The hammer dropped squarely but not completely, because Ramsay tried to
stop it too soon. Again Tom Nedley reassured him.
"Just let her fall," he urged, as he helped raise the hammer back into
position. "There's plenty of time to stop her, but don't be careless.
That hammer weighs a hundred and seventy five pounds, an' I doubt if
even Hans' head would take that much fallin' on it."
This time Ramsay got the rhythm. The hammer dropped swiftly, squarely
and with full force. It seated the spile in the lake bottom, so that
there was no longer any necessity for holding it. Hans and the other
stepped back. Again and again Ramsay helped drop the hammer, until the
pole was driven about eight feet into the lake bottom and perhaps four
feet remained above the surface. It had been about thirty-six feet to
start with, therefore the water at this place was twenty-four feet deep.
It should be right for whitefish.
"Let me take that rope a while," someone said.
Gladly Ramsay relinquished his rope to Pieter, and rested his aching
shoulders while he watched interestedly. The piles were being driven in
a geometrical pattern, a sort of square, and Ramsay understood that the
first nine were to hold the pot, the actual trap. Measuring carefully,
the boats moved away and more spiles were driven. These were for the
hearts of the net. Finally, running straight toward shore, spiles were
driven in a pattern that resembled the forks of a 'Y.' To these would be
attached the tunnel, the webbing that guided fish through the hearts of
the pound net and into the pot.
Ramsay straightened, easing his aching shoulders. It was hard work, very
hard, to lift the hammer and let it fall for hours on end. But now the
spiles for one pound net were driven. The boy turned to Hans. "Gee whiz!
How about moving all this?"
"You don't move a pound net except, of course, to take up the webbing
when the lake freezes. Otherwise, we'll leave this right where it is. It
is possible to fish a pound net in the same location for fifty years or
more."
"What's next?"
"Set the net. I think there is still time."
They rowed back to the pier, where Marta, who had taken over the
treasurer's post, paid Tom Nedley and his crew. The big man grinned his
thanks.
"You need us again, you know where to find us."
"We'll probably take you up on that," Hans said.
The ropes binding the two boats were loosened and the scaffold taken
down. Leaving the boat Hans had bought, Tom Nedley and his helpers piled
into the other one and started rowing up the lake. Hans, Pieter and
Ramsay went to the pound net.
The pot, the trap, was loaded first. Then came the flaring, heart-shaped
'hearts,' and finally the leads, or tunnel. Setting himself to the oars,
Hans rowed back to where they had driven the piles. He tied the lead,
the beginning of the tunnel, to the spile. A five-pound stone fastened
to the bottom rope carried it down into the lake. Giving the oars to
Ramsay and cautioning him to travel slowly, Hans fastened the lead to
each spile and sank it with stones. The flaring hearts were set in the
same way.
Coming to the pot, Hans first fastened a four-foot chain with an
attached pulley to the pile. Then he tied a rope, double the depth of
the water and with some allowance for shrinkage, to the bottom of the
pot. He did this on each spile, and they put the whole pot into the
water. Ramsay began to understand.
In effect, they had set a gigantic fly-trap. Any fish that came along
would be guided by the tunnel into the hearts, and then into the pot.
Should any escape, the flaring sides of the hearts would keep them
trapped and, nine times out of ten, send them back into the pot instead
of out through the tunnel.
* * * * *
Ramsay labored under the weight of a two-hundred-pound sturgeon which
had been dragged in by the seine. Hans and Pieter hadn't wanted to
bother with sturgeon because there was no market for them, anyhow, but
Ramsay had permitted them to throw none back into the lake. Cradling his
slippery prize across his chest, as though it was a log, he carried it
to the pond and threw it in. For a moment the sturgeon swam dazedly on
the surface, then flipped his tail and submerged. Ramsay gazed into the
pond. It was alive with sturgeon weighing from seventy-five to almost
three hundred pounds. There were so many that, to supplement the food in
the pond, they were feeding them ground corn.
Ramsay stripped off his wet clothes and dived cleanly into the pond.
Water surged about him, washing off all the sweat and grime which he had
accumulated during the day. He probed along the pond's bottom, and felt
the smooth sides of a sturgeon beneath him. It was only a little one.
He swam on until he had to surface for air, and dived again. Across the
pond's murky depths he prowled, his white body gleaming like some great
worm in the water. Finally he found what he was looking for.
It was a big sturgeon, and it was feeding quietly. Moving as slowly as
possible, Ramsay rubbed a hand across its back. Suddenly he wrapped both
arms about the fish and took a firm grasp with his bare legs.
For a moment, while the dull sturgeon tried to determine what was
happening, there was no movement. Then the big fish awakened to danger
and shot to the surface. With all the speed of an outboard motor he
sliced along it, and a moment later he dived again. Grinning,
exhilarated, Ramsay swam back to shore and dressed.
Tradin' Jack Hammersly's rig was in the yard, and Ramsay heard the man
say, "Marta, what you been feedin' your hens?"
"The best!" Marta said indignantly. "The very best!"
"The best of what?"
"Why grain, and scraps, and ..."
"And sturgeon roe?"
"Why--yes."
"What I thought," Tradin' Jack sighed. "Ye'll have to stop it. Ever'
customer as got some of your eggs told me they taste like caviar!"
A moment later there was a rapid-fire sputter of French expletives. His
face red, seeming about to explode, Baptiste LeClaire raced around the
corner of the house.
"Get your guns!" he screamed when he saw Ramsay. "Get your knives and
clubs too! Get everything! We have to kill everybody!"