CARL DUCKELSTEIN FISHES.
That breakfast was, in truth, one not to be soon forgotten. Such
appetites as those boys had, whetted and sharpened by bounding health
and the tonic of the great, clean, unpolluted outdoor world! It was the
tempting sight and delightful odor of trout frying in a pan of deep fat
that really put the feather edge on their hunger. Fortunately, they had
bread enough, and, even though Carl Duckelstein had not appeared with
milk for their coffee, never in the memory of one there had food tasted
so delicious.
“Um-mum!” mumbled Crane, his mouth full. “I cal’lated I’d et fish
before, but, by Jinks! I was mistook; this is the fust time. Stoney,
either yeou’re a rip tearin’ cook, or them’s the sweetest trout that
ever swum.”
“I opine Ben is sure some cook,” said Grant; “but, likewise, I reckon
these trout must be pretty good.”
“They ought to be,” grinned Springer, forking another fish on to his tin
plate. “We had to fuf-fight for ’em. That is, Rod did.”
“It wasn’t really a fight,” said the Texan. “I wonder if we’ll hear
anything more from James Simpson.”
“Don’t believe so,” said Phil. “It’s my opinion he got enough to satisfy
him. What’s the matter, Sleuthy? You’re yawning. Didn’t you sus-sleep
well last night?”
“Bah!” mocked Piper. “You know I didn’t sus-sus-sleep well. I feel like
a fool this morning.”
“Sort of a natteral feelin’, hey?” laughed Crane unsympathetically.
“Go to the ant, thou sluggard,” put in Stone, by way of a thrust. “I
really don’t wonder that you shot a hole in that old sleeping bag, Pipe,
for it certainly was alive.”
“Is it possible,” said Grant, “that you failed to acquire wisdom from
the owl last night? If you had listened attentively to its ‘frightful
voice’ I’m sure the creature would have told you _who’s who_ around
here.”
“Yah! I s’pose you think you’re funny, the whole of you!” rasped Piper,
whose sense of humor, if he had any, was doubly dulled by the fact that
the joke was on him. “I s’pose you’ve got to have somebody to pick on,
but don’t rub it in too hard. That’s all I’ve got to say: don’t rub it
in too hard. Many a man, driven desperate by similar treatment, has
risen in his wrath and given his torturers just cause to rue their
rashness.”
“Look aout for Sleuthy,” warned Crane. “Don’t forget that we’re in the
land of the bloodthirsty Wampanoags, and if we drive him to desperation
mebbe he’ll turn renegade and betray us into the hands of murderous
redskins.”
“That,” observed the Texan soberly, “would be right bad for us. I know,”
he added reminiscently, “for didn’t I have an experience with painted
Indians shortly after coming to Oakdale? Why, they even tried to burn me
to the stake.”
“And by sus-so doing,” declared Springer, “they made a mistake, as they
afterwards found out. I ought to know, for I was one of those redskins.”
Crane breathed a sigh, rubbed his hand over his stomach and gazed
regretfully at the remnants of the fried fish.
“I declare,” he confessed, “I didn’t cal’late when Stoney was cookin’
them that there’d be half enough for us, but now I’m chock full, and
I’ll be switched if there ain’t goin’ to be some scraps left.”
“Mighty small scraps,” laughed Grant. “I think we’ve cleaned things up
pretty well. But if Phil and I hadn’t made this catch we’d fared rather
slim, with Duckelstein failing to bring the provisions he promised to
have here bright and early.”
“I don’t sus-suppose that sleepyhead is awake yet,” said Phil, moving
back in a manner which indicated that he had finished. “We’ll be lucky
if he gets our canoe over from Pemstock today.”
“With plenty of fish in these pellucid waters,” said Piper, whose
spirits seemed to be reviving, “there’s no reason why we should perish
of hunger, even though the pack train of provisions is delayed.”
“I guess that’s right,” chuckled Crane. “We mustn’t forgit that we have
in aour midst an angler we can rely on when all others fail. Sleuthy
ain’t had a chance yet to demonstrate his ability in that line.”
“I think I’ll do so right away,” said Piper. “I’ll get out my tackle and
try the fish without delay.”
“You’ve gug-got another guess coming,” said Springer. “There’s dishes to
wash and other work to do around this camp, and we’re not going to let
you sus-sneak off to fish while the rest of us do the work. You can’t
pup-play that game on us.”
Baffled, Piper, who abhorred work, reluctantly abandoned his design, and
again it became his duty to wash the dishes, a task at which his soul
revolted.
There was still enough to do around the camp, and when the breakfast
dishes were cleared away, the blankets brought forth and hung up for an
airing and the tent tidied, they decided to build a dining table. This
was located beneath a tree that would afford cool shade in the middle of
the day. There four stakes were driven into the ground for legs, to the
tops of which, running lengthwise, were nailed long, straight poles,
hewn flat on two sides with the axe. Then, taking one of the larger
boxes carefully to pieces by drawing the nails, they obtained boards
sufficient to form the table top. Following this, a bench on the same
principle was made on each side of the table.
“There,” said Stone in satisfaction, as he stood back and surveyed the
completed work, “that looks pretty good to me. Now we can dine in
comfort, like civilized human beings.”
By this time the forenoon was advancing and the sun blazing hotly from
an unclouded sky. However, a slight breeze had risen to ripple the lake,
and its tempering breath blew gratefully across the point, proving that,
considering the season, the camping spot had been well chosen for
comfort.
“I wonder where that sleepy Dutchman can be?” speculated Rodney.
As if in answer, the sound of wagon wheels were heard, and in a few
moments the old white horse came into view, drawing a farm wagon on
which the canoe rested, bottom upward. Sitting on the wagon, a dumpy
figure held the reins and nodded with every swaying movement, eyes
tightly closed. Even when the old horse came to a full stop a short
distance from the camp, Carl Duckelstein slept on.
“What do you think of that, fellows?” laughed Grant.
Awkwardly tiptoeing forward, Crane reached the wagon, bent forward,
placed his lips within a foot of Carl’s head and gave utterance to an
ear-splitting yell. If he had expected to see the Dutch boy awaken in a
terrified manner, Sile was much disappointed, for Carl slowly lifted one
hand, brushed at his ear, and thickly mumbled:
“Got avay, mosquito.”
The laughter that followed caused Carl to pry his eyes open with
considerable effort, following which he surveyed the laughing lads with
a dumb, comical expression of perplexity.
“Vot it vas?” he yawned. “Vhere iss it I am yet?”
“Why don’t you do yeour sleepin’ nights?” snapped Crane disgustedly.
“Some of my sleeping does do me nights,” returned the fat boy; “but
enough of it couldt not get me. Goot morning. Your canoes I haf
brought—undt der milks undt der eggs undt der putter.”
“You certain took your time about it,” said Grant. “You agreed to bring
the milk and eggs and butter early, and pack the canoe in to us later
on.”
“Yah,” acknowledged Carl complacently; “but I out figured it dot I
couldt vurk save by doing him all at vunce. It iss now did; I haf with
me brought eferything, undt I vill not haf to dood him twice.”
“Carl,” said Stone, “you’ve got a long head.”
“Yah,” returned the boy, with a touch of pride, “I peliefe a long head
hass got me.”
“But if we hadn’t cuc-caught plenty of fish,” said Springer, “we might
have starved for all of you.”
“Nefer mind dot. Didt you some fish catch already yet? Vhere didt dese
fish get you?”
“Out of the brook over yonder, and I tell you they were bub-beauties;
handsomest trout you ever saw. We run across a fuf-friend of yours over
there, a fellow by the name of Jim Simpson.”
“Chim Skimpson didn’t peen no friendship uf mine,” cried Carl, with a
surprising display of spirit. “Efery time he sees me it iss a fight he
vants to up pick. Dot Chim Skimpson didt not like me. Sometimes, ven der
chance gets me, I vill hit him mit a club.”
“It was right evident to us,” said Grant, “that Mr. Simpson thought
himself quite a scrapper, but I opine he’s changed his mind some.”
“I gug-guess he has,” laughed Springer. “Say, Dutchy, you should have
seen this Texas longhorn polish off Jim Simpson in double-quick time.
Simpson tut-tried to drive us away from the brook, claiming it belonged
to his old man; but Grant pitched him into the water, and then, when he
came tearing out, frothing for a scrap, Rod whipped him with a
sus-single wallop on the jaw.”
“Vot?” squawked Carl, in still greater excitement, scrambling off the
wagon. “Vot iss it you didt told me? Iss it dot you didt vhip Chim
Skimpson? I couldt not peliefe it possibility.”
“It’s a fact,” declared Phil, “and it only took one wallop from Grant’s
fuf-fist to settle his hash.”
Spluttering his delight over this piece of intelligence, the Dutch boy
rushed at Rodney and clasped him in his arms.
“Mine gootness! I vill hug you for dot. Mine cracious! I couldt kiss you
for dot.”
“Don’t!” entreated Rod, pushing his overjoyed admirer away with some
difficulty. “I did it on my own account, although I will confess it
afforded me additional satisfaction because of his boast that he had
thrashed you. Is that brook on Simpson’s land?”
“His land didt begin der prook at.”
“And he doesn’t own any territory on this side of the brook?”
“Nefer a foot uf territories owns him this side uf der prook on.”
“Then anybody can fish the brook without trespassing by following along
the nearest bank?”
“Yah,” nodded Carl. “Uf you fish along der nearest side avay from us,
you vill not trespass. Undt you didt vallop Chim Skimpson! Dot
inflamation almost makes me cry for choy.”
“Come, fellers,” invited Crane, “let’s unload the canoe and launch her.
Git holt.”
Lifting the light craft, they bore it to the water’s edge in the sandy
cove, Sile expressing his eagerness to try it out. The paddles were
produced, and soon Crane and Springer were afloat in the canoe,
propelling it with considerable skill, the others watching them from the
point.
“Dot vas too much like vurk,” murmured the Dutch boy, shaking his head.
“It vould not like me at all.”
“Still fishing would be the sport for you, I judge,” said Grant.
“Yah, undt der stiller it vas der petter. I vould like to try him now uf
I had the outfits.”
“Where would you fish?”
“Der vater in, uf course. I vould like to haf a goot mess uf fish to
take me home for dinner.”
“We can provide you with tackle, but no bait for still fishing. We have
nothing but flies for casting.”
“Dot kind uf bait didt not use me,” said Carl solemnly; “but uf you vill
let me haf the tackles, I vill der bait get. Yah.”
Rodney brought forth a stout steel rod, which he quickly put together
and to which he attached a line-wound reel. The line being run through
the eyelets, he bent on a leader and hook and nipped some split shot
into place, to serve as sinkers.
“There you are,” he said, handing the outfit over to Duckelstein. “Now
go ahead and fish as much as you like.”
“I vas much opliged,” grinned the Dutch boy. “I vill get some bait undt
fish der rocks off, undt see what vill catch me. I hope it vas not an
eels. An eels iss a pad fish und I didt not like him. An eels I vould
not touch uf you vould a hundred tollars gif me.”
“I don’t think you’re likely to catch an eel off those rocks,” said Rod.
A short distance from the point was a bit of wet shore, where Carl
proceeded to search for his bait, turning over a number of flat rocks
and capturing some wiggling creatures, which he calmly put into his
pocket. When he had secured enough of these, he proceeded to the rocks,
sat down on one of them and baited his hook.
“He’ll never catch anything there,” declared Piper. “If he does, it
won’t amount to anything.”
“Never mind,” said Stone; “it will make him happy to fish.”
In the meantime Springer and Crane had paddled well out upon the lake,
and presently they turned back toward Pleasant Point. Approaching the
camp, they stared at the Dutch boy, who had dropped his baited hook into
the water and then serenely fallen sound asleep. There he sat, the rod
drooping, his fat chin on his breast, snoring distinctly.
“Look at that!” said Phil, as they silently swept near. “He must
sus-sleep pretty near all the time.”
“By Jinks!” chuckled Sile. “He’d wake up pretty sudden if he was to fall
in.”
They landed in the sandy cove and hastened to call the attention of the
others to the snoozing fisherman.
“We know it,” laughed Grant. “I rather wish he’d get an eel on now. He’s
right scared of eels.”
“Oh, is he, hey?” snickered Crane. “Well, mebbe I can pervide an eel for
him. Jest wait, fellers.”
Over to the marshy shore he hastened, where, after some searching, he
got hold of the end of a root and tore it out of the muddy ground. With
this pliable, slimy root, which was nearly five feet in length, Crane
hastened to get into the canoe and push off. Expectantly the others
watched Sile paddle round the point and get close to Duckelstein’s
dangling line. Without awakening Carl, the joker drew up the line and
tied it fast to one end of the root, which he then let down into the
water. In a few moments he was back on shore with his chuckling,
expectant companions.
“Naow,” he said, “jest yeou watch me wake him up.”
Silently he sneaked up behind the sleeper, reached over, got the line in
his fingers, and made a loop, which he slipped over the reel-handle so
that it would not run out. Then he grabbed Carl by the shoulder and
yelled into his ear:
“Wake up! Yeou’ve got a bite! Yank him in!”
Carl awoke and gave a mighty yank with the rod, which, fortunately, did
not break beneath the strain. Out of the water sprang the old root,
seeming to writhe and squirm in a most lifelike manner. Straight at the
angler the thing came, striking him in the face and whipping its cold,
clammy folds around his neck.