THE YOUNG MAN WITH THE GUN
"Oh, dear, Lance!" gasped Laura Belding, in a whisper. "I am afraid
Short and Long will get into trouble. That man looks perfectly
savage!"
But the small boy did not seem to be in the least disturbed. He had
just made a very pretty cast into the stream as the dog and its master
appeared.
"Say! can't you read that there sign?" demanded the man, very red in
the face. The sign really was plainly to be seen, and easily read. In
large black letters it said:
PRIVATE
NO FISHING ALLOWED
The angler looked at the sign on the tree unabashed and observed:
"I didn't notice it. You see, Mister, they taught me never to read
anything marked 'Private.'"
"Well, it says 'No fishin' allowed,' anyway," snarled the farmer.
"But I'm not fishing aloud," came from Short and Long, who was
perfectly serious. "That's what I've been kickin' about. The other
folks down stream are making so much noise that they'd give every
trout in the brook nervous prostration. I tell you I came up here
especially to be quiet about my fishing----"
"You may think you're funny, youngster," interrupted the man; "but
you're fishin' just the same, aren't you?"
"Not so's you'd notice it," declared Short and Long. "All I've managed
to do so far is to give my fly a chance to swim. Haven't even had a
rise."
"I'll give yer a rise, confound ye!" roared the man, coming with a
rush through the bushes. "Git out o' there, an' git out quick, or I'll
set this dawg on ye!"
Here Lance took a hand in the affair. He shouted across the stream:
"Have a care, there, Mister! If that dog is savage, don't you turn him
loose."
"Who the dickens are _you_?" snarled the farmer. "This is my land, and
it's posted, and this here is my dawg----"
"Let me have that pistol of yours, Purt," commanded Lance, firmly,
reeling in his line.
The dude, who had stood open-mouthed and shaking, could not follow
Lance's lead worth a cent. "You--you know, Lance," he stammered, "the
pistol won't shoot----"
"Ho, ho!" cried the farmer, who had stopped abruptly when Lance had
spoken. "Tryin' to scare me, was you? Now you step lively, or I'll let
the dawg go."
"You poor sport!" gasped Lance, scowling at the shaking dude.
Short and Long, having tempted the fates far enough, was winding up
his own line. And just before the fly left the surface of the water a
trout jumped for it and caught the hook.
"Whee!" yelled Short and Long, as the line reeled out, singing
shrilly.
"Stop that!" yelled the man. "That's my fish----"
"I can't help it," responded the boy from Central High. "I was reeling
in, wasn't I? He came right up and jumped for my fly. Call off your
old fish, if you don't want him caught on my hook and line."
But Billy Long was too saucy that time. He was playing the fish while
he talked, just as well as he knew how. The farmer gave a yell, let
the dog's strap run through his hand, and the beast, with an angry
bay, dashed straight at the youthful fisherman.
Perhaps the farmer did not really intend doing such a cruel thing. For
the dog would have torn Billy Long to pieces had he reached him.
There was a shout from across the stream--on the side where Laura
stood--and a man leaped into the open. He carried a gun. As he reached
the bank of the brook he threw up the shot-gun and erupted the
contents of one barrel into the fore-shoulder of the angry dog.
The distance was scarcely two rods. The small shot peppered the dog
well, and gave him a whole lot to think of beside grabbing a
defenseless boy.
The farmer began to yell vociferously; the dog raised his voice even
more loudly and, after falling and rolling over and over on the ground
for a moment, he got to his feet and cut into the bushes like a flash.
He was more scared than hurt.
"I'll have you arrested for that!" yelled the dog's owner, shaking
both clenched fists at the young man with the gun.
"You'd better thank me that the beast did not grab that boy," was the
reply.
The young man with the gun seemed perfectly calm. He was a pale-faced
young man, well dressed in a hunting suit, and with narrow boots on
his rather small feet. He was doubtless a city sportsman.
"I bet I know who you be, ye scoundrel!" bawled the farmer.
The young man turned away instantly. Laura saw that he flushed and
then paled again. He did not stop to say a word to the party of young
folk from Centerport. Instead, he stepped into the thick underbrush
and was almost instantly lost to their sight.
Short and Long had hastened to get over the border of the farmer's
posted preserve. But he had brought the trout with him--and it weighed
a good pound and a half!