THE GOLDEN COIN
Mill stream, coming down from afar up the country, on its way to Samoset
river and bay, flowed in many moods. Now it glided deep and smooth,
almost imperceptibly, along steep banks that went up wooded to the sky
line. Again it hurled itself recklessly down rocky inclines, frothing
and foaming and fighting its way by sheer force through barriers of
reefs. Now it went swiftly and pleasantly over sand shallows, rippling
and seeming almost to sing a tune as it ran; again it turned back on its
course in little eddies, backing its waters into shaded, still pools,
where the pickerel loved to hide.
They were lazy fellows, the pickerel. One might, if he were a lucky and
persevering fisherman, take a trout in the swift waters of the brook;
but for the pickerel, theirs was not the joy of such exertion. In the
dark, silent places along Mill stream, where never a ripple disturbed
their seclusion, you might see one, now and then, lying motionless in
the shadow of an overhanging branch, at the surface of the water, as
though asleep.
They were not eager to bite then, in the warmth of the day. You might
troll by the edges of the lily pads for half an hour, and the pickerel
that made his haunt there would scarce wink a sleepy eye, or flicker a
fin. At morn and evening they were ready for you; and a quick, sudden
whirl in the glassy, black water often gave invitation then to cast a
line.
In the early hours of a July morning, a little way up from Ellison's
dam, a youth stood up to his middle among the lily pads, wielding a
long, jointed bamboo pole, and trolling a spoon-hook past the outer
fringe of the flat, green leaves. He was whistling, softly--an
indication that he was happy. He was sunburned, freckle-faced, hatless,
coatless. He wore only a thin and faded cotton blouse, the sleeves of it
rolled up, and a pair of trousers, rolled up above his knees--for
convenience rather than to protect them, for he had waded in, waist
deep.
Tied about him was a piece of tarred rope, from which there dangled the
luckless victims of his skill, three pickerel. That they were freshly
caught was evidenced by their flopping vigorously now and then, as the
boy entered the deeper water, and opening their big, savage looking
mouths as though they would like to swallow their captor.
A splash out yonder, just beside the clump of arrow-shaped pickerel
weed! Tim Reardon's heart beat joyfully, as he turned and saw the
ripples receding from the spot where the fish had jumped. He swung his
long rod, dropped the troll skilfully near the blue blossoms that
adorned the clump of weed, and drew it temptingly past. The spoon
revolved rapidly, gleaming with alternate red and silver, the bright
feathers that clothed the gang of hooks at the end trailing after.
Another splash, and a harder one. Tim Reardon "struck" and the fish was
fast. Now it lashed the water furiously, fighting for its life. But it
was not a big fish, and Tim Reardon lifted it clear of the water so that
it swung in where he could clutch it with eager hands. Grasping it just
back of the gills, he disengaged the hook cautiously, avoiding the sharp
rows of teeth that lined the long jaws. He slung the pickerel on the
line, and whistled gleefully.
It was a royal day for fishing; with just a thin shading of clouds to
shield the water from the glare of sun; the water still and smooth; the
shadows very black in the shady places.
It is safe to say, no one in all Benton knew the old stream like Tim
Reardon. He fished it day after day from morn till evening, before and
after school hours, and now in the vacation at all times. Tom Harris and
Bob White knew it as canoeists; but Tim Reardon, following the ins and
outs of its shores for miles above the Ellison dam, knew every little
turn and twist in its shore.
He knew the places where the pickerel hid; where the water was swift, or
shallow, or choked with weeds, and where to leave the shore and make a
detour through the grain fields past these places. There were deep pools
where the pickerel seldom rose to the troll, but asked to have their
dinner sent down to them in the form of a fresh shiner; and Tim Reardon
knew these pools, and when to remove the troll and put on his sinker and
live bait.
He could have told you every inch of the country between Ellison's dam
and the falls four miles above; where you would find buckwheat fields;
where the corn patches were; where apple orchards bordered them; where
the groves of beech-trees were, with the red squirrel colonies in the
stumps near-by; and where the best place was to pause for noon luncheon,
in the shade of some pines, where there was a spring bubbling up cool on
the hottest days, in which you could set a bottle of coffee and have it
icy cold in a half-hour.
There were big hemlocks along the way, in the rotted parts of which the
yellow-hammers built their nests and laid their white eggs; hard trees
to climb, with their huge trunks. He knew the time to scale the tall
pines where the crows built, to find the scrawny young birds, with
wide-open mouths and skinny bodies, that looked like birds visited by
famine. He knew where the red columbines blossomed on the face of some
tall cliffs, where the stream flowed through a rocky gorge; and how to
crawl painfully down a zigzag course from the top to gather these, at
the risk of falling seventy feet to the rocks below.
There were a thousand and one delights of the old stream that were a joy
to his heart--though one would not have expected to find sentiment
lodged in the breast of Little Tim. As for the boy, he only knew that
it was all very dear to him, and that the whole valley of the stream was
a source of perpetual happiness.
He waded ashore now and went on, his pole over his shoulder, whistling,
filled with an enjoyment that he could not for the world have described;
but which was born amid the singing of the stream, the droning of bees,
the noises of birds and insects, in a lazy murmur that filled all the
quiet valley.
It was rare fun following the winding of that stream; among little
hills, by the edges of meadows and through groves of mingled cedars and
birches. Now and then he would rest and watch its noiseless flowing,
past some spot where the branches hung close over the water; where the
stream flowed so smoothly and quietly that the shadows asleep on its
surface were never disturbed.
The noon hour came, and Little Tim seated himself for his luncheon on a
knoll carpeted with thick, tufted grass. A kingfisher, disturbed by his
arrival, went rattling on his way upstream. And as the boy drew from his
dingy blouse a scrap of brown paper, enclosing a bit of bread and
cheese, and laid it down beside him, the stream seemed to be dancing
just before him at the tune he whistled; a swinging, whirling dance from
shore to shore; a butterfly dance, through a setting of buttercups and
daisies; with here and there a shaft of sunlight thrown upon it, where
the thin clouds parted.
Afternoon came, and the shadows of the low hills were thrown far across
the stream. Here and there a splash denoted that the fish were waking
from their midday torpor and were ready for prey. Little Tim resumed his
rod, and slowly retraced his steps along the shore in the direction of
Ellison dam and Benton.
It was about four o'clock as he neared a point in the stream a half-mile
above the dam, where the water flowed very quietly past the edge of some
thick alders. There were pickerel in that water. Tim knew the place of
old; and he drew near softly, to make a cast. The bright troll fell with
a tinkle on the still surface, and he drew it temptingly past the
thicket.
A quick whirl--and how the line did tauten and the rod bend! The whole
tip of it went under water. He had struck a big fish. He brought him to
the surface with some effort; but the fish was not to be easily subdued.
A sudden dart and he was away again, diving deep and straining the rod
to its utmost.
Seeing he had a fish of unusual size, the boy played him carefully; let
him have the line and tire himself for a moment, then reeled in as the
line slackened.
"He's a four pounder; giminy, how he fights!" exclaimed Little Tim. And
he gave a sudden yell of triumph as he saw that the fish was firmly
hooked, with the troll far down its distended jaws.
Then his impatience got the better of him, and he gave a great lift on
the rod, with the line reeled up short. Just at that moment too, it
seemed the fish had tired; for, as Tim strained, the big pickerel came
out of water as with a leap. The stout rod straightened with a jerk that
yanked the fish out, sent it flying through the air and lodged it away
up in the top of some thick alders that bordered the shore. There, the
line tangling, it hung suspended, twisting and doubling in vain effort
to free itself.
Little Tim laughed joyfully.
"Got to shin for that fellow," he said, stepping ashore and eying the
prize that dangled above his head.
But, as he stooped to lay down his pole, the discharge of a shotgun
close at hand made him jump with astonishment. Still more amazed was he
to see the dangling fish fall between the alder branches to the ground.
Then, before he had recovered from his astonishment, a youth dashed
forward and seized it.
The youth was Benny Ellison.
Little Tim's blood was up.
"Think you're smart, don't you," he cried, "shooting my fish. Here,
gimme that. What do you think you're doing?"
But Benny Ellison, holding the big pickerel away from Tim, showed no
intention of giving it up.
"Who told you it was your fish?" he replied, sneeringly. "I shot it.
It's mine."
"Give me back that fish!" repeated Little Tim. "I'll tell Harvey on you.
You'll get another ducking."
He seized Benny Ellison by an arm, but the other, bigger and stronger,
pushed him back roughly.
"Go on," he said, and added, while a grin overspread his fat face,
"That's no fish, anyway. Whoever heard of catching fish in trees? That's
a bird, Timmy, and I shot it. See its tail-feathers?"
He swung the fish and gave Little Tim a slap over the head with the tail
of it, that brought the tears to Tim's eyes.
"Go on, tell Harvey," he said. "This bird's mine."
Dangling the pickerel by the gills, and shouldering his gun, he pushed
on upstream through the alders, leaving Little Tim angry and smarting.
"I'll get even with you, Benny Ellison," called Tim; but the other only
laughed and went on.
Tim slowly unjointed his rod, tied the pieces together in a compact
bundle, gathered up his string of remaining fish and started homeward.
When he had gone on about a quarter of a mile, however, he suddenly
paused and stood for a moment, considering something. Then he looked
about him, stepped into a little thicket where he hid his pole and fish
carefully from sight, then retraced his steps upstream.
He went on through the alders and brush, till presently he heard the
report of the gun. Guided by the sound, he continued on for a little
way, then shinned into the branches of a tall cedar, heavily wooded, and
from there got a view upstream. Several rods away, he could see the
alders move, thrust aside by Benny Ellison. Little Tim seated himself
amid the branches, safely hidden, and waited.
Some ten or fifteen minutes passed, and then the snapping of underbrush
told of the approach of Benny Ellison, on his return. That his shot had
told was evidenced by another pickerel which he carried, hung by the
gills on the crotch of an alder branch, together with the big fellow
that Little Tim had caught. Tim's eyes snapped as he saw the fish.
Benny Ellison, chuckling to himself, passed the tree where Tim crouched,
high above him. Almost within the shadow of it, he stopped and laughed
heartily, as he glanced down at the big pickerel.
"It's a bird," he cried. "Shot it in a tree--what luck!"
Not until he had gone some distance did Little Tim emerge from hiding,
scramble to the ground and follow. Dodging from tree to tree, and
pausing frequently, he saw Benny Ellison finally seat himself on a log
beside the stream. Tim waited. Then a smile of satisfaction crossed his
freckled face as Benny Ellison began stripping off his clothes for a
swim.
Little Tim, crouching low, almost crawling, crept closer.
Benny Ellison stood on a bank by the edge of a deep pool, a favourite
swimming-place, where he and his cousins, and Little Tim, too, had had
many a swim. The water was inviting, with the sultriness of the
afternoon. Tim's heart beat high as he saw Benny Ellison plunge
headforemost into the pool.
Then Tim's hopes were realized. Benny Ellison, a good swimmer, struck
out into midstream toward a reef that protruded a few feet above water.
Crawling on hands and knees, Tim quickly gained the shelter of the log
where the other had thrown his clothes, with the fish dropped just
alongside. Tim made sure of his fish, first. He pulled it hastily from
the stick, leaving the one that Benny Ellison had shot, afterwards,
unmolested for the moment.
Then he dragged Benny Ellison's cotton shirt down behind the log.
Seizing the sleeves, he proceeded to tie the thin garment into hard
knots. It was the old schoolboy trick. He had had it played on him many
a time in swimming--and done the same by others; but he had never
entered into the prank with half the zest as now. He tugged at the knots
and drew them hard.
"That shirt's a bird," he said softly, eying the shapeless bundle, with
a grin. Then he served the trousers and the "galluses" the same way;
likewise Benny Ellison's socks. Finally, having it all dona to suit him,
he stood erect upon the log and called out to the swimmer.
"Say, Benny," he cried, "here's your bird." And, stooping and picking up
Benny Ellison's pickerel, he hurled the dead fish far out into the
stream. The fish struck the water with a splash, as Benny Ellison,
turning in dismay and wrath, started back with vigorous strokes.
"There's another bird on the log for you, Benny," called Tim. Then,
picking up his own fish, he scampered. Benny Ellison's slower steps
could not have equalled the pace set by those bare feet, had he been
ashore. By the time he was on land again, Little Tim, his pole and
string of fish regained, was half-way to the Ellison dam.
A voice stopped him as he was emerging on to the main road, just below
Witham's Half Way House. He turned and saw Bess Thornton.
"Hello, Tim," she called, "what's the matter? Anybody after you? My, but
I guess you've been running fast."
Tim Reardon, wiping his face with his sleeves, told her what had
happened. The girl danced with glee, while her bright eyes sparkled.
"Oh, goody!" she exclaimed. "Wouldn't I just like to have seen that fat
old Benny Ellison try to catch you. My, but you always have the luck,
don't you? That's a grand string of fish."
Tim Reardon, unstringing two of the pickerel from the rope, transferred
them to a twig of alder that he cut from a near by bush, and handed them
to her.
"I've got more'n I want," he said.
"Thanks," said the girl, and added, "Say, Tim, I'll tell you something.
I saw four trout in the brook this morning, and one of them was that
long."
She measured with her hands, held a little more than a foot apart.
"Where was it--about a mile above your house?" queried Tim.
The girl nodded.
"In the pool where the big tree's fallen across," she said.
"I guess he's the big one I've tried to get, a lot of times," said Tim.
"But I haven't seen him lately. I thought he'd gone down into Ellison's
pool. I'd like to see him."
He was a fisherman by nature, was Little Tim, and the very mention of
the big trout made his eyes twinkle.
"Come on up," said Bess Thornton.
Tim hesitated. "It's most too late," he replied. "I'll be late to supper
now, if I don't run."
"Oh, never mind," she urged. "I'll show you just where I saw him. I just
as lieve you'd catch him."
The invitation was too much for Tim, and he started off across the
fields with Bess Thornton.
"That fish'll never bite," he said, as they went along; "I've tried him
with worms and grasshoppers and wasps and crickets, and that fly made of
feathers that Jack gave me. He knows a whole lot, that old trout. Guess
he's a school-teacher, he knows so much."
"I'm going to catch him, anyway, if you don't," said the girl. "I know
what I'm going to do."
"What's that?" asked Tim, in a tone that indicated he had no great faith
in her success.
"I'm going to bait up two hooks with a whole lot of worms, and I'm not
going to put 'em into the pool till after it gets dark," replied Bess
Thornton. "And I'm going to let 'em stay there all night. He's such a
sly old thing you can't get near the bank without he knows it. Then when
it gets morning, and he's hungry, perhaps he'll see all those worms and
just go and catch himself."
"Yes, and get away again long before you get back," said Tim Reardon.
"He'll just take and tangle that line all up around the rocks and sticks
at the bottom, and break it."
"I'm going to try, anyway," she insisted. They turned in at the path
leading to the girl's home presently, and she went in with the pickerel.
"I'll dig some bait for you while you're gone," called Tim.
"I can do it," she said.
"Oh, you're all dressed up," said Tim, who had noted her unusual
appearance, clad as she was in her new bright sailor-suit.
"Going to change it," she said, "Had to put it on to go to Benton in."
She went into the house, and Tim Reardon, seizing a spade that he found
leaning against the shed, made his way to a corner of the house, where
an old water-spout came down, from the gutter that caught the rain on
the roof. He was turning up the soil there when the girl reappeared.
"Oh, that isn't the place to dig," she said. "I never dig for worms
there."
"Well, here's the place to find 'em," asserted Tim. "I'm getting some.
You always find angleworms where the ground's moist. They like it,
because the rain comes down off the roof here. There you are, grab that
fat fellow."
The girl made a grab at a bit of the soft earth, where a worm was
wriggling back into its hole.
"Ugh! he got away," she said, opening her hand and letting the dirt drop
through her fingers. The next moment she uttered a little cry of
surprise.
"I've got something, though," she exclaimed. "Look, Tim, it's
money--it's a coin. Where do you suppose it came from? Perhaps it's good
yet. If I can spend it, I'll go halves."
The boy took the piece of money from her fingers. It was dull and
tarnished; a little larger in size than a ten cent piece, but it was not
silver.
Tim Reardon looked at it intently and rubbed its sides on his trousers
leg.
"Say, Bess," he said earnestly, "do you know what I think--I guess it's
gold. Yes, I do. 'Tisn't American money, though. It's got a queer head
on it, see, a man with some sort of a thing on his head like a wreath.
Oh, my, but that's too bad. Look, Bess, there's a hole been bored in it.
P'raps you can't spend it."
Near the edge, there was, in truth, a tiny depression, nearly obscured
by dirt and corrosion, which seemed to indicate that the coin had at
some time been pierced, as though it might have been worn by someone as
an ornament.
"Let's scrub it," said the girl. "Perhaps it'll brighten up, so we can
see it better."
They went in with it to the kitchen sink, where Bess Thornton, getting
a basin of warm water and soap, proceeded to polish the coin with a
small brush. It soon brightened sufficiently to reveal the unmistakable
gleam of gold, and was a foreign coin of some sort, possibly of Austrian
coinage; but the letters which it had borne, and the figures, had been
worn much away; and one side was worn quite smooth, so as to give no
clew to what had been stamped there.
"Well, I can wear it, if I can't spend it," said Bess Thornton. "There's
the hole to hang it by. Isn't it pretty?"
"Isn't what pretty?" said a voice, suddenly interrupting them. Old
Granny Thornton was peering over the girl's shoulder. "What are you two
doing? What have you got there?"
"See, gran'," replied the girl. "Look what we found. It's money, gran',
and it's gold."
The old woman took the coin in her thin fingers and held it up close to
her eyes. Then she started and her hand shook tremulously. A pallor
overspread her face. She sank back into a chair, staring at the coin,
which she clutched tight as though it had some strange fascination that
held her gaze.
"Where did you get that?" she cried hoarsely. "Where was it?"
"We dug it up just now, gran', out in the yard. Why, what's the matter?
Can't I keep it? What makes you act so queer, gran'?"
The old woman hesitated for a moment and seemed lost for a reply. Then
she said, hurriedly:
"No, girl--no, not now. You shall have it some day. You can't have it
yet. It isn't time. You wore it once when you were little--but it was
lost. Oh, how I've hunted for it! You'll get it again. I'll keep it
safe, this time."
She was strangely agitated and spoke in broken tones. Then, to their
surprise, she arose and hurried from the room, waving the girl back and
bidding her go and play. They heard her go stumbling up the stairs to
the floor above.
"Mean old thing!" exclaimed Bess. "Well, I don't care. Let her keep it.
I'll find where she hides it, see if I don't. Come on, let's go out
doors."
Granny Thornton, peering out an attic window at the boy and girl, going
up along the brook, turned and felt along a dusty beam until her fingers
rested on a key. With this she unlocked a drawer of an old bureau, that
stood in a dark, out-of-the-way corner. There were some odds and ends of
clothing there, and some boxes and papers. From out the stuff, she drew,
with trembling fingers, a small gold chain, such as children wear.
Fumbling over this, she unclasped a tiny clasp and affixed the golden
coin. Then, holding it up to her eyes, she gazed at it long and
earnestly; replaced it in the drawer, locked this, hid the key again and
stole down the stairs.