Tom winked at the sign, and climbed the fence. He did it so nimbly
and expeditiously as to suggest a certain amount of experience. In
truth, Tom had crossed that fence before, not once but several times,
since the trout had commenced to bite that spring. If it will make
his conduct appear any less heinous, it may be said in his behalf
that he always gave a fair trial to that part of the brook within the
school-grounds, and only when success failed him there did he defy the
law and become a trespasser on the estate of Fernwood. It would be
interesting to know whether old Father Walton always respected “No
trespassing” signs. Whether he did or did not, he appears to have left
as a heritage to his followers a special code of morals where forbidden
property is concerned; for often a man who will hold the theft of an
apple from a roadside orchard in utmost horror will not hesitate to
extract a fish from a neighbor’s brook and bear it off in complacent,
untroubled triumph. If I have dealt at undue length upon this subject,
it is because, for the sake of my hero, I wish the reader to view such
amateur poaching as his with as lenient an eye as possible.
Fernwood held one widely celebrated pool, from which, even when all
of the other pools refused to give up a single fish, the practised
angler could invariably draw at least a trio of good-sized trout.
Toward this ideal spot Tom Pierson, making his way very quietly that
he might not disturb and so cause unnecessary trouble to a couple of
very alert gardeners, directed his steps. Once, in spite of care, his
line became entangled, and once he went to his knees in the icy water.
Yet both these mishaps but whetted his appetite for the sport ahead.
When he had gained a spot a dozen yards up-stream from the big pool,
he paused, laid aside pole-rod and paraphernalia, and crept cautiously
forward to reconnoiter. If, he argued very plausibly, discovery was
to fall to his lot, at least it were better to be found guiltless
of fishing-tackle. He crouched still lower, as, over by a clump of
dead willows within the school bounds, he espied through the trees
the jauntily appareled Satterlee briskly whipping the surface of the
brook with unsportsmanlike energy and apparent disregard of results.
Tom, however, knew himself to be unobserved, so felt no fear from that
source. But just as the dark waters of the pool came into sight between
the lapping branches, a sound, close at hand and unmistakable as to
origin, caused his heart to sink with disappointment. There would be no
fishing for him to-day, for some one was already at the pool. The soft
click of a running-reel came plainly to his ears.
He paused motionless, silent, and scowled darkly in the direction
of the unseen angler. Then he went forward again, peering under the
leaves. At least he would know who it was that had spoiled his sport.
Three steps--four; then he suddenly stood upright and gasped loudly.
His eyes opened until they seemed about to pop out of his head, and
he rubbed them vigorously, as though he doubted their evidence. After
a moment he again stooped, this time sinking almost to his knees, and
never heeding the icy water that well-nigh benumbed his immersed feet.
On the farther side of the broad pool, in plain sight, stood “Old
Crusty!”
He was hatless and coatless, and palpitant with the excitement of
the sport. His lean and somewhat sallow face was flushed above the
prominent cheek-bones, and his gray eyes sparkled brightly in the
gloom of the clustering branches. He stood lithely erect, the usual
studious stoop of the shoulders gone for the time, and, with one hand
firmly grasping the butt of his rod and the other guarding the reel,
was giving every thought to the playing of a big trout that, fly in
mouth, was darting and tugging until the slender basswood bent nearly
double. As Tom looked, surprised, breathless with the excitement of
his discovery, the fish shot under the shelter of an overhanging
boulder, weary and sulky, and the angler began slowly to reel in his
line. Inch by inch came the trout, now without remonstrance, now
jumping and slashing like ten fishes, yet ever nearing the captor and
the landing-net. It was a glorious battle, and Tom, forgetting all
else, crept nearer and nearer through the leaves until, hidden only
by a screen of alder branches, he stood at the up-stream edge of the
basin. At length, resisting heroically, fighting every inch of the
way, the trout was drawn close in to the flat rock where stood his
exultant captor. The latter reached a hand softly out and seized the
landing-net. Then, kneeling on the brink of the pool, with one leg, he
made a sudden dip; there was an instant of swishing, then up came net
and trout, and----
At the end of the pool there was a terrifying splash, a muttered cry,
and Tom, forgetful of his precarious footing, sat down suddenly and
forcibly on a stone, his legs up to the knees in water. The landing-net
dropped from the angler’s hand, and the trout, suddenly restored to his
element, dashed madly off, while the reel screeched loudly as the line
ran out. The professor, white of face, stared amazedly at Tom. Tom
stared defiantly, triumphantly back at the professor. For a long, long
minute the two gazed at each other across the sun-flecked water. Then,
with a shrug of his shoulders, “Old Crusty” stooped and recovered his
rod. When he again faced the boy there was a disagreeable expression
about his mouth.
“Well, Pierson,” he said as he wound up his line, “you’re better at
playing the spy than at studying your lessons, it seems.”
The blood rushed into Tom’s face, but he held his tongue. He could
well afford to pass the insult, he argued with savage triumph; “Old
Crusty” was in his power. He had only to inform Dr. Willard, and,
beyond a doubt, the submaster’s connection with the school would
terminate instantly. The head master held poaching to be the deadliest
of sins, and poaching on Fernwood especially heinous. That his enemy
was poaching, that he did not hold permission to whip the big pool,
was evident from the confusion into which Tom’s sudden entry on to the
scene had thrown him. Yes, “Old Crusty” could vent his anger to his
heart’s content; for, when all was said, Tom still held the whip-hand.
But then the enormity of the crime with which he had been charged
struck Tom with full force, like a blow in the face. At Willard’s, as
at all schools, spying, like tale-bearing, was held by the pupils to be
something far beneath contempt. And “Old Crusty” had called him a spy!
The blood again dyed the boy’s face, and he clambered to his soaking
feet and faced the submaster angrily.
“It’s a lie!” he said hotly. “I was not spying. I didn’t follow you
here.”
The submaster raised his eyebrows incredulously.
“Is that the truth?” he asked.
“I don’t lie,” answered Tom, with righteous indignation, glaring hatred
across the pool.
“Ah,” said the other. “In that case I beg your pardon. I retract my
remark, Pierson.”
The line was again taut, and now, apparently indifferent to the boy’s
presence, he began to play the trout once more, warily, slowly. Tom
looked on from his rock, the intensity of his anger past. He was
forced to acknowledge that “Old Crusty” had at least apologized
honestly and fairly; he wished he hadn’t: somehow, he felt at a
disadvantage. And there was the enemy proceeding with his wicked sport
for all the world as though Tom did not hold his fate in his hand, as
it were! Tom swelled with indignation.
“I suppose you know you’re poaching?” he asked, presently, breaking the
long silence. The submaster did not turn his head; he merely drew his
brows together as though in protest at the interruption. Tom scowled.
What a hardened criminal “Old Crusty” was, to be sure!
The trout had but little fight left in him now, and his journey back
across the pool was almost without excitement. Only when he felt the
imminence of the shore did he call upon his flagging strength and make
one last gallant struggle for liberty. To such purpose did he battle
then, however, that the man at the rod was forced to play out a yard
or so of line. Tom’s interest was again engaged, and, much against his
inclination, he had to acknowledge that “Old Crusty” was a master
angler. And with that thought came another and a strange one, and it
was just this:
“Why,” he asked himself, “if he can be as wonderfully patient with a
trout as all that, why can’t he be a little patient with me?”
Suddenly, with the trout almost under the bank, the angler paused and
looked about him, at a loss. Tom instantly divined his quandary; the
landing-net was floating on the surface of the pool fully three yards
distant. Tom grinned with malicious satisfaction for a moment; but
then----
“Will you take the rod a minute?” asked “Old Crusty,” just as though
there was no enmity between them. “I’ll have to get that net somehow.”
Tom looked from the net to his soaking shoes and trousers. There was
but one thing to do.
“I’ll get it,” he answered. “I’m wet already.”
He threw aside coat and hat, and waded in. The professor watched him
with expressionless face. Tom secured the runaway net, and came out,
dripping to his armpits, at the submaster’s side. But when he offered
the net the other only asked anxiously:
“Do you think you can land him? The leader’s almost cut through, and
I’m afraid to bring him in any farther.”
Tom hesitated, net in hand.
“That will be all right,” continued the other; “I promise you I’ll
never tell that you had a hand in it.”
Tom flushed.
“I wasn’t thinking of that,” he said. “Hold him steady, and I’ll get
him.”
He knelt on the rock and looked for the trout. It was nearly two yards
away and well under the water. He put one foot over the edge and groped
about until he found a support for it below the surface. But even then
his arm was too short to get the net to the fish.
“Can’t you coax him in another foot?” he asked anxiously.
“I’ll try,” answered “Old Crusty.” “If the line will hold----”
He wound gingerly. The gleaming sides of the trout came toward the
surface. Tom reached out with the net, slipped it quietly into the
pool, and moved it toward the prey.
[Illustration: Tom moved the net toward the prey.]
“Now!” whispered the professor, intensely.
Up came the landing-net, and with it, floundering mightily and casting
the glittering drops into the air, came the captive.
“Well done!” cried the professor, laying aside his rod. Praise from an
enemy is the sweetest praise of all, and Tom’s heart gave a bound. The
professor seized the trout, took it from the net, and, laying it upon
the bank, removed the hook from its gasping mouth. Then, with a finger
crooked through its gill, he held it admiringly aloft.
“Isn’t he a beauty?” he asked.
“You bet!” replied Tom, in awestruck tones. “The biggest I ever saw in
this stream. Must be two pounds and a half, sir?”
“Well, two pounds easily,” answered “Old Crusty,” shutting one eye and
hefting his troutship knowingly.
“What will you do with him?” asked Tom.
The other smiled. For answer he knelt again on the rock, and, removing
his hold, allowed the fish to slide from his open palms back into the
pool. Tom’s eyes grew round with surprise. The trout, after one brief
moment of amazement quite as vast as the boy’s, scuttled from sight.
Tom turned questioning eyes upon the professor. The latter shrugged his
shoulders and smiled.
“I don’t want him; he would be of no use to me, Pierson. All I want is
the joy of catching him.”
He turned, donned his hat and coat, and began to wind up his
line, examining the frayed leader critically. Tom began to feel
uncomfortable; it seemed to him that the truce should be at an end now,
and that he ought to take his departure. But he didn’t; he merely stood
by and watched. Presently the professor turned to him again, a rather
rueful smile on his lips.
“Pierson,” he said, “what are you going to do with me now that you’ve
caught me here where poachers and trespassers are forbidden?”
Tom dropped his gaze, but made no answer. The submaster thrust the
sections of his rod into a brown leather case and slipped his fly-book
into his coat pocket. Then he said suddenly:
“Look here, Pierson, I’m going to ask a favor of you: don’t say
anything about this to the doctor, please.”
Tom’s momentary qualm of pity disappeared. “Old Crusty” was begging
for mercy! The boy experienced the glow of proud satisfaction felt
by the gladiator of old when, his foot on the neck of the vanquished
opponent, he heard the crowded Colosseum burst into applause. But
with the elation of the conqueror was mingled the disappointment of
one who sees the shattering of an idol. “Old Crusty” had been to him
the personification of injustice and tyranny; but never once had
Tom doubted his honesty or courage. An enemy he had been, but an
honored one. And now the honesty was stripped away. “Old Crusty” had
not the courage to stand up like a man and take his punishment, but
had descended so low as to beg his enemy to aid him in the cowardly
concealment of his crime! And this man had dared to call him a spy! Tom
gulped in an effort to restrain his angry indignation.
And all the while he had been looking across the pool, and so was not
aware that the submaster had been studying his face very intently, or
that the submaster’s lips held a queer little smile oddly at variance
with the character of a detected criminal at the mercy of his enemy.
The detected criminal continued his specious pleading.
“You see, Pierson,” he said, “there’s just one thing that can happen to
a person in my position convicted of poaching, and that’s discharge.
Of course you don’t recognize much difference between discharge and
resignation; but I do: the difference is apparent when it comes to
obtaining a new position. A discharged instructor is a hopeless
proposition; one who has resigned may, in the course of time, find
another place. And so what I ask you to do is to keep quiet and give me
time to resign.”
“Oh!” said Tom. His faith in mankind was reestablished. He had
misjudged the enemy. After all, “Old Crusty” was worthy of his hatred.
He was very glad. But before he could find an answer the other went on:
“If I were a younger man, Pierson, my chances would be better. But at
my time of life losing my position means a good deal. You must see
that. And--could you give me until to-morrow evening?”
Tom nodded without looking up. He wanted to say something, he didn’t at
all know what. But the elation was all gone, and he felt--oh, miserably
mean!
“Thank you,” said the submaster, pleasantly. “And now I think we’d best
go home. You should get those wet clothes off as soon as possible.”
He looked at his watch. “I had no idea it was so late,” he muttered.
“We’ll have to hurry.” He moved off along the edge of the stream, and
Tom recovered coat and hat and followed. He didn’t feel happy. His
thoughts were fixed on matters other than his footing, and more than
once he went into the brook. Presently he broke the silence.
“Are you going to--resign, sir?”
“Doesn’t that seem best, Pierson?”
“I--I don’t know,” muttered Tom. There was another silence, lasting for
a few yards. Then, “I--I wish you wouldn’t, sir,” he said with a gulp.
“Eh?” The submaster paused, turned, and faced him in surprise. “What’s
that, Pierson?”
Tom cleared his throat.
“I said--I wished you wouldn’t; resign, you know.”
“What do you mean?” asked the other. “Do you want to have me
discharged, or----”
“No, sir, I don’t,” answered the boy, getting his voice back. “I--I’m
not going to tell at all, sir--ever!”
“How’s that?” asked the submaster, in puzzled tones. “You don’t like
me the least bit in the world, my boy; in fact, I’m not sure you don’t
hate me heartily. Doesn’t it strike you that you’ve got your chance
now? Get rid of me, Pierson, and there’ll be no mathematics--for a
while.”
“I don’t want to get rid of you,” muttered Tom, shamefacedly. “I--I
didn’t like you: you’d never let me; you’ve always been as hard on me
as you could be. I can get those lessons--I know I can!--if you’ll only
not be down on me. I did hate you, sir”--he looked up with a gleam of
the old defiance--“but I don’t any longer.”
“Why?” asked “Old Crusty,” after a moment, very quietly and kindly. Tom
shook his head.
“I don’t know--exactly. I guess because you’re a good trout fisher, and
you begged my pardon, and--and you treated me like--like--” He faltered
and came to a pause, at a loss for words. But the other nodded his head
as though he understood.
“I see,” he muttered. Then, “Look here, Pierson,” he said, “I see that
I’ve been mistaken about you; I’ve been greatly at fault. I tell you so
frankly; and--I’m sorry. If I were going to remain I think you and I
would get on a lot better together.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Tom, eagerly. “And--and couldn’t you stay, sir?”
The other was silent a moment, looking smilingly at the boy’s bent
head. At length, “If I should accept of your--ah--mercy, Pierson, it
would have to be understood that there was no bargain between us. I
think we’d get on better, you and I, but I wouldn’t buy your silence.
If you ever needed a wigging or any other punishment I’d give it to
you. Would you agree to that?”
“I don’t want any old bargain, sir,” Tom cried. “And I’ll take the
punishment. I’m--I’m not a baby!”
“Good! Shake hands. Now let us hurry home.”
“Yes, sir, but--just a minute, please.” Tom darted into the wood and
came back with his rod and flies. He did not try to conceal them, but
he looked sheepishly up into the submaster’s face. This was a study
of conflicting emotions. In the end amusement got the better of the
others, and he viewed Tom with a broad smile.
“And so there is a pair of us, eh?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” answered Tom. The submaster laughed softly and put one hand
companionably upon the boy’s shoulder.
“Pierson,” he said, “suppose you and I agree to reform?”
“All right, sir.”
“No more poaching, eh? After this we’ll stick to our own preserves.”
“Yes, sir. I’m willing if you are.”
“Because, after all, we can’t improve on that trite old proverb which
says that honesty is the best policy, can we?”
“No, sir,” Tom responded.
They left the thicket together and began the ascent of the meadow hill.
Twilight was gathering, and a sharp-edged crescent of silver glowed
in the evening sky above the tower of the school-hall. It was the
submaster who broke the silence first.
“And yet there are fine trout in the big pool,” he said, musingly.
Tom sighed unconsciously. “Aren’t there, though?” he asked.
“I took one out one day last spring that weighed nearly three pounds,”
continued the submaster.
Tom sighed again. “Did you?” he asked dolefully.
“Yes; and--look here, Pierson, tell me, how would you like to fish
there as often as you wanted through the trout season?”
“I’d like it!” answered Tom, briefly and succinctly, wishing,
nevertheless, that the submaster wouldn’t pursue such a harrowing
subject.
“Would you? Well, now, I haven’t the least doubt in the world but that
I can obtain permission for you. Mr. Greenway is a friend of mine, and
while he wouldn’t care to allow the whole school to go in there, I’m
certain that----”
“A friend of yours?” gasped Tom. “Then--then----”
The submaster smiled apologetically as he replied:
“No, Pierson, I wasn’t poaching.”
Tom stared in amazement and dismay.
“But--but you said----”
“No, I didn’t say it, but I allowed you to think it; and I plead guilty
to a measure of deceit. But I think you’ll forgive it, my boy, because
it has led to--well, to a better understanding between us. Don’t you
think it has?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Tom, wondering but happy.
“Good; and-- Hello, there’s the bell!” cried the submaster. “Let’s run
for it!”
And they did.