MY FIRST TRIP TO INDIAN LAKE.
THE next morning, just as the clock was striking the hour of four, I was
aroused from a reverie into which I had fallen by a hasty step, followed
by a blinding glare of light, and Joe Wayring came hurrying into the
kitchen. He didn’t look much as he did the last time I saw him, and if
it hadn’t been for his curly head and blue eyes, I don’t think I should
have recognized him. But he was a nobby looking fellow, all the same,
dressed as he was in a neat suit of duck, dyed to a dead grass shade, a
light helmet with a peak before and behind, and leggings and gaiters
instead of boots. Joe was not the boy to make himself uncomfortable, or
to go about in a ragged coat and with his hair sticking out of the top
of his cap, just because he intended to spend the day in the woods out
of sight of every body. He knew of anglers and hunters who affected that
style, and they could follow it, if they wanted to, but he wouldn’t.
Leggings and gaiters were easier to walk in than heavy boots, and whole
clothes looked better than shabby ones.
Placing the lamp on the table Joe began bustling about the kitchen, and
in a very few minutes the fire was started and the tea-kettle filled.
Then he threw back the cloth before spoken of, revealing a substantial
lunch, a liberal portion of which he proceeded to pack away in the
creel.
About the time the coffee was ready, the door opened again, and Uncle
Joe came in. He, too, was dressed for the woods, and carried a rod of
some sort in one hand and a creel in the other. The latter must have
been a fine looking article in his day, but now he was as weather-beaten
as any old sailor. And that was not to be wondered at, for he had
traveled much, and had seen many hardships. He had accompanied his
master from one end of the country to the other. He had held captive for
him many a nice breakfast of grayling captured in Michigan waters, and
carried his dinner while he was fighting with the big trout in Rangeley
Lakes. He went with him on one of his Western tours, and would certainly
have fallen into the hands of the Utes when they arose in rebellion and
massacred all the whites they could find, had it not been for the fact
that he was slung over his master’s shoulder, and the latter was in too
great a hurry to stop and throw him off. He had many thrilling
recollections of the Indian Lake country, for he had been capsized on
the rapids more times than he could remember. He was a good talker, and
as full of stories as the canvas canoe.
“Well, sir,” said Uncle Joe, as he deposited his rod and creel on the
table, “what are the prospects?”
“Couldn’t be better,” replied the boy. “It’s cloudy, and there is every
sign of rain before noon.”
“I hope it will stay cloudy, but I can’t say that I want to see it
rain,” said Uncle Joe, as he drew a chair up to the table and took the
cup of coffee his nephew poured out for him. “The bushes around the old
spring hole are pretty thick, and I long ago ceased to see any fun in
getting drenched for the sake of catching a mess of half-pound trout. If
they were salmon, now, the case would be different.”
Nevertheless Uncle Joe seemed to be in just as great a hurry to eat his
breakfast and be off as his nephew was. Ten minutes sufficed to satisfy
their appetites, and in ten minutes more we were on the outskirts of the
village, and moving up an old log road toward the spring hole, where I
was to make my first attempt to take a fish. I dreaded the ordeal, for I
did not have as much confidence in myself as I would have had if my
master had not spoken so slightingly of me.
How far it was from the village to the spring hole, I am sure I don’t
know. It seemed like a long journey to me, although it was enlivened by
stories of travel and adventure from Uncle Joe, in which I became deeply
interested. Presently Joe, who was leading the way, pushed aside the
bushes in front of him, disclosing to view a small body of water fringed
with lily-pads and surrounded on all sides by high and thickly wooded
hills; and I knew instinctively that we had reached the end of our
tramp, and that the time had come for me to show what I could do. There
seemed to be abundant opportunity for me to do good work if I was
capable of it. While I was being taken out of my case, I noticed that
now and then there was a slight commotion in the water, just outside the
lilies, and I knew it was occasioned by trout jumping from the water,
even before Joe Wayring said so.
“Just look at them!” he exclaimed, in great excitement. “They are having
a high old time among themselves. I wouldn’t take a dollar for my chance
of going home with a full creel. There! Did you see that whopper?”
“Put on a white miller and a brown hackle, and give me your rod as quick
as you can,” answered his uncle. “I saw him, and if he comes up again
within seventy or eighty feet of us, I will make an effort to take him.”
“Do you mean to say that you can throw a fly as far as that?” inquired
Joe.
“That depends upon the rod. I’d like to have the first try with it, if
you have no objection, for I want to see whether or not you’ve got a
good bargain.”
Of course Joe had no objection. As soon as I was ready for business he
passed me over to his uncle, and when I felt his strong fingers close
around me, I knew that I was in the hands of one who would make me show
off to the best possible advantage.
“There he is again! Give him the flies, quick!” cried Joe, suddenly.
Uncle Joe’s movements were characterized by what sportsmen are wont to
call “deliberate quickness”. He was so very deliberate, in fact, that
his nephew began to show unmistakable signs of impatience; but still he
did not waste a single second of valuable time. Reeling off as much line
as the close proximity of the bushes behind would permit him to use,
Uncle Joe gave me a smart upward and backward fling and then struck down
toward the water. This movement caused the line to fly through the air
like a whip lash, only it grew in length all the while; and when the
flies were directly over the swirl the trout had made when he went down,
the motion of the reel was stopped by a slight pressure of the angler’s
thumb, and the tempting lures settled upon the water as lightly as a
couple of feathers.
“I never can learn to do that,” said Joe, despondingly. “It requires
altogether too much skill for my clumsy—Well, sir, you’ve got him as
sure as the world.”
The hook was fast to something, that was plain; but I thought at first
that Uncle Joe had caught a snag or a lily-pad. There was a jerk that
made me wonder, and in an instant more I was bent almost half double;
but with all the strain that was brought to bear upon me, the thing at
the other end of the line, whatever it was, did not give an inch. On the
contrary, it started and ran off toward the middle of the spring hole;
and then I began to realize that I was doing battle with a trout of the
largest size. Now was the time to show my master that he had been much
mistaken in me.
I need not stop to go into the particulars of the fight, for every boy
who has caught a heavy trout on a light rod will know just what
happened; and besides, to be frank with you, I don’t remember much about
it. Neither does Joe Wayring, who was so highly excited that he could
not stand still. I recollect he afterward told his chums that the fish
jumped clear out of the water two or three times, and then started from
the middle of the spring hole and ran toward the angler at the top of
his speed, trying to loosen the line so that the hook would drop out of
his mouth; but the automatic reel took up the slack as fast as he made
it, and his mad rushes about the spring hole had no other result than to
tire him out, so that he could offer but feeble resistance when he was
reeled in to the bank. The moment he was brought within reach Joe
slipped a landing net under him and lifted him out.
“Two pounds and three ounces,” he almost shouted, after he had weighed
him on his pocket scales. “Now, Uncle Joe, what’s your opinion of that
rod?”
“A fair sized fish for these waters,” said Uncle Joe, as he stepped to
the edge of the spring hole for another cast. “As for the rod—it’s as
good a one as you need wish for. If you will take care of him, he will
last as long as you will, barring accident.”
I will not dwell upon the incidents of the day, for I must hasten on to
tell you what happened to me during my first visit to Indian Lake. It
will be enough to say that Joe and his uncle enjoyed themselves, as they
always did whenever they went anywhere together, and that my master
after an hour or two of assiduous practice, learned to make short casts
with tolerable accuracy, and to show considerable skill in handling the
fish he hooked. When the two went home a little before dark Joe’s creel
was not as full as his uncle’s, but the few trout he captured with his
light tackle, afforded him more genuine sport than twice the number of
bass taken on a heavy bait-rod.
That day was the beginning of a busy season for me. Every Saturday, rain
or shine, found me at the spring hole or wandering along the banks of
some of the numerous streams that ran into Mirror Lake. I caught a good
many fish, soon got over my nervousness, and looked forward to the long
summer vacation with as much impatience as Joe himself. It came at last,
being ushered in by a canoe meet on the 3rd of July, and a grand parade
on the 4th, in which the Toxophilites and Scouts both took part. There
was a good deal of rivalry between these two organizations—so much,
indeed, that the usual exhibition drill at the park was given by the
military company, thus putting it out of the power of either club to
crow over the other. But still there was considerable crowing done,
especially by Tom Bigden and a few envious fellows like him.
“Don’t you remember what vociferous applause the Toxophilites received
last 4th?” said he, to his cousins.
“Yes; and I remember how mad you were about it, too,” replied Loren.
“I know it. I couldn’t bear to see them throw on so many airs, but I
little thought that I should aid in making them take back seats at their
next parade. I have yet to see any one who will say that the Scouts
didn’t do just as fine marching in the procession as the Toxophilites
did.”
Of course I did not see the parade, and neither did I witness the sports
that were held during the canoe meet, for I was shut up in Joe’s room so
far from a window that I could not tell what was going on out-doors. But
I heard the music of the band, and the cheers that arose whenever some
lucky fellow carried off a prize, and the exciting and amusing incidents
that happened during those two days of festivity, were so often talked
of in my hearing, that I was pretty well posted after all. I was glad to
learn that my master won the paddle race very easily, and that he pushed
Roy and Arthur so closely in the hurry-skurry race that the referee had
half a mind to order another contest. But Joe and Arthur said that Roy
was ahead, and as the other boys backed them up, Roy was awarded the
prize. There was no attempt at fouling this time. Every thing was
conducted fairly, as it always had been previous to Tom Bigden’s arrival
in the village, and every member of the club won or lost on his merits.
The parade being over, there was nothing to keep Joe and his two chums
at home, and on the evening of the 4th they began making preparations
for their annual trip to Indian Lake. Shortly after supper Joe Wayring
came into the room, and having exchanged his uniform for a suit of
working clothes, he shouldered my friend, the canvas canoe, and carried
him down stairs. Half an hour later he came back after the creel and me.
He took us down to the boat-house and there we found the canoe, snugly
tucked away in his chest like a tired boy in his little bed.
“Hurrah for me!” exclaimed the canoe, after Joe had gone out locking the
door behind him. “I am going to Indian Lake, too. Now, if Joe can only
keep clear of Matt Coyle, we’ll see some fun before we get back. You
think you know something about fishing; but wait until you get hold of
one of those big lake trout, and then tell me what you think about it.”
That was just what I wanted to do, but I didn’t say so, for fear that
when the time came I might discover that I was not quite so good a rod
as I thought I was.
We were so very impatient to be off that the night was a very long one
to us; but at the first peep of day we heard Joe’s step as he came down
the walk toward the boat-house. He placed a basket of provisions on the
wharf, mildly scolded Mars for making such a fuss over the coming
separation, and then came in after us. Arthur Hastings, Jim and the
skiff were on time, as they always were, and in half an hour more we had
taken Roy Sheldon on board and were moving gayly down the river. We
camped for the night at the old perch hole, where the skiff had ridden
out that furious storm a year before, and the boys had fish for supper.
Joe had been told that perch would rise to a red ibis, but he and I
could not prove the truth of the assertion. Although Arthur and Roy
pulled out the fish as fast as they could bait their hooks, Joe never
got a bite. The reason was, the water was too deep. His uncle afterward
told him that six feet is about as far as any fish can be relied upon to
rise to a fly; and sometimes they are too lazy to come from that depth.
On the afternoon on the fourth day we left the river and turned into a
little creek, whose current was so swift that the boys were obliged to
use extra exertion in order to make headway against it. About an hour
after the sun went down we came to anchor in the mouth of a brook, and
there I made amends for my failure at the perch hole. I captured more
trout than both the other rods, and if I had felt so inclined, could
have returned some of the left-handed compliments they paid me when it
was found that I could not catch a perch in twenty feet of water; but
being peaceably disposed I said nothing. While the tent was being put
up, a muffled voice came from the chest in which the canvas canoe was
packed away. The cover being shut down, I had to listen intently in
order to catch what he said to me.
“Didn’t I hear some one say something about trout?” asked the canoe.
“I think it very likely,” was my reply. “There are lots of them in the
brook; almost as many as there in the spring hole at Mount Airy.”
“Then I know where we are,” said my imprisoned friend. “Did you see an
ugly looking snag about a mile below? Well, there’s one there, and it’s
the one Jake Coyle ran into the night I was sunk in the creek. The fight
I told you about took place right here. Have you seen or heard any thing
of the squatter?”
“No, I haven’t; but I know that Joe and his friends are keeping a bright
lookout for him.”
“I am glad to hear it, and I hope they will not relax their vigilance
just because Matt keeps himself out of sight. His shanty is over there
in the woods on the right hand side of the creek. I’ll bet he is there
now, and that he has had his eye on the skiff ever since she came into
this part of the country. Mark my words: Joe will hear from him before
he sees Mount Airy again.”
“Oh, I hope not,” said I.
“So do I,” answered the canoe. “But I became well enough acquainted with
Matt and his family during the short time I lived with them, to know
that they do not intend to leave here unless they are driven away, as
they were last year when they came to our village. Why, this is the best
place in the world for a man who is too lazy to work, and who is not
above taking things without leave. Game and fish are abundant. All the
guides cultivate little patches of ground, and keep a few pigs and
chickens, and as they are away from home a good part of the time, their
property is left to the care of their wives and children. They can’t
stand guard day and night, and consequently it is no trouble at all for
Matt to steal all he wants. He has a fine hiding-place now, and as he
and his family make it a point to travel different routes every time
they go away from the shanty or return to it, they don’t leave much of a
trail for the guides to follow, if they should make up their minds to
hunt them up. Another thing,” added the canoe, in a tone of anxiety,
“Matt hates Joe and his chums for two reasons: First, because their
fathers turned him out of Mount Airy, and second, because they gave him
such a pelting with potatoes the last time they were up here. If he is
here, he will try to have revenge for that; now you see if he doesn’t.”
The canvas canoe spoke confidently, and his words occasioned me no
little uneasiness; but I was greatly relieved to learn from the
conversation, to which I listened while the boys were eating supper,
that they were fully alive to the dangers of the situation, and that
they did not mean to let the squatter take them off their guard. They
were happy in the belief that Matt could not attack them, except at long
range, because he had no boat to bring him alongside the skiff. It never
occurred to them that he had had plenty of time to steal or build one,
and that was where they made their mistake.
Up to this time we had had pleasant weather; but this particular night
was a rainy one. The big drops began coming down just after the tent was
put up. Then I realized for the first time what a comfortable home it
was that the boys had provided for themselves. The canvas canoe and I
lay on the forward locker, with the two bait-rods, the dip-net and the
cocker spaniel to keep us company. On the bottom of the boat in the
cock-pit sat the three chums, on either side of a table which they had
made by pushing the movable thwarts close together. On the table, which
was covered with a white napkin, was an array of dishes, plates and
cups, all of tin, which were filled to over-flowing with ham sandwiches,
bread and butter, cake, ripe fruit of various kinds and trout, done to a
turn. On the stern locker stood the little stove over which Arthur had
cooked the fish and made the tea, and above it hung the jack-lamp that
was kept burning all night. If any thing happened—if the wind arose and
the anchor dragged, or prowlers of any sort came about—the boys wanted a
light to work by. Over all was the tent, with the rain coming gently
down on the top of it. One side curtain was rolled up to admit the air,
but the other was buttoned securely to the gunwale. Joe wasn’t going to
have the squatter slip up and send a club into the cock-pit before he
knew it. Taken altogether it was a cozy, home-like scene, and I no
longer wondered why it was that Joe and his friends looked forward to
the summer vacation with such lively anticipations of pleasure.
The boys slept soundly that night, lulled by the pattering of the rain
on the roof over their heads, but the sun did not find them in bed. I
caught more than my share of the trout they ate for breakfast, and that
afternoon was given an opportunity to try my skill on larger game, to
wit, a four pound black bass. I may add, too, that I got my first
ducking, and witnessed the liveliest kind of a foot race. But I can’t
say that I enjoyed it; there was too much depending on it.
“Do you remember the last time we ate breakfast here?” said Joe, as he
drew up the anchor while his companions shipped the oars and pulled up
the creek toward the pond. “If my memory serves me, Matt Coyle made the
mouth of this brook uncomfortably warm for us for a few minutes. What
would we have done if Roy hadn’t been smart enough to keep some of the
potatoes out of that bag? I wonder where the old chap is now?”
“Probably he is a hundred miles away,” answered Arthur. “You don’t
suppose that the people who live around the lake are going to let him
stay here and steal them out of house and home, do you?”
“I am of the opinion that he and his worthless family were driven away
from here long ago,” said Roy. “But still I don’t believe in trusting
any thing to luck. We needn’t go ashore unless we want to, and Matt
can’t bother us while we are lying at anchor. He’s got no boat, and he
isn’t foolish enough to swim off to us, for we gave him a lesson the
last time we were here that he will remember as long as he lives.”
We left the mouth of the brook at an early hour, and about four in the
afternoon entered the pond, where I heard Joe say we would remain until
the bread and bacon gave out, when we would go over to Indian Lake and
lay in a fresh supply. Now Joe was sorry that he had left his bait-rod
behind. The pond was noted for the number and fighting qualities of its
bass, and Joe had nothing to catch them with; at least that was what he
told his friends, adding that he was afraid to trust so heavy work to
me.
“You’d better be afraid,” assented Roy. “If you don’t want that fine rod
of yours smashed into a thousand pieces, you had better not try to catch
a bass with it. But I’ll tell you what you might do, if you don’t care
to sit idly here while Art and I catch all the fish and see all the fun.
You might go up to the little perch hole and throw a fly there. Perhaps
you will find the perch in the pond more accommodating than they were
back there in the river.”
“How about our esteemed friend, the squatter?” said Arthur.
“Oh, he can’t trouble me,” answered Joe, who was already preparing to
act upon Roy’s suggestion. “His shanty is away off there somewhere,
while the perch hole lies a mile or more in the opposite direction.
There is a wide and deep river between the two, and how is Matt going to
cross it without a boat? I am of Roy’s opinion that he was driven away
from here long ago.”
While Joe was talking in this way he had taken the canvas canoe from his
chest, and now under his skillful hands my old friend was fast assuming
his usual symmetrical proportions. In less than ten minutes he was
floating gracefully alongside the skiff.
“Come on, Fly-rod,” said he, “and I will show you what a canvas canoe
can do when he is managed by some one who understands his business. You
never took a ride with me, did you?”
No, I never had, and if the truth must be told, I never wanted to take a
second ride with him. He may have been “the boss boat” on the rapids, as
he often boasted, but he was a very unfortunate craft all the same, and
before the day was over I had reason to believe that Joe would have seen
more sport during his two weeks’ outing if he had left the canoe safe in
his room at Mount Airy. I came back to the skiff, but he didn’t.