CHAPTER XVI.
ANOTHER ENCOUNTER.
In the morning Grant was the first to awaken, but, although he got up asquietly as possible, Springer heard him and also crept out of theblankets.
“Needn’t think you’re going to sus-sneak off by your lonesome, you oldTexas Ranger,” chuckled Phil, following Rod from the tent. “Like one ofSleuthy’s Wampanoags, I’m on your trail.”
They were surprised to hear a low voice behind them: “I’m watching youboth. Nothing but cooking on a camping expedition is becoming somewhatmonotonous, and I propose to get into the real sport this morning.”
It was Stone, and they grinned at him welcomingly.
“Come on, Ben,” invited Rod. “You’ve sure performed your share of thework, and you’ve a right to get in some fun. After a plunge, we’ll dressand hike out.”
They took a dip and a rub-down in the soft purple light of thebreathless, balmy dawn, after which little time was lost in dressing andgetting out the fishing tackle.
In the shadowy tent Sleuth and Sile slept on, the latter muttering andgroaning occasionally, the former at last bound in peaceful slumber.
“They’re sure exhausted complete,” said Grant, as he brought the fishingoutfit from the tent.
They paused near the canoe upon the sandy beach.
“Which way shall we go?” questioned Rod.
“I’ve got a feeling that I’d like to tut-try that brook again,” saidPhil. “It’s handy, and we can feel pretty sure of catching something.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” admitted Grant. “Forbidden fruit isalways the most attractive. Besides, three of us would crowd the canoeso that there would be little comfort in fishing. What do you say,Stone?”
“I’m ready for anything,” agreed Ben. “And if we keep to the near sideof the brook, we know we’ll not be trespassing. Jim Simpson will have nogrounds for raising a row.”
“And if he doesn’t raise a row,” laughed Phil, “we’ll all be sus-sorelydisappointed. Come on.”
As they made their way along the shore they cast occasional glancestoward Spirit Island, which seemed to crouch in the midst of the lake,dark, silent and mysterious, and therefore intensely fascinating totheir youthful minds. In the broad light of day they might show adisposition to laugh at superstitious fancies, but, scarcely less thancomplete darkness, the shadowy, silent approach of dawn is conducive tosensations of awe and a pronounced inclination to credit the seeminglysupernatural. And it is indeed a wholly unimaginative person who hasnever experienced a thrill over the apparently uncanny and weird.
At the mouth of the brook they were granted nothing but disappointment;the test of various flies failed to lure a single fish to rise to theirhooks.
“It seems,” said Springer, “that we made a fearful mistake in bringingPiper with us, or, at least, in permitting him to try his hand atangling. Having frightened all the fish out of the water to hide in thewoods, isn’t it pup-possible that, in their extreme terror, they mayhave lingered too long in their places of concealment and perishedmiserably?”
“I heard of a man once,” said Grant, “who taught a trout to live out ofthe water.”
“Easy! easy!” warned Phil.
“This gent I’m speaking of,” continued Rod, a twinkle in his eyes, “wasan expert fisherman and hunter and lived alone in the woods. One day hecaught a trout, and the minute he saw the creature he knew it sure wasan unusually intelligent fish, for it was wide between the eyes and hada high, bold forehead. Fortunately, that trout had not been much hurt bythe hook, and the hunter proceeded at once to place it in a tub filledwith water. All day long he sat around watching the trout in that tub,becoming more and more convinced that he had secured an unusuallyintelligent specimen. Swimming around, the trout would occasionally lookup at him and wink with such a knowing look in its eye that the manlaughed outright.
“In the night, the hunter, still thinking of the fish, conceived abrilliant idea. Getting up quietly, in order that the fish might nothear him, he secured an auger, crept close to the tub, in the side ofwhich, close to the bottom, he stealthily bored a hole that let out allthe water without the trout ever becoming aware of it. The experimentproved to be a mighty big success, for there in the tub the followingmorning the hunter found his trout as lively and chipper as ever.
“After this, having convinced the fish that it could live on dry land aswell as in the water, the hunter set about training it, and in a shorttime that trout would follow him around the camp like a faithful dog. Itsure was a right queer sight to see the fish paddling around on its finsin the wake of its master, and it is said to be a solemn fact that theman spent a heap of time trying to teach Trouty to sit up and bark; butas to his success in this there is considerable doubt and more or lessdisagreement.
“As the warm summer passed, the autumn faded and winter came hiking on,the trout’s master perceived that his pet was beginning to suffer moreor less discomfort from cold whenever it went outside the camp; and,having a naturally tender heart, the man manufactured a sweater for thefish, made out of an old sock. He cut holes in this sweater for thetrout’s fins, so that it could locomote pretty nearly as well as usual,and the little fellow was right comfortable.
“But one day a sad tragedy occurred. It was one of those warm, balmydays of Indian summer, and the trout, probably feeling the need ofexercise, followed his master to a stream, over which he attempted tocross on a slippery log. Losing his balance on the log, the fish felloff into the water and was drowned. In this manner, doubtless, perishedone of the most remarkable——”
“Help!” cried Springer, clinging to the bole of a tree and gasping as ifin great distress, while Stone, laughing heartily, had sunk upon theground. “That’s the bub-biggest whopper I ever heard, and you sure toldsome beauts when you fuf-first hit Oakdale, Rod.”
The Texan regarded his companions with gentle reproof.
“You’ll observe,” he reminded, “that, like our interesting friend, Mr.Granger, I was careful to give the story as purely a matter of hearsay.”
“And, in spite of howling dogs, flashing lights, and ghostly figures,”said Ben, “there may be as much truth in one story as there is in theother. A hermit once lived on Spirit Island; doubtless a hunter oncecaught a trout and put it in a tub.”
“Nevertheless,” sighed Springer, “I’m almost tut-too weak to proceed onthis little fishing expedition.”
He led the way along the nearest bank, exercising due caution in ordernot to frighten the fish in the pools; but, to the wonderment andperplexity of the young anglers, their efforts continued futile.Annoyed, they watched their flies bob in the little eddies or skimacross the placid places, untroubled and untouched. This lack of successserved to spur them on, and they followed the brook further and furtherinto the woods, Springer still leading.
Finally Stone reached a broad, deep pool, spanned at its lower edge byan old limbless tree that had fallen from bank to bank. If there weretrout anywhere, it seemed that they must be here, and Ben crept uptoward the near end of the pool and made a cast. Over his head a redsquirrel scolded at him from a limb, and he could hear the flute-likenotes of the hermit thrush sounding from various parts of the woods.Suddenly there was a whirling movement on the surface of the water and ajerk at Ben’s line.
“I’ve got one!” he exclaimed, quickly stepping out upon the old tree inorder to have plenty of elbow room for the task before him.
“And I’ll get you if you don’t skedaddle!” roared a hoarse voice,following which a grizzled, bewhiskered man crashed forth from thebushes on the opposite bank and sprang on to the log, a pitchfork in hiscalloused hands.
Of course Ben was startled, and, failing to give proper attention to hisreel, he permitted the fish to dart under a projecting root near thebank, where it broke away.
“There, you made me lose him!” he exclaimed resentfully.
“But I won’t lose you, if you don’t
hiper in a hurry!” retorted the man,advancing upon the fallen tree with the pitchfork threateningly poised.
“That’s right, dad!” cried another voice, and Jim Simpson rose from aplace of concealment on the opposite bank somewhat further down thestream. In his hands he held an old muzzle-loading gun.
“What right have you to trouble me?” demanded Ben. “I’m not on yourland.”
“But you’re fishing in my brook,” declared the man. “I’ll show you sassyyoung cubs that you can’t fish in this brook!”
He had reached the middle of the log, from which Ben now stepped back tothe ground without showing a disposition immediately to retreat further.
Springer, above, had heard Stone’s exclamation when the fish struck,and, hurrying back, he reached the upper end of the pool as the man withthe pitchfork balanced himself precariously upon the fallen tree.Instantly Phil lifted his fly-rod and made a skillful cast, which sentthe hook sailing through the air to strike the collar of the man’s coatand cling there. Reaching out hurriedly, Springer grasped the linebeyond the tip of the rod and gave it a pull.
It needed no more than this slight tug to cause Hank Simpson to lose hisbalance, and backward into the water he fell with a tremendous splash.
At the same moment Grant, who a short time before had detected youngSimpson hiding behind the bushes, which led Rod to ford the streamunperceived, sprang forward and landed fairly upon the fellow’s back.Seizing the gun, Rodney wrested it from Jim’s hands.
“I don’t opine you’ll do any shooting this morning with thisblunderbuss,” said the Texan.
The young fellow, who had been knocked floundering to the ground,recognized his antagonist of the previous morning and began to scrambleaway on all fours in ludicrous haste.
Puffing and gulping, old man Simpson rose from the pool and stood upwith the water rising to his waist. The sharp tug given by Springer hadtorn the hook loose, and now Phil, without pausing to reel in, hurriedto Stone’s side.
“You confounded rascals! You young whelps!” spluttered Hank Simpson,shaking his dripping fist at the two boys. “I’ll smash ye!”
“If I were in your place, sir,” said Grant, holding the gun, “I reckon Iwouldn’t try any smashing. We were careful to keep on the side of thebrook that you do not own, and we give due notice now that we’ll fishhere whenever we please.”
“What be you doing on that side then?” demanded Simpson.
“Oh, I just came over to interview your worthy offspring. That’s himback yonder in the woods calling to you.”
“Dad—hey, dad!” Jim Simpson was crying. “They’ve got the gun.”
It must be recorded that Simpson senior gave utterance to language thatwould not look well in print.
“I’ll have the law on ’em!” he fumed, as he recovered his pitchfork andretreated toward his own land.
“Go as far as you please,” said Grant, who had inspected the gun. “Why,this thing isn’t even loaded, and I don’t believe it could be fired ifit was.”
With which he pitched the old musket toward Simpson and calmly recrossedthe brook.