THE CAMP ON THE RIVER BANK
“Keep a-going, Buster; we’re coming back for you!” shrilled Josh, not a
little alarmed on account of seeing such a tremendous splashing back
where the stout chum was struggling in the river.
Being compelled to fight against the steady current, the boat could not
make such very rapid progress, especially when backing up. Still it
seemed as though Buster might be swimming toward them. He was using only
one hand, and churning the water like the paddle-wheel of a Mississippi
steamboat.
“Whew!” they heard him say, after ejecting a stream of water from his
mouth, which he persisted in keeping open; “a sockdolager, I tell you!
Going to beat all the records this time. It must be a river horse, or a
boss sturgeon, boys. I want to save him, you bet!”
Evidently, like a true fisherman, Buster’s first, last and only thought
concerned the successful landing of the game he had struck. And
presently the boat had come so close to the submerged boy that Jack
stopped the engine lest the propeller do Buster some material damage.
Two of them leaned over the stern and with great difficulty managed to
drag the water-soaked chum aboard.
“Sit there in the stern until you drain, Buster,” ordered Jack. “If we
took all that water aboard we’d be in danger of foundering.”
“What ails your left hand?” demanded Josh.
“Why, don’t you see,” explained George, “the silly went and wound the
line about his wrist. Then when the fish took hold it was a case of
Buster going overboard or having his left arm pulled out of its socket.
No wonder he lets it hang down like that now. I bet you it hurts like
fun.”
“But say, the bally old fish has quit pulling like mad!” exclaimed
Buster, as though that circumstance troubled him much more than any
bodily pain he might be enduring.
Josh leaned forward and took hold of the line. He even started to pull
it in after the manner of a skillful fisherman, while Buster eyed him
eagerly.
“Tell me you feel him pulling yet, Josh, can’t you?” he pleaded. “Don’t
break my heart by saying he’s gone! After all my fight I deserve to
land that monster.”
Josh chuckled.
“I do feel something now, all right, Buster,” he remarked. “Watch me
yank him alongside in a hurry. You never could handle such a monster
with one of your arms next to useless.”
So Josh worked away, possibly putting on more or less, as though he were
having the time of his life in trying to drag the captive alongside.
Every little while he pretended to lose a foot or so of line, whereupon
Buster would call out anxiously and beg him to keep a tight hold on the
glorious prize.
“Talk to me about having fish for supper,” the dripping sportsman cried
as he watched for the first glimpse of his catch; “why, we could feed a
whole village on such a dandy as this. And caught on a bare hook, too!
Ain’t I the lucky one for keeps? What d’ye know about that?”
“There he comes, Buster!” cried Josh, pantingly; “get ready now to help
me pull him up over the stern, all of you. My stars! but how he does
fight.”
In another moment Josh drew alongside a small but broad-nosed _log_,
which in floating with the current of the river had suddenly been
snagged by the bare hook. The impact, with the boat running as it was,
had been severe enough to drag the fisherman into the water, for the
stout line held, and he had foolishly wrapped one end of the same around
his left wrist.
Jack and George shouted with mirth, and Josh excelled them both. Buster
looked down at the now tamed “fish,” felt ruefully of his lame arm, and
then grinned.
“You bit, all right, fellows!” he blandly told them; nor would he offer
any further explanation, so that to the end of the chapter none of them
really knew whether Buster had been playing a trick on them or not by
pretending to fight the object at the end of his line and showing such
tremendous solicitude while Josh was pulling in the same.
“What am I going to do about drying off?” asked Buster a little later,
after he had succeeded in reeling in all his line without getting it
very much tangled--the log he allowed to float off on the current,
having no use for it, though Josh did ask him if he had never heard of
“planked fish.”
“You’re draining right along,” George told him; “and as the weather is
so nice and warm there’s no danger of your taking cold, I guess.”
“When we get ashore,” Jack explained, “we can start a fire, and that
will give you a chance to get dry. But I’m sorry about that arm, Buster.
It may give you some trouble, because the jerk must have been fierce.”
“Well, I should say it was,” admitted the other, with a sigh. “I thought
my arm would come off sure. But then the excitement kept me up, you see.
And I knew right well you’d stop the boat and come back after me. But
Jack, later on I want you to rub my arm with that liniment you carry
with you. Chances are it’ll be black and blue along the muscles. It
hurts like fun even now.”
Jack considered that the sooner this was done the better, so he turned
the wheel over to George, and bidding Buster bare his arm, proceeded to
give it a good rubbing with the liniment he knew to be fine for this
purpose.
Buster was glad to find that as yet there were no signs of discoloration,
as he had feared.
“It may last a few days,” he cheerfully declared, “but that’s the extent
of the damage. I consider that I came off better than I deserved. But
then, who’d think a bare hook would catch anything?”
“Well, Buster,” warned George, “be sure you don’t fasten your fishline
to your leg, or around your neck. You never can tell what’s going to
happen; and after you’re drowned it’s no time to be sorry.”
“I think we’d better go ashore below, where the trees come down to the
edge of the bank,” suggested Jack just then, showing that all this while
he had been keeping a sharp lookout ahead.
“It makes me think of places where we’ve pulled up over along the old
Mississippi,” said Josh; “I wonder now do they have tramps over here,
who prowl around looking for a chance to steal what they can lay hands
on.”
“I don’t believe they do,” George told him; “for they regulate such
things a lot better than we do over the big water. Tramps are a luxury
here, while with us they flourish like the green bay tree; the woods are
full of them.”
Jack took the boat in closer to the shore. On seeing the proposed
landing place at closer quarters all of them seemed to be of the same
opinion. It looked like just the camping ground they were looking for. A
fire might be built for cooking purposes, and the district seemed lonely
enough to make it appear that they might not be disturbed during their
short stay of a single night.
On the following morning they expected to be once more on the move down
the long and sinuous stream that covered hundreds of miles before
emptying its clear water into the Black Sea.
As soon as the landing was effected Buster waddled clumsily ashore.
“I hope somebody will have the kindness now to get that blaze started
right away,” he was saying; “I’d do it myself, but I’m afraid all the
matches I had in my pocket must have been soaked, and they wouldn’t
light easy.”
“I’ll take care of the fire, and do the cooking tonight in the bargain
if you want me to, Buster,” Josh told him.
“That’s kind of you, Josh, and I won’t forget it in a hurry, either.
Fact is this arm of mine pains a little too much for me to sling the
pots and skillets around in my customary way. But fry me two eggs,
remember, Josh; I’d say three if nobody kicked up any sort of a row.”
“You shall have them, Buster,” Josh told him; “because the chances are
we can pick up as many as we want as we go along.”
“But no fish for supper tonight, how’s that?” George demanded, trying to
frown at Buster.
“Oh, well, nobody really promised you any,” the latter explained. “But
if there are any fat grubs in some of those rotten stumps around here
I’m meaning to have a line out with three hooks to-night, and mebbe,
George, you can indulge in fresh fish for breakfast. Will that do?”
“Guess I’ll have to make it; besides, ham and eggs suits my taste well
enough this time. I’ll forgive you, Buster, only be careful not to get
our mouths watering for fish again when it’s only a floating log you’ve
caught.”
Josh was already busy with the fire. He had long since graduated in
this department of woodcraft, and knew about all there was going in
connection with fires of every description.
Then, too, he could cook in a way to make the mouths of his chums fairly
water. Josh had a way of browning things so cleverly that they were
unusually attractive, where so many boys more careless would frequently
burn whatever they had on the fire, and in a happy-go-lucky fashion dub
it “pot-luck.”
“One thing sure,” said Jack, as they sat around waiting for the call to
supper, “we’re a lucky set to have two such willing workers with the
pots and pans as Buster and Josh here.”
“That’s right,” declared George, agreeable for once; “it would be hard
to find their match, search where you will. What one lacks the other
makes up for, and the opposite way around too. And we want them to know
we appreciate their services, don’t we, Jack?”
“Come, now, no taffy, George,” said Josh, though his eyes sparkled under
praise from such a source; “as they used to say in olden days, beware
the Greeks who come bearing gifts. And when _you_ get to praising
anything there must be a deep motive back of it.”
“There is,” assented George frankly, “a very deep motive, for I’m hollow
all the way down to my heels, seems like. Sure the grub must be done by
now, Josh. That’s a good fellow, ring the bell for us to gather round.”
Whenever these lads were sitting about the camp fire they always had
plenty of fun on tap. If “jabs” were given at times it was done with
such good-natured chaff that no one could get provoked.
So they started to discuss the supper Josh had prepared. Meanwhile
Buster had managed to dry himself after a fashion by turning around near
the fire, presenting first one side and then another to the heat. He
likened himself to a roast fowl on the spit, and jokingly asked the
others how they would have him served.
“After I’m all through eating my share of the excellent mess Josh here
has provided for us,” Buster remarked, when his mouth chanced to be
empty, which was not often, by the way, “I know what I mean to do.”
“Oh, anybody can guess that the first shot out of the locker,” George
asserted; “that is if they know what a fellow you are for remembering
things. Of course you mean to smash some of these rotten stumps, and
find out if they contain any grubs. Stumps are fine for holding the
same, I understand; at least over where we live; and I guess grubs are
grubs the world over.”
“Yes, that’s what I’m aiming to do,” Buster admitted. “Just because I
had the hard luck to be dragged overboard by a measly old log, don’t
think I’m the one to be scared off. If there are any fish in this Danube
River, and they like bait such as I can offer them, we’re bound to have
a mess for breakfast.”
“Hurrah! That’s the ticket!” cried Josh; “if at first you don’t succeed
try, try again. I plainly perceive that my honors as boss fisherman are
going to be put in peril if this thing keeps on. I’ll sure have to get
out a line myself, and run you a race, Buster.”
“Wish you would,” snapped the other, as though this just suited him.
“You remember,” continued Josh, “we had some pretty tall rivalry in that
line once or twice before. Never mind who came out first best; that’s
ancient history, and pretty musty by now. You find enough worms and
I’ll get a rig ready, Buster.”
George rubbed his hands as though the prospect looked pretty bright to
him. With two ardent anglers engaged in a warm contest to see who could
do the better in the way of making captures, those who loved fresh fish
might expect to be well taken care of.
When the supper had been disposed of, and every one declared he felt
“full to the brim,” Buster secured the little camp hatchet they had been
wise enough to fetch along with them, and which had been a useful
adjunct on many past outings.
With this in hand he started to attack some of the old stumps that could
be seen scattered around. Josh felt considerable interest in his labors,
as from time to time he could be heard calling out, and asking what the
score was.
“Got three dandies in that stump,” Buster presently made answer, “and
here’s a whole nest of bigger ones than the others. Say, we’re fixed all
right, my friend, so far as plenty of attractive bait goes. I can see a
lovely time among the finny tribes when some of these fat boys get in
the drink. They’ll actually fight among themselves for a chance to bite;
especially if you spit on your hook after impaling the grub.”
By the time he had placed a full dozen of the victims of his hunt in the
little can that had contained sardines at one time, Buster pronounced
himself ready to begin serious operations.
Josh had in the meantime managed to get his line ready just as Buster
finished his work; George told him it looked suspiciously as though he
had been “soldiering,” and meant to let his rival do all the work; but
gallant Buster, hearing all this talk, immediately came to the rescue.
“And why shouldn’t Josh take it easy, after going to all the trouble to
prepare that fine supper?” he demanded. “You’ve got a bad habit, George,
of looking a gift horse in the mouth, and the sooner you break yourself
of it the better. Now, come along Josh, and let’s find a good place for
throwing our lines out into the river.”
“We’re not going to be partial or play favorites,” warned Jack,
laughingly; “may the best man win; but please don’t try to give us any
more _planked shad_, Buster, you hear!”