Joe Wayring at Home/Chapter 15
CHAPTER XV.
MY FIRST TRIP TO INDIAN LAKE.
THE next morning, just as the clock was striking the hour of four, I was aroused from a reverie into which I had fallen by a hasty step, followed by a blinding glare of light, and Joe Wayring came hurrying into the kitchen. He didn't look much as he did the last time I saw him, and if it hadn't been for his curly head and blue eyes, I don't think I should have recognized him. But he was a nobby looking fellow, all the same, dressed as he was in a neat suit of duck, dyed to a dead grass shade, a light helmet with a peak before and behind, and leggings and gaiters instead of boots. Joe was not the boy to make himself uncomfortable, or to go about in a ragged coat and with his hair sticking out of the top of his cap, just because he intended to spend the day in the woods out of sight of every body. He knew of anglers and hunters who affected that style, and they could follow it, if they wanted to, but he wouldn't. Leggings and gaiters were easier to walk in than heavy boots, and whole clothes looked better than shabby ones.
Placing the lamp on the table Joe began bustling about the kitchen, and in a very few minutes the fire was started and the tea-kettle filled. Then he threw back the cloth before spoken of, revealing a substantial lunch, a liberal portion of which he proceeded to pack away in the creel.
About the time the coffee was ready, the door opened again, and Uncle Joe came in. He, too, was dressed for the woods, and curried a rod of some sort in one hand and a creel in the other. The latter must have been a fine looking article in his day, but how he was as weather-beaten as any old sailor. And that was not to be wondered at, for he had traveled much, and had seen many hardships. He had accompanied his master from one end of the country to the other. He had held captive for him many a nice breakfast of grayling captured in Michigan waters, and carried his dinner while he was fighting with the big trout in Rangeley Lakes. He went with him on one of his Western tours, and would certainly have fallen into the hands of the Utes when they arose in rebellion and massacred all the whites they could find, had it not been for the fact that he was slung over his master's shoulder, and the latter was in too great a hurry to stop and throw him off. He had many thrilling recollections of the Indian Lake country, for he had been capsized on the rapids more times than he could remember. He was a good talker, and as full of stories as the canvas canoe.
"Well, sir," said Uncle Joe, as he deposited his rod and creel on the table, "what are the prospects?"
"Couldn't be better," replied the boy. "It's cloudy, and there is every sign of rain before noon."
"I hope it will stay cloudy, but I can't say that I want to see it rain," said Uncle Joe, as he drew a chair up to the table and took the cup of coffee his nephew poured out for him. "The bushes around the old spring hole are pretty thick, and I long ago ceased to see any fun in getting drenched for the sake of catching a mess of half-pound trout. If they were salmon, now, the case would be different."
Nevertheless Uncle Joe seemed to be in just as great a hurry to eat his breakfast and be off as his nephew was. Ten minutes sufficed to satisfy their appetites, and in ten minutes more we were on the outskirts of the village, and moving up an old log road toward the spring hole, where I was to make my first attempt to take a fish. I dreaded the ordeal, for I did not have as much confidence in myself as I would have had if my master had not spoken so slightingly of me.
How far it was from the village to the spring hole, I am sure I don't know. It seemed like a long journey to me, although it was enlivened by stories of travel and adventure from Uncle Joe, in which I became deeply interested. Presently Joe, who was leading the way, pushed aside the bushes in front of him, disclosing to view a small body of water fringed with lily-pads and surrounded on all sides by high and thickly wooded hills; and I knew instinctively that we had reached the end of our tramp, and that the time had come for me to show what I could do. There seemed to be abundant opportunity for me to do good work if I was capable of it. While I was being taken out of my case, I noticed that now and then there was a slight commotion in the water, just outside the lilies, and I knew it was occasioned by trout jumping from the water, even before Joe Wayring said so.
"Just look at them!" he exclaimed, in great excitement. "They are having a high old time among themselves. I wouldn't take a dollar for my chance of going home with a full creel. There! Did you see that whopper?"
"Put on a white miller and a brown hackle, and give me your rod as quick as you can," answered his uncle. "I saw him, and if he comes up again within seventy or eighty feet of us, I will make an effort to take him."
"Do you mean to say that you can throw a fly as far as that?" inquired Joe.
"That depends upon the rod. I'd like to have the first try with it, if you have no objection, for I want to see whether or not you've got a good bargain."
Of course Joe had no objection. As soon as I was ready for business he passed me over to his uncle, and when I felt his strong fingers close around me, I knew that I was in the hands of one who would make me show off to the best possible advantage.
"There he is again! Give him the flies, quick!" cried Joe, suddenly.
Uncle Joe's movements were characterized by what sportsmen are wont to call "deliberate quickness". He was so very deliberate, in fact, that his nephew began to show unmistakable signs of impatience; but still he did not waste a single second of valuable time. Reeling off as much line as the close proximity of the bushes behind would permit him to use, Uncle Joe gave me a smart upward and backward fling and then struck down toward the water. This movement caused the line to fly through the air like a whip lash, only it grew in length all the while; and when the flies were directly over the swirl the trout had made when he went down, the motion of the reel was stopped by a slight pressure of the angler's thumb, and the tempting lures settled upon the water as lightly as a couple of feathers.
"I never can learn to do that," said Joe, despondingly. "It requires altogether too much skill for my clumsy—Well, sir, you've got him as sure as the world."
The hook was fast to something, that was plain; but I thought at first that Uncle Joe had caught a snag or a lily-pad. There was a jerk that made me wonder, and in an instant more I was bent almost half double; but with all the strain that was brought to bear upon me, the thing at the other end of the line, whatever it was, did not give an inch. On the contrary, it started and ran off toward the middle of the spring hole; and then I began to realize that I was doing battle with a trout of the largest size. Now was the time to show my master that he had been much mistaken in me.
I need not stop to go into the particulars of the fight, for every boy who has caught a heavy trout on a light rod will know just what happened; and besides, to be frank with you, I don't remember much about it. Neither does Joe Wayring, who was so highly excited that he could not stand still. I recollect he afterward told his chums that the fish jumped clear out of the water two or three times, and then started from the middle of the spring hole and ran toward the angler at the top of his speed, trying to loosen the line so that the hook would drop out of his mouth; but the automatic reel took up the slack as fast as he made it, and his mad rushes about the spring hole had no other result than to tire him out, so that he could offer but feeble resistance when he was reeled in to the bank. The moment he was brought within reach Joe slipped a landing net under him and lifted him out.
"Two pounds and three ounces," he almost shouted, after he had weighed him on his pocket scales. "Now, Uncle Joe, what's your opinion of that rod?"
"A fair sized fish for these waters," said Uncle Joe, as he stepped to the edge of the spring hole for another cast. "As for the rod it's as good a one as you need wish for. If you will take care of him, he will last as long as you will, barring accident."
I will not dwell upon the incidents of the day, for I must hasten on to tell you what happened to me during my first visit to Indian Lake. It will be enough to say that Joe and his uncle enjoyed themselves, as they always did whenever they went anywhere together, and that my master after an hour or two of assiduous practice, learned to make short casts with tolerable accuracy, and to show considerable skill in handling the fish he hooked. When the two went home a little before dark Joe's creel was not as full as his uncle's, but the few trout he captured with his light tackle, afforded him more genuine sport than twice the number of bass taken on a heavy bait-rod.
That day was the beginning of a busy season for me. Every Saturday, rain or shine, found me at the spring hole or wandering along the banks of some of the numerous streams that ran into Mirror Lake. I caught a good many fish, soon got over my nervousness, and looked forward to the long summer vacation with as much impatience as Joe himself. It came at last, being ushered in by a canoe meet on the 3d of July, and a grand parade on the 4th, in which the Toxophilites and Scouts both took part. There was a good deal of rivalry between these two organizations—so much, indeed, that the usual exhibition drill at the park was given by the military company, thus putting it out of the power of either club to crow over the other. But still there was considerable crowing done, especially by Tom Bigden and a few envious fellows like him.
"Don't you remember what vociferous applause the Toxophilites received last 4th?" said he, to his cousins.
"Yes; and I remember how mad you were about it, too," replied Loren.
"I know it. I couldn't bear to see them throw on so many airs, but I little thought that I should aid in making them take back seats at their next parade. I have yet to see any one who will say that the Scouts didn't do just as line marching in the procession as the Toxophilites did."
Of course I did not see the parade, and neither did I witness the sports that were held during the canoe meet, for I was shut up in Joe's room so far from a window that I could not tell what was going on out-doors. But I heard the music of the band, and the cheers that arose whenever some lucky fellow carried off a prize, and the exciting and amusing incidents that happened during those two days of festivity, were so often talked of in my hearing, that I was pretty well posted after all. I was glad to learn that my master won the paddle race very easily, and that he pushed Roy and Arthur so closely in the hurry-skurry race that the referee had half a mind to order another contest. But Joe and Arthur said that Roy was ahead, and as the other boys backed them up, Roy was awarded the prize. There was no attempt at fouling this time. Every thing was conducted fairly, as it always had been previous to Tom Bigden's arrival in the village, and every member of the club won or lost on his merits.
The parade being over, there was nothing to keep Joe and his two chums at home, and on the evening of the 4th they began making preparations for their annual trip to Indian Lake. Shortly after supper Joe Wayring came into the room, and having exchanged his uniform for a suit of working clothes, he shouldered my friend, the canvas canoe, and carried him down stairs. Half an hour later he came back after the creel and me. He took us down to the boat-house and there we found the canoe, snugly tucked away in his chest like a tired boy in his little bed.
"Hurrah for me!" exclaimed the canoe, after Joe had gone out locking the door behind him. "I am going to Indian Lake, too. Now, if Joe can only keep clear of Matt Coyle, we'll see some fun before we get back. You think you know something about fishing; but wait until you get hold of one of those big lake trout, and then tell me what you think about it."
That was just what I wanted to do, but I didn't say so, for fear that when the time came I might discover that I was not quite so good a rod as I thought I was.
We were so very impatient to be off that the night was a very long one to us; but at the first peep of day we heard Joe's step as he came down the walk toward the boat-house. He placed a basket of provisions on the wharf, mildly scolded Mars for making such a fuss over the coming separation, and then came in after us. Arthur Hastings, Jim and the skiff were on time, as they always were, and in half an hour more we had taken Roy Sheldon on board and were moving gayly down the river. We camped for the night at the old perch hole, where the skiff had ridden out that furious storm a year before, and the boys had fish for supper. Joe had been told that perch would rise to a red ibis, but he and I could not prove the truth of the assertion. Although Arthur and Roy pulled out the fish as fast as they could bait their hooks, Joe never got a bite. The reason was, the water was too deep. His uncle afterward told him that six feet is about as far as any fish can be relied upon to rise to a fly; and sometimes they are too lazy to come from that depth.
On the afternoon on the fourth day we left the river and turned into a little creek, whose current was so swift that the boys were obliged to use extra exertion in order to make headway against it. About an hour after the sun went down we came to anchor in the mouth of a brook, and there I made amends for my failure at the perch hole. I captured more trout than both the other rods, and if I had felt so inclined, could have returned some of the left-handed compliments they paid me when it was found that I could not catch a perch in twenty feet of water; but being peaceably disposed I said nothing. While the tent was being put up, a muffled voice came from the chest in which the canvas canoe was packed away. The cover being shut down, I had to listen intently in order to catch what he said to me.
"Didn't I hear some one say something about trout?" asked the canoe.
"I think it very likely," was my reply. "There are lots of them in the brook; almost as many as there in the spring hole at Mount Airy."
"Then I know where we are," said my imprisoned friend. "Did you see an ugly looking snag about a mile below? Well, there's one there, and it's the one Jake Coyle ran into the night I was sunk in the creek. The fight I told you about took place right here. Have you seen or heard any thing of the squatter?"
"No, I haven't; but I know that Joe and his friends are keeping a bright lookout for him."
"I am glad to hear it, and I hope they will not relax their vigilance just because Matt keeps himself out of sight. His shanty is over there in the woods on the right hand side of the creek. I'll bet he is there now, and that he has had his eye on the skiff ever since she came into this part of the country. Mark my words: Joe will hear from him before he sees Mount Airy again."
"Oh, I hope not," said I.
"So do I," answered the canoe. "But I became well enough acquainted with Matt and his family during the short time I lived with them, to know that they do not intend to leave here unless they are driven away, as they were last year when they came to our village. Why, this is the best place in the world for a man who is too lazy to work, and who is not above taking things without leave. Game and fish are abundant. All the guides cultivate little patches of ground, and keep a few pigs and chickens, and as they are away from home a good part of the time, their property is left to the care of their wives and children. They can't stand guard day and night, and consequently it is no trouble at all for Matt to steal all he wants. He has a fine hiding-place now, and as he and his family make it a point to travel different routes every time they go away from the shanty or return to it, they don't leave much of a trail for the guides to follow, if they should make up their minds to hunt them up. Another thing," added the canoe, in a tone of anxiety, "Matt hates Joe and his chums for two reasons: First, because their fathers turned him out of Mount Airy, and second, because they gave him such a pelting with potatoes the last time they were up here. If he is here, he will try to have revenge for that; now you see if he doesn't."
The canvas canoe spoke confidently, and his words occasioned me no little uneasiness; but I was greatly relieved to learn from the conversation, to which I listened while the boys were eating supper, that they were fully alive to the dangers of the situation, and that they did not mean to let the squatter take them off their guard. They were happy in the belief that Matt could not attack them, except at long range, because he had no boat to bring him alongside the skiff. It never occurred to them that he had had plenty of time to steal or build one, and that was where they made their mistake.
Up to this time we had had pleasant weather; but this particular night was a rainy one. The big drops began coming down just after the tent was put up. Then I realized for the first time what a comfortable home it was that the boys had provided for themselves. The canvas canoe and I lay on the forward locker, with the two bait-rods, the dip-net and the cocker spaniel to keep us company. On the bottom of the boat in the cock-pit sat the three chums, on either side of a table which they had made by pushing the movable thwarts close together. On the table, which was covered with a white napkin, was an array of dishes, plates and cups, all of tin, which were filled to over-flowing with ham sandwiches, bread and butter, cake, ripe fruit of various kinds and trout, done to a turn. On the stern locker stood the little stove over which Arthur had cooked the fish and made the tea, and above it hung the jack-lamp that was kept burning all night. If any thing happened—if the wind arose and the anchor dragged, or prowlers of any sort came about—the boys wanted a light to work by. Over all was the tent, with the rain coming gently down on the top of it. One side curtain was rolled up to admit the air, but the other was buttoned securely to the gunwale. Joe wasn't going to have the squatter slip up and send a club into the cock-pit before he knew it. Taken altogether it was a cozy, home-like scene, and I no longer wondered why it was that Joe and his friends looked forward to the summer vacation with such lively anticipations of pleasure.
The boys slept soundly that night, lulled by the pattering of the rain on the roof over their heads, but the sun did not find them in bed. I caught more than my share of the trout they ate for breakfast, and that afternoon was given an opportunity to try my skill on larger game, to wit, a four pound black bass. I may add, too, that I got my first ducking, and witnessed the liveliest kind of a foot race. But I can't say that I enjoyed it; there was too much depending on it.
"Do you remember the last time we ate breakfast here?" said Joe, as he drew up the anchor while his companions shipped the oars and pulled up the creek toward the pond. "If my memory serves me, Matt Coyle made the mouth of this brook uncomfortably warm for us for a few minutes. What would we have done if Roy hadn't been smart enough to keep some of the potatoes out of that bag? I wonder where the old chap is now?"
"Probably he is a hundred miles away," answered Arthur. "You don't suppose that the people who live around the lake are going to let him stay here and steal them out of house and home, do you?"
"I am of the opinion that he and his worthless family were driven away from here long ago," said Roy. "But still I don't believe in trusting any thing to luck. We needn't go ashore unless we want to, and Matt can't bother us while we are lying at anchor. He's got no boat, and he isn't foolish enough to swim off to us, for we gave him a lesson the last time we were here that he will remember as long as he lives."
We left the mouth of the brook at an early hour, and about four in the afternoon entered the pond, where I heard Joe say we would remain until the bread and bacon gave out, when we would go over to Indian Lake and lay in a fresh supply. Now Joe was sorry that he had left his bait-rod behind. The pond was noted for the number and fighting qualities of its bass and Joe had nothing to catch them with; at least that was what he told his friends, adding that he was afraid to trust so heavy work to me.
"You'd better be afraid," assented Roy. "If you don't want that fine rod of yours smashed into a thousand pieces, you had better not try to catch a bass with it. But I'll tell you what you might do, if you don't care to sit idly here while Art and I catch all the fish and see all the fun. You might go up to the little perch hole and throw a fly there. Perhaps you will find the perch in the pond more accommodating than they were back there in the river."
"How about our esteemed friend, the squatter?" said Arthur.
"Oh, he can't trouble me," answered Joe, who was already preparing to act upon Roy's suggestion. "His shanty is away off there somewhere, while the perch hole lies a mile or more in the opposite direction. There is a wide and deep river between the two, and how is Matt going to cross it without a boat? I am of Roy's opinion that he was driven away from here long ago."
While Joe was talking in this way he had taken the canvas canoe from his chest, and now under his skillful hands my old friend was fast assuming his usual symmetrical proportions. In less than ten minutes he was floating graceully alongside the skiff.
"Come on, Fly-rod," said he, "and I will show you what a canvas canoe can do when he is managed by some one who understands his business. You never took a ride with me, did you?"
No, I never had, and if the truth must be told, I never wanted to take a second ride with him. He may have been "the boss boat" on the rapids, as he often boasted, but he was a very unfortunate craft all the same, and before the day was over I had reason to believe that Joe would have seen more sport during his two weeks' outing if he had left the canoe safe in his room at Mount Airy. I came back to the skiff, but he didn't.