We took seventeen of those big fellows before we landed, enough in all
conscience. A point just back of the water looked inviting as a place to
pitch the tents, and we decided to land, for we were tired. Yet curious
are the ways of fishermen: having had already too much, one becomes
greedy for still more. There was an old dam just above, unused for a
generation perhaps, and a long, rotting sluiceway through which poured a
torrent of water. It seemed just the place for the king of trouts, and I
made up my mind to try it now before Eddie had a chance. You shall see
how I was punished.
I crept away when his back was turned, taking his best and
longest-handled landing net (it may be remembered I had lost mine), for
it would be a deep dip down into the sluice. The logs around the
premises were old and crumbly and I had to pick my way with care to
reach a spot from which it would be safe to handle a big trout. I knew
he was there. I never had a stronger conviction in my life. The
projecting ends of some logs which I chose for a seat seemed fairly
permanent and I made my preparations with care. I put on a new leader
and two large new flies. Then I rested the net in a handy place, took a
look behind me and sent the cast down the greased lightning current that
was tearing through the sluice.
I expected results, but nothing quite so sudden. Neither did I know that
whales ever came so far up into fresh-water streams. I know it was a
whale, for nothing smaller could have given a yank like that; besides,
in the glimpse I had of him he looked exactly like pictures I have seen
of the leviathan who went into commission for three days to furnish
passage for Jonah and get his name in print. I found myself suddenly
grabbing at things to hold on to, among them being Eddie's long-handled
net, which was of no value as ballast, but which once in my hand I could
not seem to put down again, being confused and toppling.
As a matter of fact there was nothing satisfactory to get hold of in
that spot. I had not considered the necessity of firm anchorage when I
selected the place, but with a three-ton trout at the end of a long
line, in a current going a thousand miles a minute, I realized that it
would be well to be lashed to something permanent. As it was, with my
legs swinging over that black mill-race, my left hand holding the rod,
and my right clutching the landing net, I was in no position to
withstand the onset of a battle such as properly belongs to the North
Pacific Ocean where they have boats and harpoons and long coiled lines
suitable to such work.
[Illustration: "I remember seeing the sluice, black and swift, suddenly
rise to meet me."]
Still, I might have survived--I might have avoided complete disaster, I
think--if the ends of those two logs I selected as a seat had been as
sound as they looked. Of course they were not. They were never intended
to stand any such motions as I was making. In the brief moment allowed
me for thought I realized this, but it was no matter. My conclusions
were not valuable. I remember seeing the sluice, black, and swift,
suddenly rise to meet me, and of dropping Eddie's net as I went down.
Then I have a vision of myself shooting down that race in a wild
toboggan ride, and a dim, splashy picture of being pitched out on a heap
of brush and stones and logs below.
When I got some of the water out of my brains so I could think with
them, I realized, first, that I was alive, still clutching my rod and
that it was unbroken. Next, that the whale and Eddie's landing net were
gone. I did not care so especially much about the whale. He had annoyed
me. I was willing to part with him. Eddie's net was a different matter.
I never could go back without that. After all his goodness to me I had
deceived him, slipped away from him, taken his prized net--and lost it.
I had read of such things; the Sunday-school books used to be full of
similar incidents. And even if Eddie forgave me, as the good boy in the
books always did, my punishment was none the less sure. My fishing was
ended. There was just one net left. Whatever else I had done, or might
do, I would never deprive Eddie of his last net. I debated whether I
should go to him, throw myself on his mercy--ask his forgiveness and
offer to become his special guide and servant for the remainder of the
trip--or commit suicide.
But presently I decided to make one try, at least, to find the net. It
had not been thrown out on the drift with me, for it was not there.
Being heavy, it had most likely been carried along the bottom and was at
present lodged in some deep crevice. It was useless, of course; still, I
would try.
I was not much afraid of the sluice, now that I had been introduced to
it. I put my rod in a place of safety and made my way to the upper end
of the great trough. Then I let myself down carefully into the racing
water, bracing myself against the sides and feeling along the bottom
with my feet. It was uncertain going, for the heavy current tried hard
to pull me down. But I had not gone three steps till I felt something. I
could not believe it was the net. I carefully steadied myself and--down,
down to my elbow. Then I could have whooped for joy, for it _was_ the
net. It had caught on an old nail or splinter, or something, and held
fast.
Eddie was not at the camp, and the guides were busy getting wood. I was
glad, for I was wet and bruised and generally disturbed. When I had
changed my things and recovered a good deal, I sat in the shade and
smoked and arranged my fly-book and other paraphernalia, and brooded on
the frailty of human nature and the general perversity and cussedness of
things at large. I had a confession all prepared for Eddie, long before
he arrived. It was a good confession--sufficiently humble and truthful
without being dangerous. I had tested it carefully and I did not believe
it could result in any disagreeable penance or disgrace on my part. It
takes skill to construct a confession like that. But it was wasted. When
Eddie came in, at last, he wore a humble hang-dog look of his own, and I
did not see the immediate need of _any_ confession.
"I didn't really intend to run off from you," he began sheepishly. "I
only wanted to see what was above the dam, and I tried one or two of the
places up there, and they were all so bully I couldn't get away. Get
your rod, I want to take you up there before it gets too late."
So the rascal had taken advantage of my brief absence and slipped off
from me. In his guilty haste he had grabbed the first landing net he had
seen, never suspecting that I was using the other. Clearly I was the
injured person. I regarded him with thoughtful reproach while he begged
me to get my rod and come. He would take nothing, he said, but a net,
and would guide for me. I did not care to fish any more that day; but I
knew Eddie--I knew how his conscience galled him for his sin and would
never give him peace until he had made restitution in full. I decided to
be generous.
We made our way above the dam, around an old half-drained pond, and
through a killing thicket of vines and brush to a hidden pool, faced
with slabs and bowlders. There, in that silent dim place I had the most
beautiful hour's fishing I have ever known. The trout were big, gamy
fellows and Eddie was alert, obedient and respectful. It was not until
dusk that he had paid his debt to the last fish--had banished the final
twinge of remorse.
Our day, however, was not quite ended. We must return to camp. The
thicket had been hard to conquer by daylight. Now it was an impenetrable
wall of night and thorns. Across the brook looked more open and we
decided to go over, but when we got there it proved a trackless, swampy
place, dark and full of pitfalls and vines. Eddie, being small and
woods-broken could work his way through pretty well, but after a few
discouragements I decided to wade down the brook and through the shallow
pond above the dam. At least it could not be so deadly dark there.
It was heart-breaking business. I went slopping and plunging among
stumps and stones and holes. I mistook logs for shadows and shadows for
logs with pathetic results. The pond that had seemed small and shallow
by daylight was big enough and deep enough now. A good deal of the way I
went on my hands and knees, but not from choice. A nearby owl hooted at
me. Bats darted back and forth close to my face. If I had not been a
moral coward I should have called for help. Eddie had already reached
camp when I arrived and had so far recovered his spiritual status that
he jeered at my condition. I resolved then not to mention the sluice and
the landing net at all--ever. I needed an immediate change of garments,
of course--the third since morning.[5] It had been a hard, eventful day.
Such days make camping remembered--and worth while.