[Illustration: THE BATTLE WITH THE SQUATTERS.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_FOREST AND STREAM SERIES._
---------------------------------------------------------
JOE WAYRING AT HOME;
OR THE
ADVENTURES OF A FLY-ROD.
BY HARRY CASTLEMON,
AUTHOR OF “GUNBOAT SERIES,” “ROCKY MOUNTAIN SERIES,”
“SPORTSMAN CLUB SERIES,” ETC.
THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.,
PHILADELPHIA,
CHICAGO, TORONTO.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
FAMOUS CASTLEMON BOOKS.
=GUNBOAT SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 6 vols. 12mo.
FRANK THE YOUNG NATURALIST.
FRANK IN THE WOODS.
FRANK ON THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
FRANK ON A GUNBOAT.
FRANK BEFORE VICKSBURG.
FRANK ON THE PRAIRIE.
=ROCKY MOUNTAIN SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.
FRANK AMONG THE RANCHEROS.
FRANK IN THE MOUNTAINS.
FRANK AT DON CARLOS’ RANCH.
=SPORTSMAN’S CLUB SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.
THE SPORTSMAN’S CLUB IN THE SADDLE.
THE SPORTSMAN’S CLUB AFLOAT.
THE SPORTSMAN’S CLUB AMONG THE TRAPPERS.
=FRANK NELSON SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.
SNOWED UP.
FRANK IN THE FORECASTLE.
THE BOY TRADERS.
=BOY TRAPPER SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.
THE BURIED TREASURE.
THE BOY TRAPPER.
THE MAIL-CARRIER.
=ROUGHING IT SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.
GEORGE IN CAMP.
GEORGE AT THE WHEEL.
GEORGE AT THE FORT.
=ROD AND GUN SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.
DON GORDON’S SHOOTING BOX.
THE YOUNG WILD FOWLERS.
ROD AND GUN CLUB.
=GO-AHEAD SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.
TOM NEWCOMBE.
GO-AHEAD.
NO MOSS.
=FOREST AND STREAM SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.
JOE WAYRING.
SNAGGED AND SUNK.
STEEL HORSE.
=WAR SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 5 vols. 12mo. Cloth.
TRUE TO HIS COLORS.
RODNEY THE OVERSEER.
MARCY THE REFUGEE.
RODNEY THE PARTISAN.
MARCY THE BLOCKADE-RUNNER.
_Other Volumes in Preparation._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
COPYRIGHT, 1886, BY PORTER & COATES.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
JOE WAYRING AT HOME
OR
THE STORY OF A FLY-ROD.
CHAPTER I.
IN WHICH I INTRODUCE MYSELF.
I AM called “Old Durability”; but for fear my name may prove misleading,
and cause those of my readers who are not acquainted with me to fall
into the error of supposing that I am a very aged article, I desire to
say, at the outset, that I am only four years old, and that I have been
in active service just sixteen months. During that time I have seen a
world of excitement and adventure, and have performed some exploits of
which any fly-rod might be justly proud. I have hooked, at one cast, and
successfully landed, two black bass, weighing together eight and a
quarter pounds; I have so often been dumped in the cold waters of
mountain lakes and streams that it is a wonder my ferrules were not
rusted out long ago; I have been dragged about among snags and
lily-pads, by enraged trout, pickerel and bass; I have been stolen from
my lawful owner, been kept a prisoner by boys and tramps who either
could not or would not take care of me, and one of my joints has been
broken. Of course, I was skillfully patched up, but, like the man whose
arm has been fractured, I am not quite as good as I used to be, and am
reluctant to exert all my strength for fear that I shall break again in
the same place. I can’t throw a fly as far as I could when I took my
finest string of trout in front of the “sportsmen’s home” at Indian
Lake, and when I am called upon to make the attempt, my ferrules groan
and creak as if they were about to give away and let me fall to pieces.
For this my master laid me up in ordinary (that is what sailors say of a
war vessel when she goes out of commission, and is laid up in port to
remain idle there until her services are needed again), saying, as he
did so, that my days of usefulness were over, but that he would keep me
for the good I had done.
After having led an active life among the hills, lakes and forest
streams almost ever since I could remember, you may be sure that I did
not relish treatment of this sort. After doing my level best for my
master, and landing more than one fish for him that he ought to have
lost because he handled me so awkwardly—after going with him through
some of the most exciting scenes of his life, and submitting to
treatment that would have used up almost any other rod, must I be laid
upon the shelf in a dark closet and left to my gloomy reflections, while
a new favorite accompanied my master to the woods, caught the trout for
his dinner, slept under his blanket, and listened to the thrilling and
amusing stories that were told around the camp-fire? I resolved to
prevent it, if I could; so when my master took me out of my case one day
to assist him in catching a muskalonge he had seen in the lake back of
his father’s house, I nerved myself to do valiant battle, hoping to show
him that there was plenty of good hard work left in me, if he only knew
how to bring it out.
The muskalonge, which was lurking in the edge of the lily-pads ready to
pounce upon the first unwary fish that approached his lair, took the
frog that was on the hook at the very first cast, and then began the
hardest struggle of my life. My rheumatic joints complained loudly as
the heavy fish darted up and down the lake, and then dove to the bottom
in his mad efforts to escape, but I held on the best I knew how until he
leaped full length out of the water, and tried to shake the hook from
his mouth; then I was ready to give up the contest. He was the largest
fish I ever saw.
“Scotland’s a burning!” exclaimed Joe. “Isn’t he a beauty? If this old
rod was as good as he used to be, wouldn’t I have a prize in a few
minutes from now?”
I ought to have told you before that my master’s name is Joe Wayring;
and a right good boy he is, too, as you will find before my story is
ended. Nearly all the young fellows of my acquaintance, and I know some
of the best there are in the country, have some favorite word or
expression which always rises to their lips whenever they are surprised,
excited or angry, and the words I have just quoted are the ones Joe
always used under such circumstances. No matter how exasperated he was
you never could get any thing stronger out of him.
I will not dwell upon the particulars of that fight (my joints ache yet
whenever I think of it), for I set out to talk about other matters. It
will be enough to say that I held fast to the fish until he became
exhausted and was drawn through the lily-pads to the bank; then the
gaff-hook came to my assistance, and he was safely landed. He was a
monster. I afterward learned that he weighed a trifle over nineteen
pounds. Wasn’t that something of an exploit for an eight ounce rod who
had been threatened with the retired list on account of supposed
disability? I was so nearly doubled up by the long-continued strain that
had been brought to bear upon me, that when my master threw me down on
the ground while he gave his prize his quietus with the heavy handle of
the gaff-hook, I could not immediately straighten out again, as every
well-conditioned rod is expected to do under similar circumstances.
“Why, what in the world have you got there?” cried Joe’s mother, as the
boy entered the kitchen, carrying me in one hand and dragging the fish
after him with the other. She seemed to be a little afraid of the young
fisherman’s prize, and that was hardly to be wondered at, for his mouth
was open, and it was full of long, sharp teeth.
“It’s the biggest muskalonge that was ever caught in this lake,” replied
Joe, as he laid me down upon a chair and took both hands to deposit his
fish upon the table. “Didn’t he fight, though? I say, Uncle Joe,” he
added, addressing himself to a dignified gentleman in spectacles, who
just then came into the room with the morning’s paper in his hand, “I
shall not need that new split bamboo you promised me for my birthday,
though I thank you for your kind offer, all the same. This old rod is
good for at least one more summer on Indian Lake. There is plenty of
back-bone left in him yet.”
Uncle Joe was a rich old bachelor and very fond of his namesake, Joe
Wayring, on whom he lavished all the affection he would have given to
his own children, if he had had any. He was an enthusiastic angler, a
skillful and untiring bear and deer hunter, and he generally timed his
trips to the woods and mountains so that Joe and some of his particular
friends could go with him.
“He is the most durable rod I ever saw,” added my master.
“Well, then, call him ‘Old Durability’,” suggested Uncle Joe.
The boy said he thought that name would just suit me, and from that day
to this I have been known by every one who is acquainted with me as “Old
Durability”.
Having introduced myself, because there was no one to perform the
ceremony for me, and told you how I came by my cognomen, I will now go
back and relate how I made the acquaintance of my master, Joe Wayring.
If you will review your own life, boy reader, you may be able to find in
it some incident, which happened, perhaps, long before you were out of
pinafores, and which you remember perfectly, while all your life
previous to the occurrence of that particular incident is a blank to
you. Just so it was in my own experience. When I first came to my
senses, I found myself snugly tied up in my case and standing in a
corner, looking through a glass door into a large store in which guns of
all makes and fishing tackle of all kinds were kept for sale. At first I
was greatly bewildered. I felt, if I may judge from what I have seen
during my trips to the woods, like a boy who has just awakened from a
sound sleep; but after a while my wits came to me, and then I found that
I was not alone in the show-case. There were a dozen or two fly and bait
rods standing in the corner beside me, and a little further down,
looking toward the back end of the store, were single and
double-barreled shot-guns, muzzle and breech-loading rifles, game-bags,
creels, hunting knives, dog-whips, and almost every thing else that a
sportsman is supposed to need. In the show-case, which rested on the
long counter in front of me, were revolvers, pen-knives, lines, leaders,
flies and ordinary fish-hooks without number; and on the opposite side
of the store was an array of barrels containing glass balls, traps for
throwing those balls, bicycles, tricycles, rowing and lifting
machines—in fact, I saw so many things that I did not then know the name
or use of, that I became confused while I looked at them.
“Hallo, there! Have you waked up at last?” cried a voice, breaking in
upon my meditations.
A short investigation showed that the voice came from the case that
stood next on my right. I did not know, of course, what sort of a rod he
was, or whether or not he would prove to be an agreeable acquaintance;
but wishing to be civil, I replied that I _had_ waked up, and that, if
he could tell me, I should be glad to know where I was and how I came
there.
“Why, you are in a one-horse country town, a thousand miles from
nowhere, and you have always been here,” was the answer, given as I
thought in a tone of contempt. “I have traveled. I came all the way from
New York.”
“Who are you?” I ventured to ask; for my new acquaintance spoke in so
dignified and lofty a tone, that I stood somewhat in awe of him.
“I am a split bamboo,” said he; and then I saw very clearly that he was
disposed to throw on airs, and to lord it over those who were not as
fortunate as himself. “I am a gentleman’s rod, and it takes the ducats
to buy me. I am worth forty-five dollars; while I see by the card tied
to your case, that you are valued at only six and a half.”
Not being quick at figures at this early period of my life, I could not
tell just how much difference there was between forty-five dollars and
six and a half, but I knew by the way the bamboo spoke, that the gulf
that separated him from me was a wide one. I have learned some things
since then. I know now that the qualities of a fly-rod do not depend
upon the varnish that is put on the outside of him, any more than a
boy’s qualities of mind and heart depend upon the clothes he wears. The
stuff he is made of and the company he keeps have much to do with the
record he makes in the world. While I was turning the matter over in my
mind, somebody who had been listening to our conversation, suddenly
broke in with:
“You are neither one of you worth the money you cost.”
I looked around to see who the new speaker was, and presently discovered
him in the person of a handsome bird gun, who rested upon a pair of
deer’s antlers a short distance away.
“You can’t bring a squirrel out of the top of the tallest hickory in the
woods, or stop a woodcock or a grouse on the wing, but I can,” continued
the double-barrel.
“I can catch a trout, if I have some one to back me who understands his
business, and that’s more than you can do,” retorted the bamboo,
spitefully. “I can throw a line sixty or seventy feet; I heard the
proprietor of this store say so.”
“And I can throw shot sixty or seventy yards, which is three times as
far as you can throw a line,” shouted the double-barrel. “You seem to
think yourself of some consequence because you came from New York. I
came all the way from England, and that is on the other side of the
ocean.”
“So you are an assisted immigrant, are you?” cried the bamboo, in tones
indicative of the greatest contempt. “Well, that’s all I care to know
about you.”
The disputants grew more and more in earnest the longer they talked, and
pretty soon there were some hard words used. I took no part in the
controversy, for I felt rather bashful in the presence of those who had
seen so much more of the world than I had, and who were worth so much
more money, and besides I could not see what there was to quarrel about.
My sympathies were with the bamboo, arrogant as he had showed himself to
be, because he was an American like myself; but still the English
fowling-piece, “assisted immigrant” though he was, had a right to live
in this country so long as he behaved himself, and as he was a showy
fellow, I had no doubt that he would get out of the store before either
the bamboo or myself. And so he did. While the dispute was at its height
the door opened and a young man came in—a tall young man, with very thin
legs, peaked shoes, gold eye-glasses and a downy upper lip. He walked
with a mincing step and drawled out his words when he talked.
“A dude!” whispered the bamboo.
Before I could ask what a “dude” was, the proprietor came up, and the
talking was for a moment hushed. Being impatient to be released from the
show-case so that we could see what was going on in the great world
outside, each one of us cherished the secret hope that we might find
favor in the eyes of the prospective purchaser. We were so inexperienced
and foolish that we didn’t care much who bought us, so long as we got
out.
“I—aw! I want to look at a nice light bird gun,” said the young man;
“something you can recommend for woodcock and the like, don’t yer know?”
“Why, that’s a countryman of mine,” exclaimed the double-barrel, who
seemed to be highly excited by the discovery.
The bamboo hastened to assure me that he wasn’t—that he was an American
trying to ape English ways.
“Do you want a hammerless?” asked the proprietor.
“I—aw! They come pretty ’igh, don’t they?”
“Not necessarily. Here’s one worth a hundred and twenty-five dollars,”
replied the storekeeper; and as he spoke, he opened the show-case and
took from it a double-barrel who was so very plain in appearance, that I
had not before taken more than a passing glance at him. “I judge from
your speech that you are an Englishman, and if you are, you of course
know more about this make of guns than I can tell you. It is a Greener.”
The young man seemed pleased to know that he had succeeded in making the
proprietor believe that he was not an American, but he did not seem to
appreciate the gun, nor did he handle it as if he were accustomed to the
use of fire-arms. He hardly knew how to bring it to his face properly.
“I—aw! Hit’s wery fine, no doubt,” said he, after he had made an awkward
pretense of examining the gun, “but I—aw! I want something a little more
showy and not quite so ’igh-priced, don’t yer know? Something that I can
take pride in exhibiting to my ’unting friends, don’t yer know?”
“We have guns that are more showy than this, but they are cheap affairs,
and we don’t recommend them. How would this one suit you?” said the
proprietor; and as he spoke, he opened another door in the show-case,
and took my bragging friend down from his place on the antlers.
It may have been all imagination on my part, but I would have been
willing to affirm that his nickel-plated ornaments grew a shade dimmer
as he was taken out of the case, and I am of the same opinion still. By
his boasting he had led us all to believe that he was worth at least two
or three hundred dollars; and you can imagine how surprised we were when
we learned that he was valued at a very small fraction of that sum.
“Aw! That looks more like a gun,” said the customer. “That’s a piece,
don’t yer know, that a fellah can show to his friends. Hit’ll shoot, I
suppose?”
“Oh, yes, it will shoot, but it will not do as clean work as the one I
just showed you.”
“Hi’ll take the risk. ’Ow much for ’im?”
“Twenty-five dollars; and that includes a trunk-shaped case,
loading-tools, wiping-rod and fifty brass-shells.”
The young man handed over the money and went out, after requesting that
his purchase might be sent up to the Lambert House at once, as he wished
to start for the woods on the following day. As soon as the door was
closed behind him, the proprietor called out to the porter:
“Oh, Rube! Come here and take this Brummagem shooting-iron up to the
hotel. Thank goodness it is the last one we have in stock, and I’ll
never buy another.”
“I wonder how that boastful bird gun feels now,” whispered the bamboo.
“His pride had to take a tumble, didn’t it? There’s no Brummagem about
me, I can tell you.”
“What do you mean by—by—” The word was too hard for me, and I stumbled
over it.
“By Brummagem?” said the bamboo, who felt so good over the discomfiture
of the English fowling-piece that he was disposed to be friendly as well
as civil. “Why, it’s something that is fine and showy, but which is not
in reality worth any thing. A Yankee would say that that double-barrel
was a ‘shoddy’ article.”
“I feel guilty every time I sell one of those guns,” continued the
proprietor. “They are made in Birmingham, England, at the cost of nine
dollars apiece by the dozen.”
“That dude will never hurt any thing with it,” observed the porter, who
had taken a good look at the customer and heard all that passed between
him and his employer.
“I hope he will not hurt himself with it,” answered the latter. “What
does he want to go into the woods for? He doesn’t know a woodcock from
an ostrich.”
“He goes because it is fashionable, I suppose,” said Rube; and I
afterward found out that that was just the reason. I saw him in the
wilderness a few weeks later, and had an opportunity to exchange a word
or two with the Brummagem breech-loader. The latter looked decidedly
seedy. He was covered with rust, his locks were out of order, and he had
been put to such hard service that every joint in his make-up was loose.
The second time I met him he could scarcely talk to me, because there
was not much left of him except his stock. His ignorant owner—but we’ll
wait until we come to that, won’t we?
The next customers who came into the store were an elderly gentleman and
a young lady. I certainly thought my chance for freedom had come, for
when the gentleman said that his daughter wanted to look at a fly-rod,
something light enough to be managed with one hand, and strong enough to
land a perch or rock-bass, the proprietor pushed open the door in front
of me and took me out.
“Aha!” exclaimed the bamboo. “Your fate is to be the companion and
plaything of a little girl, who will probably set you to catching
sunfish and minnows, and throw you down in the mud when she gets through
with you. I know that I am destined for the trout streams, and I have an
idea that I shall be taken to Canada to have a shy at the lordly salmon.
Good-by; but I am sorry for you.”
I did not thank the bamboo for his words of sympathy, because I did not
believe they were sincere. I thought I could detect a hypocritical twang
in them; but before I could tell him so, I was taken out of my case, and
for the first time given an opportunity to see how I looked.
“There is a rod I can recommend. Lancewood throughout, nickel-plated
ferrules and reel-seat and artistically wound with cane and silk,” said
the proprietor, glibly. “I will warrant him to do good work, and if the
lady breaks him she will not be much out of pocket—only six dollars and
a half.”
“Oh, I don’t want a cheap thing like that,” exclaimed the young lady,
who would not take a second look at me after she heard that I was worth
so little money. “I want a nice rod.”
The storekeeper laid me on the show-case, and brought my friend the
split bamboo out for exhibition. He was a splendid looking fellow, and I
did not wonder that the young lady went into ecstasies over him, and
declared at once that he was just the rod she had long been wishing for.
Neither could I resist the temptation to say to him, as he was put back
into his case:
“What do you think now of your chances of going among the trout streams
and of taking a shy at the lordly salmon! Good-by; but I am sorry for
you.”
The bamboo was so crest-fallen that he could make no response. He was
carried away by his new owner, and I did not see him again until I was
almost ready to be laid upon the shelf in my master’s closet, to enjoy a
long winter’s rest after a season of the hardest kind of work. The pride
and arrogance were all gone out of him, and he did not look much as he
did when he left the store. If he had been a man, folks would have
called him a tramp.