Tom Pierson strode briskly down the hill, fishing-rod in hand. As long
as he had been in sight of the school he had skulked in the shadow of
the hedges, for he knew that Satterlee 2d was looking for him, and the
society of that youth was the last thing he desired at present. For
Satterlee 2d possessed the highly erroneous idea that the best way to
catch trout was to make as much noise as possible and to toss sticks
and pebbles into the brook. And so Tom, a devout disciple of Izaak
Walton, preferred to do without his chum when he went fishing.
The time was a quarter after four of a late May afternoon. Tom had
tossed the last book into his desk and slammed the lid just fifteen
minutes before. From the school-hall he had sneaked to the dormitory,
and secured his rod, line, and flies. Even as he had descended warily
by means of the fire-escape, he had heard the voice of Satterlee
2d calling his name in the corridor. He had reached the brook
path undetected by dodging from dormitory to school-hall and from
school-hall to engine-house, and so to the protecting shadows of the
high hedge that marked the western limit of the school-grounds. Most of
the other two dozen pupils of Willard’s were down on the field, busy
with balls and bats. But no form of athletics appealed to Tom Pierson
as did angling, and to-day, with the white clouds chasing one another
across the blue sky and the alder-bordered brook in sight, he was
almost happy. Almost, but not quite; for even at sixteen life is not
always clear of trouble. Tom’s trouble was “Old Crusty.” If it were not
for “Old Crusty,” he thought gloomily, as he swung his pole through the
new grass, he would be quite happy.
“Old Crusty’s” real name, you must know, was Professor Bailey: he
was one of the two submasters; and as for being old, he was in truth
scarce over forty--a good ten years younger than Doctor Willard, the
head master, to whom, for some reason, the fellows never thought of
referring as “Old Willard.” Professor Bailey and Tom had never, from
the first, got on at all well together. The professor believed Tom
quite capable of mastering mathematics as well as others of his form,
and had scant patience for the boy’s sorry performances. Tom believed
that “Old Crusty” dealt more severely with him than with the rest--in
short, to use his own expression, that the professor “had it in for
him.” One thing is certain: the more the submaster lectured Tom and
ridiculed his efforts before the class, the more he kept him in after
school, the less Tom knew of mathematics, and the wider grew the breach
between pupil and teacher.
In all other studies Tom was eminently successful, and there is
no doubt but that with a better understanding between him and the
submaster the former would have made a creditable showing in the
science that was at present the bane of his life. But, as it was, Tom
hated “Old Crusty” with a great hatred, while the submaster felt for
Tom a large contempt, if not an absolute aversion. And it must be
acknowledged that Tom gave him sufficient cause.
A great deal of this passed through Tom’s mind as he descended the path
and reached the shelter of the low-spreading alders that marked the
course of the brook. But, with the sound of the bubbling water in his
ears, he put trouble behind him. Laying aside his coat, he fitted his
split-bamboo rod, and studied the sky and the pool before him. Then
he chose a rather worn brown fly, and cast it gently into the center
of the limpid basin. Above him the branches almost met, and he knew
from experience that if he hooked a trout he would have to play him
down-stream before he could land him. Ten minutes passed, but, save for
the inquiring nibble of a sunfish or similar small fry, he found no
encouragement. The sun went behind a large cloud, and Tom changed his
fly for a bright red-and-gray one. But even that failed to entice the
trout. He grew impatient, for the school rules required him to be back
in bounds by half past five. Presently he drew in his line, donned his
coat, and made his way noiselessly down-stream. When he had gone some
ten yards, creeping from bank to rock and from rock to bank again, not
without more than once filling his scuffed shoes with water, he came
to a fence, the rails of which reached straight across the stream,
which here narrowed to a rocky cascade. On the trunk of a big willow at
one side there was a board. On the board was the legend: