"I went on the lake when I was a boy of thirteen," Hans Van Doorst said.
"That was fourteen years ago, in 1852. I thought I had seen much, but
never have I seen this!"
"What?" Ramsay asked impatiently.
"Look around you," Hans said. "What do you see?"
"Worms."
"Not worms! Food for whitefish! With these millions washed up, can you
not imagine the vast amount remaining in the water? We are all rich
men!"
"You think so?" Pieter queried.
"There is no doubt of it! The whitefish go where their food is! There
must be countless tons of whitefish here at your very door step, and
here is where we shall fish!"
"Do whitefish eat only worms?" Ramsay asked.
"No. They feed on other things, too, notably their own spawn or that of
other fish. But enough of this idle talk! I must have a net so we can
start fishing at once! Pieter, I would borrow your horse and cart!"
"The cart you may have," Pieter said. "The horse belongs to Ramsay."
"Go ahead and take him," Ramsay urged.
Hans tripped like a dancer to the barn, caught the little horse, and
backed him between the shafts of Pieter's two-wheeled cart. Bubbling
like a boiling kettle, entirely happy, he started at a fast trot up the
sand beach to Three Points. With a startled squawk, Captain Klaus
hurried to catch up. The tame sea gull settled affectionately on the rim
of the cart's seat.
As Ramsay watched him go, he felt a vast envy of the light-hearted
fisherman. If ever he could go away like that, he thought, he would have
lived life at its fullest. Not until he looked around did he discover
that Pieter was watching too, and his eyes were wistful.
"There is work to be done!" Marta called.
They flushed and walked towards the barnyard, where Marta was tending
her poultry. Geese, chickens and ducks swarmed around her and pigeons
alighted on her shoulders. She kept her eyes on the men.
As Ramsay and Pieter cleaned the cowbarn, both remained strangely
silent. Both thought of the Dutch fisherman. Then Pieter, who had
promised to have a dressed pig ready for Tradin' Jack Hammersly, started
honing a razor edge on his butchering tools. Ramsay picked up a hoe,
preparatory to returning to the corn-patch.
"You think he'll get a net?" Pieter asked.
"I hope so!"
Moodily, scarcely seeing or knowing what he was doing, Ramsay chopped at
weeds that had stolen a home in the growing corn. The work suddenly
lacked any flavor whatever. Millions of worms, whitefish food, washed up
on the beach and the bay in front of Pieter's swarming with whitefish!
That's what the Dutch fisherman had said. Marta brought his mid-morning
lunch, and her eyes were troubled.
"Do you think Hans will get what he wants?" she asked.
"I don't know. Marta, why don't you want Pieter to go fishing?"
"You heard what he said. Last night he said it. Fishermen do not die in
bed. Those were his words."
"Just talk. The lake's safe enough."
"Yaah? Is that why Joe Mannis can make more money than anybody else
around here, just watchin' bodies? Aah! I worry about my man!"