The Doctor had gone round to the inlet upon our arrival in the morning,
and was apparently busy when I started on my voyage. We were about an
hour in reaching him, when he informed us that he had all he could
carry. My own creel was nearly full, and before we got back to our
starting point it was running over, and I dropped the surplus in the
fish-box with which the raft was provided, that the skipper might be
helped, as he was fishing for market, and doing it in a legitimate way.
I had flattered myself that in previous years, in some of our virgin
streams, I had enjoyed the sport, but the hour and a half spent upon
Black Lake demonstrated that, as to the race against time, my previous
seasons had been failures. A man under such circumstances is tempted to
make a “trout hog” of himself, and I told my new acquaintance that I’d
like to stay with him a week.
“Just fetch your traps right up here, Mister, I’d be mighty glad to have
you,” was his cordial response. But I was obliged to decline; it was too
much of a good thing.
That afternoon the Doctor and I again made our camp on the banks of the
Blue. I had had three days of genuine enjoyment, but when I laid down
that night the heavens were overcast. We were to experience the felicity
of sleeping with the rain pelting on us. I wished for a tent, a tree, a
clump of willows, but it was too late; we had made our bed and must lie
in it; there was no shelter anywhere, nor even the means to erect the
poncho, so we spread it on top of us. When the drops began to fall, I
pulled it over my head, and as they came thicker and faster, thought of
“The Rain on the Roof,” and in about half an hour felt a chill on my
weather side, put my hand down to straighten the cover and felt a pool
of water. It crept up that side and under me. I told the Doctor of my
condition. He said it was nothing; that it would do me good, in fact. I
told him I thought I’d get up. He wanted to know where I would go. I
said I did not know. Then he advised me to go to sleep. I asked him if
he was under water, but he said he was dry as a bone and warm. I offered
to change places with him, but he said he was sleepy, and that I had
better say my prayers and go to sleep as he was about to do. I thought
of all I had heard of the danger of damp sheets, of rheumatisms,
fevers—chills I had—colds, and other ills resulting from such
exposure; then of the men who had slept that way and lied about the
comfort of it; then I wished it was day, and wondered how many hours I
would have to lie there; then I felt that Coates Kinney was a fraud, and
his “Rain on the Roof” a satire, and registered a vow that if I ever
allowed myself to be again caught in such a d—amp fix, I hoped some
fellow would hit me with a club; then I went to sleep, and awoke at
sunrise. I would have had no reluctance in moving about had my clothes
been dry, but the sensation to me of the clinging garments was—well, we
kindled a fire; I got a cup of hot coffee under my waistband and felt
better, and have been feeling better ever since. We reached the Springs
about four o’clock, tired, of course, but with the memory of a four
days’ jaunt to look back upon that half-a-dozen rainstorms could not
wash out.
[Illustration]