HAPPY LANDING
Dull gray as a slate roof, the lake lay before Florence next morning.
There was a threat of rain. From time to time, like scurrying wild
things, little ripples ran across the water.
“Just the time for a try at that big old salmon trout,” she exulted.
They had a boat, of a sort. A great hollow log brought down from the
hills, with its ends boarded up. It leaked, and it steered like a balky
mule, but what of that? She would have a try at trolling.
Dropping on her knees at the back of the boat, she seized the paddle,
then went gliding out across the gray, rippling water. Quite deftly she
dropped in her silver spoon and played out her line.
After that, for a full quarter hour, she paddled about in ever-widening
circles. Once her heart skipped a beat. A strike! No, only a weed. She
had come too near the shore. Casting the weed contemptuously away, she
struck out for deeper water.
Round and round she circled. Darker grew the surface of the lake. Going
to rain, all right. Clouds were closing in, dropping lower and lower.
Well, let it rain. Perhaps—
Zing! What was that? Something very like a sledge-hammer hit her line.
“Got him!
“No. Oh, gee! No.” He was gone.
Was he, though? One more wild pull. Then again a slack line. What sort of
fish was this?
Line all out. She would take in a little slack. Her hand gripped the line
when again there came that mighty tug.
“Got you,” she hissed.
And so she had, but for how long? The line, she knew, was strong enough.
But the rod and reel? They were mere playthings. Bought for perch and
rock bass, not for thirty-pound salmon. Would they do their part? She was
to see.
Dropping her paddle, she settled low in her uncertain craft. A sudden
rush of the fish might at any moment send her plunging into the lake. Not
that she minded a ducking. She was a powerful swimmer. But could one land
a salmon that way? She doubted this. And she did want that fish. What a
grand feast! She’d get a picture, too. Send it to her friends—who
believed her lost in a hopeless wilderness.
“Yes, I—I’ve got to get you.” She began rolling in. The reel was
pitifully small. She had not done a dozen turns when the tiny handle
slipped from her grasp.
Zing! sang the reel. Only by dropping the rod between her knees and
pressing hard could she halt the salmon’s mad flight.
“Ah,” she breathed, “I got you.”
This time, throwing all the strength of her capable hands into the task,
she reeled in until, with a sudden rush the fish broke water.
“Oh! Oh!” she stared. “What a beauty! But look! You’re up, head, tail and
all. How’re you hooked, anyway?”
Before she could discover the answer he was down and away. Once again the
reel sang. Once more its handle bored a hole in her right knee.
“Dum!” she exclaimed as her boat began to move. “He’s heading for the
weeds. He—he’ll snag himself off.”
The boat gained momentum. Reel as she might, the fish gained ground. Deep
under the surface were pike-weeds. She knew the spot, twenty yards away,
perhaps. Now fifteen. Now—
Wrapping the line about her shoe, she seized the paddle and began
paddling frantically.
“Ah! That gets you.” Slowly, reluctantly, the fish gave ground. Then,
driven to madness, he broke water a full fifty yards from the boat. This
move gave the line a sudden slack. The boat shot sidewise and all but
overturned. In a desperate effort to right herself, the girl dropped her
paddle. Before the boat had steadied itself the paddle was just out of
her reach.
“Oh, you! I’ll get you if I have to swim for it.”
All this time, quite unknown to the girl, something was happening in the
air as well as the water. There was the sound of heavy drumming overhead.
Now it lost volume, and now picked up, but never did it quite end.
Without a paddle, with her reel serving her badly, the girl was driven to
desperation. Seizing the line, she began pulling it in hand over hand.
This was a desperate measure; the line might break, the hook might loose
its grip. No matter. It was her only chance.
Yard by yard the line coiled up in the bottom of the boat. And now, of a
sudden, the thunder of some powerful motor overhead grew louder. Still,
in her wild effort to win her battle, the girl was deaf to it all.
The line grew shorter and shorter, tighter and tighter. What a fish!
Thirty yards away, perhaps, now twenty. Now—how should she land him? She
had no gaff.
That question remained unanswered, for at that instant things began to
happen. The fish, in a last mad effort to escape, leaped full three feet
in air. This was far too much for the crazy craft. Over it went and with
it went the girl.
That was not all; at the same instant a dark bulk loomed out of the
clouds to come racing with the speed of thought towards the girl.
“An—an airplane,” she gasped. Closing her eyes, she executed a sudden
dive.
This action would have proved futile, the pontoons of the plane sank
deep. Fortunately, they passed some thirty feet from the spot where the
girl disappeared.
When she rose sputtering to the surface, her first thought was of the
fish. No use. The line was slack, the salmon gone.
She looked up at the plane. At that moment a young aviator was peering
anxiously out over the fuselage.
“Ah! There you are!” he beamed. “I’m awfully glad.”
“Why don’t you look where you’re going? You cut my line. I lost my fish.”
Florence was truly angry.
“Fish? Oh, I see! You were fishing?” The young aviator stood up. He was
handsome in an exciting sort of way. “But I say!” he exclaimed, “I’ll fix
that. I’ve a whole leg of venison here in my old bus. What do you say we
share it? Can you bake things?”
“Sure, but my aunt can do it much better.” Florence climbed upon a
pontoon to shake the water out of her hair.
Five hours later, with the rain beating a tattoo on the well weathered
roof of the cabin, they were seated about the hand-hewn table, the Hughes
family, Florence, and the young aviator. Seven candles winked and blinked
on the broad board. At the head sat Mark, and before him the first roast
of wild venison the family had ever tasted. How brown and juicy it was!
“Wonderful!” Florence murmured. “How did you get it?” the words slipped
unbidden from her lips.
“No secret about that,” Speed Samson, the aviator, smiled. “I’m a guide.
Take people up into the mountains for fish and game. Just left a party up
there. Going back in a week. It’s wonderful up there. Snow. Cold.
Refreshing. Great! Want to go along?” He looked at Florence.
“Why, I—” she hesitated.
“Take you all,” his eyes swept them in a circle.
“Can’t be done just now. Thanks all the same.” It was Mark who spoke.
“We’re new here. Lots to do. Adventure will have to wait.
“Of course,” he hastened to add, “I’m not talking for Florence.”
“Oh, yes, you are!” the big girl flashed back. “I’m in this game the same
as you, at least until snow flies.”
“O. K.!” the aviator laughed. “When snow flies I’ll be back. Winter up
here is the time for adventure.” He was looking now at Mary, whose dark
eyes shone like twin stars. “I’ll take you for a long, long ride.”
At that instant something rattled against the windowpane. Was it sleet
driven by the rain or was it some spirit tapping a message, trying to
tell Mary how long and eventful that ride would really be?
Next day the smiling aviator went sailing away into a clear blue sky.
Florence and Mary went back to their work, but things were not quite the
same. They never are after one has dreamed a bright dream.
Three days later, Florence got her fish, or was it his brother? He
weighed twenty pounds. Of course that called for one more feast.
Fortunately, one who works hard may enjoy a feast every day in the year
and never waste much time. Truth is, only one who _does_ work hard can
truly enjoy any feast to its full. The Hughes family enjoyed both work
and wonderful food.