ANOTHER ENCOUNTER.
In the morning Grant was the first to awaken, but, although he got up as
quietly as possible, Springer heard him and also crept out of the
blankets.
“Needn’t think you’re going to sus-sneak off by your lonesome, you old
Texas Ranger,” chuckled Phil, following Rod from the tent. “Like one of
Sleuthy’s Wampanoags, I’m on your trail.”
They were surprised to hear a low voice behind them: “I’m watching you
both. Nothing but cooking on a camping expedition is becoming somewhat
monotonous, and I propose to get into the real sport this morning.”
It was Stone, and they grinned at him welcomingly.
“Come on, Ben,” invited Rod. “You’ve sure performed your share of the
work, and you’ve a right to get in some fun. After a plunge, we’ll dress
and hike out.”
They took a dip and a rub-down in the soft purple light of the
breathless, balmy dawn, after which little time was lost in dressing and
getting out the fishing tackle.
In the shadowy tent Sleuth and Sile slept on, the latter muttering and
groaning occasionally, the former at last bound in peaceful slumber.
“They’re sure exhausted complete,” said Grant, as he brought the fishing
outfit from the tent.
They paused near the canoe upon the sandy beach.
“Which way shall we go?” questioned Rod.
“I’ve got a feeling that I’d like to tut-try that brook again,” said
Phil. “It’s handy, and we can feel pretty sure of catching something.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” admitted Grant. “Forbidden fruit is
always the most attractive. Besides, three of us would crowd the canoe
so that there would be little comfort in fishing. What do you say,
Stone?”
“I’m ready for anything,” agreed Ben. “And if we keep to the near side
of the brook, we know we’ll not be trespassing. Jim Simpson will have no
grounds for raising a row.”
“And if he doesn’t raise a row,” laughed Phil, “we’ll all be sus-sorely
disappointed. Come on.”
As they made their way along the shore they cast occasional glances
toward Spirit Island, which seemed to crouch in the midst of the lake,
dark, silent and mysterious, and therefore intensely fascinating to
their youthful minds. In the broad light of day they might show a
disposition to laugh at superstitious fancies, but, scarcely less than
complete darkness, the shadowy, silent approach of dawn is conducive to
sensations of awe and a pronounced inclination to credit the seemingly
supernatural. And it is indeed a wholly unimaginative person who has
never experienced a thrill over the apparently uncanny and weird.
At the mouth of the brook they were granted nothing but disappointment;
the test of various flies failed to lure a single fish to rise to their
hooks.
“It seems,” said Springer, “that we made a fearful mistake in bringing
Piper with us, or, at least, in permitting him to try his hand at
angling. Having frightened all the fish out of the water to hide in the
woods, isn’t it pup-possible that, in their extreme terror, they may
have lingered too long in their places of concealment and perished
miserably?”
“I heard of a man once,” said Grant, “who taught a trout to live out of
the water.”
“Easy! easy!” warned Phil.
“This gent I’m speaking of,” continued Rod, a twinkle in his eyes, “was
an expert fisherman and hunter and lived alone in the woods. One day he
caught a trout, and the minute he saw the creature he knew it sure was
an unusually intelligent fish, for it was wide between the eyes and had
a high, bold forehead. Fortunately, that trout had not been much hurt by
the hook, and the hunter proceeded at once to place it in a tub filled
with water. All day long he sat around watching the trout in that tub,
becoming more and more convinced that he had secured an unusually
intelligent specimen. Swimming around, the trout would occasionally look
up at him and wink with such a knowing look in its eye that the man
laughed outright.
“In the night, the hunter, still thinking of the fish, conceived a
brilliant idea. Getting up quietly, in order that the fish might not
hear him, he secured an auger, crept close to the tub, in the side of
which, close to the bottom, he stealthily bored a hole that let out all
the water without the trout ever becoming aware of it. The experiment
proved to be a mighty big success, for there in the tub the following
morning the hunter found his trout as lively and chipper as ever.
“After this, having convinced the fish that it could live on dry land as
well as in the water, the hunter set about training it, and in a short
time that trout would follow him around the camp like a faithful dog. It
sure was a right queer sight to see the fish paddling around on its fins
in the wake of its master, and it is said to be a solemn fact that the
man spent a heap of time trying to teach Trouty to sit up and bark; but
as to his success in this there is considerable doubt and more or less
disagreement.
“As the warm summer passed, the autumn faded and winter came hiking on,
the trout’s master perceived that his pet was beginning to suffer more
or less discomfort from cold whenever it went outside the camp; and,
having a naturally tender heart, the man manufactured a sweater for the
fish, made out of an old sock. He cut holes in this sweater for the
trout’s fins, so that it could locomote pretty nearly as well as usual,
and the little fellow was right comfortable.
“But one day a sad tragedy occurred. It was one of those warm, balmy
days of Indian summer, and the trout, probably feeling the need of
exercise, followed his master to a stream, over which he attempted to
cross on a slippery log. Losing his balance on the log, the fish fell
off into the water and was drowned. In this manner, doubtless, perished
one of the most remarkable——”
“Help!” cried Springer, clinging to the bole of a tree and gasping as if
in great distress, while Stone, laughing heartily, had sunk upon the
ground. “That’s the bub-biggest whopper I ever heard, and you sure told
some beauts when you fuf-first hit Oakdale, Rod.”
The Texan regarded his companions with gentle reproof.
“You’ll observe,” he reminded, “that, like our interesting friend, Mr.
Granger, I was careful to give the story as purely a matter of hearsay.”
“And, in spite of howling dogs, flashing lights, and ghostly figures,”
said Ben, “there may be as much truth in one story as there is in the
other. A hermit once lived on Spirit Island; doubtless a hunter once
caught a trout and put it in a tub.”
“Nevertheless,” sighed Springer, “I’m almost tut-too weak to proceed on
this little fishing expedition.”
He led the way along the nearest bank, exercising due caution in order
not to frighten the fish in the pools; but, to the wonderment and
perplexity of the young anglers, their efforts continued futile.
Annoyed, they watched their flies bob in the little eddies or skim
across the placid places, untroubled and untouched. This lack of success
served to spur them on, and they followed the brook further and further
into the woods, Springer still leading.
Finally Stone reached a broad, deep pool, spanned at its lower edge by
an old limbless tree that had fallen from bank to bank. If there were
trout anywhere, it seemed that they must be here, and Ben crept up
toward the near end of the pool and made a cast. Over his head a red
squirrel scolded at him from a limb, and he could hear the flute-like
notes of the hermit thrush sounding from various parts of the woods.
Suddenly there was a whirling movement on the surface of the water and a
jerk at Ben’s line.
“I’ve got one!” he exclaimed, quickly stepping out upon the old tree in
order to have plenty of elbow room for the task before him.
“And I’ll get you if you don’t skedaddle!” roared a hoarse voice,
following which a grizzled, bewhiskered man crashed forth from the
bushes on the opposite bank and sprang on to the log, a pitchfork in his
calloused hands.
Of course Ben was startled, and, failing to give proper attention to his
reel, he permitted the fish to dart under a projecting root near the
bank, where it broke away.
“There, you made me lose him!” he exclaimed resentfully.
“But I won’t lose you, if you don’t hiper in a hurry!” retorted the man,
advancing upon the fallen tree with the pitchfork threateningly poised.
“That’s right, dad!” cried another voice, and Jim Simpson rose from a
place of concealment on the opposite bank somewhat further down the
stream. In his hands he held an old muzzle-loading gun.
“What right have you to trouble me?” demanded Ben. “I’m not on your
land.”
“But you’re fishing in my brook,” declared the man. “I’ll show you sassy
young cubs that you can’t fish in this brook!”
He had reached the middle of the log, from which Ben now stepped back to
the ground without showing a disposition immediately to retreat further.
Springer, above, had heard Stone’s exclamation when the fish struck,
and, hurrying back, he reached the upper end of the pool as the man with
the pitchfork balanced himself precariously upon the fallen tree.
Instantly Phil lifted his fly-rod and made a skillful cast, which sent
the hook sailing through the air to strike the collar of the man’s coat
and cling there. Reaching out hurriedly, Springer grasped the line
beyond the tip of the rod and gave it a pull.
It needed no more than this slight tug to cause Hank Simpson to lose his
balance, and backward into the water he fell with a tremendous splash.
At the same moment Grant, who a short time before had detected young
Simpson hiding behind the bushes, which led Rod to ford the stream
unperceived, sprang forward and landed fairly upon the fellow’s back.
Seizing the gun, Rodney wrested it from Jim’s hands.
“I don’t opine you’ll do any shooting this morning with this
blunderbuss,” said the Texan.
The young fellow, who had been knocked floundering to the ground,
recognized his antagonist of the previous morning and began to scramble
away on all fours in ludicrous haste.
Puffing and gulping, old man Simpson rose from the pool and stood up
with the water rising to his waist. The sharp tug given by Springer had
torn the hook loose, and now Phil, without pausing to reel in, hurried
to Stone’s side.
“You confounded rascals! You young whelps!” spluttered Hank Simpson,
shaking his dripping fist at the two boys. “I’ll smash ye!”
“If I were in your place, sir,” said Grant, holding the gun, “I reckon I
wouldn’t try any smashing. We were careful to keep on the side of the
brook that you do not own, and we give due notice now that we’ll fish
here whenever we please.”
“What be you doing on that side then?” demanded Simpson.
“Oh, I just came over to interview your worthy offspring. That’s him
back yonder in the woods calling to you.”
“Dad—hey, dad!” Jim Simpson was crying. “They’ve got the gun.”
It must be recorded that Simpson senior gave utterance to language that
would not look well in print.
“I’ll have the law on ’em!” he fumed, as he recovered his pitchfork and
retreated toward his own land.
“Go as far as you please,” said Grant, who had inspected the gun. “Why,
this thing isn’t even loaded, and I don’t believe it could be fired if
it was.”
With which he pitched the old musket toward Simpson and calmly recrossed
the brook.