhausted. They found a hiding place in a rocky outcropping along the lakeshore and slept all day. When they awoke, dusk was beginning to fall, and they were ravenous . . .
“There, there,” said Rocky’s uncle, trying to calm Roscoe, but he understood the urgency. Quickly he drew a map on the sandy bottom, marking with an ‘x’ . . .
Roscoe’s story began in a place far away from the Thousand Islands. His parents were not St Lawrence River fish at all. He was spawned in the pristine waters of the Willowemoc River in upper New York State, near Trout Town, USA . . .
My uncle John Keats, known to everyone as JK, came to tuck us in when the light faded from the River. His bedtime tales that silenced both flying balls and pillow fights were the ones about a fish named Roscoe.
Every morning, at dawn, as the sun’s first rays came streaking through the cool, green water above his cave beneath Pine Island, Roscoe Fish slid out of his cozy seaweed bed.
