THE LONE FISHERMAN.
“Look!”
“Where?”
“On the corner. It’s another one of them!”
“It’s Browning!”
“Sure!”
“What is he doing?”
“Fishing, by the Lord Harry--fishing in the street! That is the most
ludicrous spectacle yet. Ha! ha! ha!”
A burst of laughter came from the little band of students who had been
making their way along one of New Haven’s principal streets and come
upon this astonishing spectacle:
Bruce Browning sat there on the corner, perched on a high stool,
dressed like a fisherman, with a sailor’s “sou’wester” on his head, and
rubber boots on his feet, gravely pretending to fish in the street with
a pole and line.
Pedestrians paused to stare, poke each other in the ribs, laugh and
chaff the big fellow on the stool, but he did not heed them in the
least, calmly continuing to fish, as if he expected at any moment to
feel a bite.
Frank, Hodge, Pierson, Gamp, Griswold and Noon were some of the
students who had come upon this surprising spectacle while walking
along the street.
Noon was a prominent candidate for the position of catcher on the
’varsity ball team, but Hodge was coming into notice through his work
on the freshman nine, and, although he was a freshman, it was rumored
that, aided by the influence of Frank, he stood a chance of getting on
for a trial.
Joe Gamp was a big, awkward boy from New Hampshire, who, for all
of the time he had spent in college, could not drop the vernacular
of the farm. To hear him talk no one could have dreamed he was a
college student, and that he stood well in his class. And he stammered
outrageously.
“Gug-gug-gug-great gosh!” he cried, standing with his hands in his
pockets and staring at the fat youth on the stool. “Will somebody
tut-tut-tell me what in thunder it mum-mum-mum-means? First we saw a
fuf-fuf-feller walkin’ araound with his cuc-cuc-clothes turned wrong
sus-sus-sus-side out, then another was bub-bub-bub-barkin’ like a
dorg, another was tryin’ to stand on his head in fuf-fuf-front of the
pup-pup-pup-post office, and here’s Browning fuf-fuf-fuf-fuf---- Here
is Bur-bub-bub-bub-bub---- I sus-sus-sus-sus----”
“Whistle, Joe!” laughed Frank. “Whistle, quick. You’re going backward,
and you’ll have to say it all over if you don’t whistle.”
Gamp whistled.
“I sus-sus-sus”--whistle--“I say here’s Browning tut-tut-trying
to cuc-cuc-cuc-catch a fuf-fuf-fuf-fuf”--whistle--“a fish in the
middle of the sus-sus-street, just as if he was fishin’ in the
dud-dud-dud-dud”--whistle--“the deep blue sea. I don’t understand what
all this bub-bub-business is abub-bub-bout.”
“I didn’t know but the first fellow we saw was doing it on a wager,”
said Bart; “but now----”
“Those fellows are candidates for some society,” explained Pierson.
“They have been commanded to do those things, and they dare not disobey
if they wish to pass.”
“Is that it?” cried Gamp, who was astonishingly green for a Yale man.
“Well, dud-dud-darned if that ain’t fuf-fuf-fuf-funny! A-haw! a-haw!
a-haw!”
He had a laugh that was like the braying of a mule, and a passing
pedestrian dodged so suddenly that he jumped from under his hat, while
an old lady with an umbrella turned and cried:
“Shoo! Git away! Don’t you bite me!”
She waved her umbrella in Gamp’s direction and peered fearfully over
her spectacles, as if she fully expected to see some fierce wild beast
rushing upon her.
That caused all the other boys to laugh again, while Joe paused, with
his huge mouth wide open, and stared in surprise at the excited and
trembling old lady.
“Hey?” he cried.
“Mercy!” gasped the old lady. “I thought so. I thought it was a horse
whickerin’ for hay.”
Then she hurried on, while the boys, with the exception of Gamp, were
convulsed with merriment.
Joe stared after the old lady’s retreating form, gasping for breath.
“First tut-tut-tut-time I ever was took for a hoss!” he exclaimed.
“That’s a horse on you,” chuckled Danny Griswold.
Despite himself, Bruce Browning had not been able to keep from turning
his head a moment to see what all the excitement was about. As he did
so, a street urchin slipped out quickly and hitched a dead cat onto
the end of the line that lay in the street, losing not a moment in
scampering out of sight.
Bruce pulled up the line to cast it out again, and the cat came with it.
Then there was another shout of merriment.
“Browning has met with a cat-astrophe,” laughed Frank.
“He’s caught a cat-fish,” cried Danny Griswold.
“Spt! spt! Me-e-e-ow! Ma-ri-ar!”
Danny Griswold gave vent to a perfect volley of cat-calls, and there
was an uproar of mirth around that corner.
Through it all Browning retained his sober dignity, removing the cat
from his hook, as if he had captured a fish, and flinging the line out
into the street again.
A policeman, who was sauntering along at a distance, heard the sounds,
and came rushing forward. He was a green man on the force, and he had
not been many moons on this side of the “pond.” He had red hair, and a
face that looked like a painful accident.
“Pwhat’s this, Oi dunno?” he exclaimed, bursting through the crowd and
halting so suddenly that he nearly fell over himself when he saw Bruce.
“An’ now will yez be afther tellin’ me pwhat ye’re doin’ there?”
Browning made no reply, but gravely pulled up his line, looked at the
hook, as if to ascertain the condition of the bait, and again made a
cast into the street.
The little Irishman grew red in the face.
“Look here, me foine b’y!” he cried, flourishing his stick; “it’s
the magisty av th’ law Oi ripresint, an’ Oi do be afther axin’ ye a
quistion. Pwhat are yez doin’ there, Oi want to know?”
Bruce remained silent.
The spectators looked on with interest, wondering what the outcome
would be.
The policeman came a bit nearer Bruce, and again shook his stick,
crying:
“Is it a lunathick ye are? It’s a foine spictacle ye do be afther
makin’ av yersilf. Av ye don’t belave it, jist shtep over this way an’
take a look at yersilf a-sittin’ on thot stool loike a frog on a log.
Get down now, ur Oi’ll plaze ye under arrist!”
Browning did not heed.
“It’s me duty Oi’ll have to do,” declared the officer, as he advanced
on the big fellow; “an’ av ye resist me, Oi’ll have to club th’ loife
out av yez. It’s a lunathick ye are, an’ Oi know it. Come along now, to
th’ station house.”
But as he was on the point of pulling the big fellow from the stool,
Browning gave him a look that made him stagger. His face worked
convulsively, and he looked around for assistance.
“Pull him in, Paddy!” cried one of several town boys, who had gathered
to see the fun, and who felt delighted to see a student placed under
arrest.
“Thot Oi will!” cried the little cop, as he advanced on Bruce.
He caught the big fellow by the collar and yanked him off the stool in
a moment.
“If it’s a bit aff trouble ye’re afther givin’ me, Oi’ll crack yer
shkull wid me shillayly,” he declared. “Come on, now.”
Browning did not wish to be arrested, so he tried to argue with the
officer, but it was useless to talk.
“It’s a lunathick Oi know ye are,” said the policeman; “an’ it’s not
safe to let yez run at large.”
“Take your hand off my collar!” said Bruce, sternly. “I have done
nothing to cause you to arrest me.”
“Now none av yer thrits to me, ye spalpane!” shouted the policeman.
“Coom along!”
He gave Bruce a yank.
It was a comical spectacle to see the little red-headed cop yanking
about the giant of the college, but it did not seem very funny to
Browning.
“Say,” he growled, thrusting his fist under the officer’s nose, “if you
do that again, I’m going to thump you once, for luck.”
The policeman had a violent temper, and very little judgment.
“Attimpting to resist arrist, are yez!” he shouted, and then, without
another word, he rapped Bruce over the head, bringing the big fellow to
his knees.
Browning had not looked for such a move, and he was so stunned that he
could not rise at once, whereupon the policeman lifted his club again,
as if to hit him once more.
The blow did not fall.
Frank’s hand caught the club and held it back, Paul Pierson and Bart
Hodge yanked Browning to his feet, Danny Griswold gave the big fellow a
shove, and the voice of Ned Noon was heard shouting:
“Git!”
This turn of affairs was not at all satisfactory to the town boys,
who had been delighted when the officer started to arrest one of the
college lads.
At New Haven there is constantly more or less feeling between the town
lads and the students. Sometimes this feeling is so strong that it is
not safe for a well-known student to be caught alone in town at a late
hour of the night. He is in danger of being stoned, pounded and forced
to run for his life.
At the time of which we write the feeling between the college lads and
the “townies” was rather bitter. Thus it came about that, as soon as
Browning’s friends tried to help him, one of the watching toughs cried:
“Come on, fellers! Dey’re helpin’ der bloke git erway. It’s our duty
ter stop dat.”
The gang didn’t care anything for duty, but they had been called upon
to do a thing by their leader, and they did not hesitate about jumping
in to the policeman’s aid.
Thus it came about that, in a very few seconds, a small riot was taking
place there on that corner, where, a short time before, all had seemed
hilarity and good nature.
The little cop clung tenaciously to Browning.
“I call on yez to hilp me arrist this spalpane!” he squealed.
“We’ll help yer!” declared the leader of the town lads.
“Yes you will!” flung back Bart Hodge, the hot color of anger rushing
to his face. “Yes you will--not!”
Then he went at the leader of the gang, and, before that fellow was
aware that he was attacked, Hodge cracked him a blow between the eyes
that sent him sprawling.
The downfall of their leader seemed to infuriate the others.
“Thump ’em! Hammer ’em! Slug ’em!”
Uttering these cries, the roughs pitched into the college boys. Fists
began to fly, and there was a hot time on that corner without delay.
The little cop rapped for assistance. While he was doing this, Browning
gave him a twist and a fling that broke his hold and sent him flying
into Bart Hodge’s arms.
Hodge was thoroughly aroused.
“You’re the cause of all this trouble, you little red-headed fool!” he
grated.
Then, with a display of strength that was astonishing, Bart lifted the
officer and hurled him violently against a stone hitching-post. With
a gasp and a groan, the policeman dropped down limply and lay on the
ground as if he had been shot.
Bart was astonished by the remarkable manner in which the little man
had been knocked out. He paused and stared at the motionless figure, a
feeling of dismay beginning to creep over him, for he realized that his
ungovernable temper had once again led him to do an act that he would
not have done in his sober moments.
“Great Scott!” shakily cried Ned Noon. “You’ve killed him, Hodge!”
Bart said nothing, but he felt a pressure about his heart--a sickening
sensation.
It seemed that Noon was the only one of the party engaged in the
struggle who witnessed Bart’s thoughtless act of anger. The others were
far too busy among themselves.
But all realized the officer had rapped for aid, and they knew other
policemen were sure to arrive on the spot very soon.
“Got to run for it, fellows!” panted Griswold, as he put in his best
licks. “Got to get away, or we’ll all be locked up.”
Hodge plunged in to aid the others. He was a perfect tiger. Not even
Frank seemed to fight with such fury and be so effective. Bart bowled
the “townies” over as if they were tenpins.
It was not long before the fight was going in favor of the college men.
Then another party of students happened along, and, at sight of them,
the town lads promptly scattered and ran.
“Now’s the time!” cried Merry. “We want to get out of this in a hurry,
fellows.”
Then he saw the officer lying stretched on the ground, and stared at
him in surprise.
“What’s the matter with him?” he asked.
“Nothing!” cried Hodge, feverishly. “He got a crack under the ear, and
it knocked him out. He’s all right. Come on.”
The college boys lost no further time in getting away. They separated
and made their way back to the college grounds with certain haste.
As if by general consent, they proceeded to Merriwell’s room. They
found Frank there, making himself comfortable while he studied, as if
nothing serious had happened. He welcomed them all as they appeared.
Pierson was the first, and he was followed by Griswold, who strutted
proudly as he entered, crying:
“Did you see me do ’em up, fellows? Did you see me lay ’em out? Oh,
I’m a hot biscuit right out of the bakery!”
“Quite a little racket, eh, Merriwell,” smiled Pierson.
“Sure,” nodded Frank. “We needed something to stir up our blood. We
were getting stagnant here of late.”
Joe Gamp came lumbering in.
“Dud-dud-dud-dog my cuc-cuc-cuc-cats!” he stuttered. “Ain’t seen so
much fun as that sence I was a fuf-fuf-freshman. But Browning did look
comical up on that sus-sus-stool. A-haw! ha-aw! a-haw!”
Even as Gamp roared with laughter, Bruce came slouching into the room.
He sat down and kicked off the rubber boots, which were too large for
his feet, then he flung aside the “sou’wester,” removed his oilskin
jacket, and stretched himself wearily on the couch, observing:
“Fishing is thundering tiresome work.”
“Were you doing it on a wager, old man?” asked Griswold.
“No,” yawned Bruce; “I was doing it on a stool.”
That was all they could get out of him. It was plain that he did not
want to talk about it, and did not mean to talk.
“Anyway, we did up the townies all right,” said Frank. “There was some
sport in that.”
“Too much work,” grumbled Bruce. “Everything is too much work, and work
was made for slaves.”
Ned Noon came in and looked around.
“Where is Hodge?” he asked.
Bart was not there, but they fancied he would put in an appearance very
soon, so, while they discussed the fight with the “townies,” they kept
looking for Hodge.
But Bart did not appear.
“Hope he wasn’t pinched,” said Frank. “He’s so proud that arrest would
seem a frightful disgrace to him.”
There was a queer look on the face of Ned Noon.