Joe Wayring at Home/Chapter 2
CHAPTER II.
THE HISTORIAN OF THE WAYRING FAMILY.
THE bamboo having been disposed of I was returned to the show-case, where I spent two very lonely days. The rods around me were worth more money than I was, and feeling their importance they would scarcely speak to me, even to answer a civil question; so all I could do was to hold my peace and listen to their conversation. But fate had decreed that I should not long remain a captive. One afternoon there came into the store a gentleman in gold spectacles, accompanied by two bright boys about fifteen years of age. They must have been well known to the proprietor, for he shook their hands with all the cordiality which shopkeepers know how to assume toward their rich patrons, and greeted them with:
"Ah, colonel, I am glad to see you. Well, Joseph, have you come after that rod?"
"Yes, sir," answered one of the boys, a curly-headed, blue-eyed lad, who looked so good-natured and jolly that I took a great fancy to him at once. "You remember what I told you the last time I was here, Mr. Brown—that I want something light and strong and inexpensive. I can't afford to pay a high price for a rod that I may break at the very first cast. You know I never threw a fly in my life."
"Yes, I know that," said Mr. Brown, "and I know, too, that as a bait fisher you have few equals and no superiors among boys of your age."
"I thank you for the compliment, but I am afraid I don't deserve it," said the blue-eyed boy, modestly.
"Oh, yes, you do. Now here's a rod that will suit you exactly," answered the proprietor, pushing open the show-case and laying hold of me. "He weighs only eight ounces, hangs beautifully, and will answer your purpose as well as one worth five times the money. Only six and a half, and that's cheaper than you could steal him, if you were in that line of business."
"What do you say, Uncle Joe?" asked the boy after he and his companion, whom he addressed as Roy Sheldon, had shaken me up and down in the air until it was a wonder to me that they did not break my back.
"Since Mr. Brown has recommended him, I say that you can't do better than to take him," was the reply, and that settled the matter. I had a master at last, and a good one, too, if there were any faith to be put in appearances. I took him for a restless, uneasy fellow who would not let me rust for want of use, and I found that I had not been mistaken in my opinion of him.
Joe, as I shall hereafter call him, next purchased, under his uncle's supervision, three long water-proof lines, a Loomis automatic reel, a dozen cream-colored leaders of different lengths, a creel who afterward became my constant companion, and a fly-book filled with all the most tempting lures known to anglers, such as coachmen, white millers, red and brown hackles, and many other things whose names I did not know. With these under his arm and me on his shoulder he set out for home accompanied by Roy Sheldon, Uncle Joe taking leave of them at the door, saying that he was going to the post-office.
"I wish every fellow in the world had an uncle like that," said Joe, as he turned about and waved his hand to the gentleman with the gold spectacles.
"So do I," answered Roy, "excepting, of course, Tom Bigden and his crowd."
"I don't except even them," said Joe. "Tom pulls a lovely oar, and I never saw a fellow who could play short stop or train a spaniel like him. I have nothing against any of them, and should be glad to be friends with them if they would let me."
"But haven't you seen to your satisfaction that they won't let you?" demanded Roy, rather sharply. "They've got something against you, and they'll continue to make you suffer for it; see if they don't."
I wondered what it was that any one could have against so fine a young fellow as my new master appeared to be, and it was not many days before I found out. Tom Bigden and his followers did make Joe suffer, but it was principally through his friends, that is, through his sail-boat, his shell in which he used to train for his races, his canvas canoe that had carried him safely down the most difficult rapids in Indian River, and finally through me. In fact, I became a regular shuttle-cock of fortune, and was so roughly knocked about from pillar to post, that it is a wonder to me that I am as good a rod as I am.
After a few minutes' walk along a quiet street shaded on each side by grand old trees, Joe and his companion turned into a wide carriage-way which led them by a circuitous route through a little grove of evergreens to the house in which Joe lived a fine brick mansion, with stone facings, a carriage-porch at the side door, and a croquet ground and lawn tennis court in front. Behind the house the grounds sloped gently down to the shore of a beautiful lake, with an island near the center, and with banks on each side that were thickly wooded, save where the trees and undergrowth had been cleared away to make room for the cozy summer residences of the visitors who came there every year. For Mount Airy, that was the name of the village in which Joe Wayring lived, was acquiring some fame as a watering place. There were four springs in the vicinity, whose waters were supposed to possess some medicinal virtues, the scenery was grand, the drives numerous and pleasant, and the fishing (and the shooting, too, in the proper season), could not be surpassed.
At the foot of the path that led from the carriage-porch to the lake, was a boat-house which afforded shelter to some of Joe's friends whose acquaintance I was soon to make, and a short distance from its door his sail boat, the Young Republic, rode at her moorings. It was indeed a pleasant scene that was spread out before me; but before I had time to admire it sufficiently, Joe and his companion went up the stone steps three at a jump, rushed into the hall, fired their caps at the hat-rack, and without waiting to see whether or not they caught on the pegs at which they were aimed, ran up the wide stairs that led to the floor above. I held my breath in suspense and wondered what in the world was the matter now; but I afterward learned that I had no cause for uneasiness, and that that is the way boys generally conduct themselves when they go into a house. It saves them the trouble of hunting up their father and mother and telling them that they have got home without being run over by the cars, or knocked down by a runaway horse, or drowned in the lake.
The room into which Joe conducted his friend was like the private sanctum of every other boy who delights in the sports of the woods and fields, with this exception: It was in perfect order, and as neat as a new pin. Joe's mother wouldn't have it any other way, and neither would Joe. Indeed it was a favorite saying of his that if folks would keep away and let his things alone (by "folks" he meant to designate old Betty, the housekeeper, who, according to Joe's way of thinking, was "awful fussy"), he could find any thing he wanted, from a postage-stamp to a spoon-oar, on the darkest of nights, and without a lamp to aid him in the search.
The room looked a good deal like a museum I afterward saw, only it was on a much smaller scale, of course, and it contained so many rare and curious things that Joe's friends were always glad of an invitation "to step up for a few minutes." Uncle Joe's love for the rod and gun had led him to roam all over his own country, as well as to some remote corners of foreign lands, and during these rambles he never forgot the boy at home who thought so much of relics and souvenirs of all kinds, and took such good care of them. He gave Joe the Alpine stock which had assisted him in his ascent of Mount Blanc; the Indian saddle and bridle he had used when fleeing from the agency at the time the Utes rose in rebellion and killed Meeker and all the other whites who did not succeed in making good their escape; the head of the first bison he had ever shot, and which, having been mounted by an expert taxidermist, had been hung above the looking-glass over the mantle to serve as a resting place for the sword and pistols Uncle Joe carried during the war, the elk-horn bow, quiver of arrows, scalping knife and moccasins presented to him by a Sioux chief; and for the prize lancewood bow won by my master at a shooting match; for Joe was an archer, as well as an angler and wing shot, and he had been Master Bowman of the Mount Airy Toxophilites until he became tired of the office and gave it up. These articles, and a good many others which I did not have time to look at, were so neatly and artistically arranged that it did not seem to me that a single one of them could be moved without spoiling the effect of the whole. Nothing looked out of place, not even the black, uncouth object that lay in a little recess on the opposite side of the room. Having never seen any thing just like him before, I could not make out what he was, and I waited rather impatiently for his master to go out of the room so that I could speak to him; but Joe did not seem to be in any hurry to leave. He stood me up in a corner, and then he and Roy seated themselves at a table in the middle of the room, and proceeded to "fix up" a debate that was to be held at the High School on the afternoon of the coming Friday. The question was: "Ought corporal punishment in schools to be abolished?" No doubt it was a matter in which both Joe and Roy had been deeply interested in their younger days, but it did not affect me one way or the other, and consequently I paid very little attention to what they said. My time was fully taken up with the strange things I saw around me.
At last, to my great satisfaction, the boys concluded that they could "fix up" the matter while sailing about the lake in the Young Republic, better than they could while sitting by the table, especially if they could find some boat to race with, so they bolted out of the room with much noise and racket, and left the house, banging the hall door loudly behind them. Then I turned to speak to the object that occupied the recess on the other side of the room, and found that he was quite as willing to make my acquaintance as I was to make his.
"Hallo!" said he; and I afterward learned that that is the way in which school boys and telephones always greet each other.
"Hallo!" said I, in reply. "Who are you? if I may be so bold as to inquire."
"Oh, that's all right," answered my new acquaintance, cheerfully. "Everybody who sees me for the first time wants to know all about me. I don't suppose I am much to look at—indeed, I know I am not, because I can see my reflection in the mirror over the mantle—but I am the boss boat on the rapids, and am worth more on a 'carry' than all the cedar and birch-bark canoes in America. I am the historian of the Wayring family, or, rather, of the youngest branch of it," he added, with no little pride in his tones. "I carry secrets enough to sink any ordinary craft, and if I only had the power to communicate some of them to my master, perhaps he wouldn't open his eyes! I am a canvas canoe, at your service."
"Oh!" said I.
"Yes," said he. "And unless my judgment is at fault, you are a fly-rod. I heard Joe say that his uncle was going to get one for him."
"That is just what I am," I made answer. "Nickel-plated ferrules and reel-seat, artistically wound with cane and silk, and lance-wood throughout."
My lofty speech did not have the effect I thought it would. The canvas canoe seemed to have rather an exalted opinion of himself, and I did not see why I should stay in the background for want of somebody to praise me, and so I praised myself; and that's a bad thing to do. I only succeeded in exciting the merriment of every occupant of the room, for I heard derisive laughter on all sides of me.
"Don't throw on airs, young fellow," said the canvas canoe, as soon as he could speak. "You have come to the wrong shop for that sort of work. I wouldn't boast until I had done something, if I were in your place. If there is any good in you, you will fare well in Joe's hands, and he will do your bragging for you; but if you fail him when the pinch comes, you will most likely be chucked into the lake, or given away to the first little ragamuffin he can find who wants a rod that is good for nothing. So take a friend's advice and hold your tongue until you have seen service."
I felt somewhat abashed by this rebuke, for, of course, I was desirous of making a favorable impression upon those with whom I was to be associated all the days of my life. I thought I had made them despise me; but the next words uttered by the canvas canoe showed me that I need have no fears on that score.
"A boat and a rod generally go together, you know," said he; "so I suppose that you and I will see much of each other hereafter."
"And how about me?" piped a shrill voice close beside me.
I looked down, and there was the creel. I had not thought of him before, and it was plain that the canoe hadn't either, for he exclaimed, in a tone of surprise:
"Who spoke? Oh, it was you, was it? Well, I don't know just what Joe will do with you, for he never owned a creel before. He has always carried his dinner in his pocket when he went trouting, or in a basket if he went out on the lake after bass, and brought his fish home on a string; but he will find use for you, you may depend upon that. He is a busy boy, is Joe, and he keeps every body around him busy, too."
"I understood you to say that you are the historian of the Wayring family," I ventured to remark, when the canoe ceased speaking.
"Of the youngest branch of it—yes. I have been a member of this household for a long time. Can't you see that I am a veteran? Don't you notice my wounds? I have been snagged more times than I can remember, I have had holes punched in me by rocks, and some of my ribs have been fractured; but I am a pretty good boat yet. At least Joe thinks so, for he is going to take me somewhere this coming summer, probably up into Michigan to run the rapids of the Menominee; and, to tell you the honest truth, I am looking forward to that trip with fear and trembling. I have heard Uncle Joe say that those rapids were something to make a man's hair stand on end; but if my master says 'go', I shall take him through if I can. I have carried him through some dangerous places, and whenever I have got him into trouble, it has been owing to his own carelessness or mismanagement."
"I suppose he thinks a great deal of you?" said I.
"Well, he ought to," replied the canoe, with a self-satisfied air. "I have stuck to him through thick and thin for a good many years. I was the very first plaything he owned, after he took it into his head that he was getting too big to ride a rocking-horse. He used to paddle me around on a duck pond, where the water wasn't more than a foot deep, long before it was thought safe to trust him with a rod or gun. But Joe does not seem to care much for a gun. He is fairly carried away by his love of archery, and a longbow is his favorite weapon."
"Do you know who Tom Bigden is, and what Joe has done to incur his ill-will?" I inquired.
"I have some slight acquaintance with that young gentleman," answered the canoe, with a laugh. "It was through him that I was snagged and sunk in the Indian Lake country. I don't know how the fuss started, and neither does anybody except Tom Bigden himself; but I suppose that fellow over there and a few others like him, are wholly to blame for it."
"What fellow? Over where?" I asked; for of course the canvas canoe could not point his finger or nod his head to tell me which way to look.
"This fellow up here," said a new voice, which came from over the bookcase.
I looked up, and there was another lance-wood bow, resting on a pair of deer's antlers. He was not quite as fancy as the prize bow of whom I have already spoken. His green plush handle was beginning to look threadbare, and that, to my mind, indicated that he had seen service.
"You wouldn't think that a few insignificant things like that could be the means of setting a whole village together by the ears, would you?" continued the canoe.
"Insignificant yourself," retorted the long bow; but I was glad to notice that he did not speak as if he were angry. The various articles I saw about me all cherished the most friendly feelings for one another, but when they had nothing to do, they were like a lot of idle boys—always trying to "get a joke" upon some of their number. "You never won a prize for Joe, did you? Well, I have. Go and win a race before you brag. You can't; you're much too clumsy. One of those Shadow or Rob Roy canoes out there on the lake would beat you out of sight in going a mile."
I cared nothing at all for this side sparring. I knew that I would have plenty of time in which to listen to it during the long winter months, when canoe, long bow and fly-rod would be laid up in ordinary, while skates, snow-shoes and toboggans took our places in the affections of our master for the time being. For I saw snow-shoes and a toboggan there, and I knew what they were, because I had seen some like them in Mr. Brown's store. They came from Canada, and were almost as full of stories as the canoe was. Joe had worn the snow-shoes while hunting caribou in Newfoundland in company with his uncle, and the toboggan had carried his master with lightning speed over the ice bridge at Niagara Falls. Many an hour that would otherwise have dragged by on leaden wings did they brighten for us by relating scraps of their personal history, and at some future time I may induce them to put those same narratives into print for your benefit; but just now we are interested in Tom Bigden. We want to know why he disliked Joe Wayring, and what made him take every opportunity he could find to annoy him.
"When you talk about racing you don't want to leave me out," observed the toboggan, "for I am the lad to show speed. Give me a fair field, and I would not be much afraid to try conclusions with an express train. And it takes as much, if not more, skill to manage me than it does to handle an awkward canvas canoe, who is always bobbing about, turning first one way and then another as if he were too contrary to hold a straight course."
"I wasn't intended for a racing boat, and I know I can't compete with such flyers as you and a Rob Roy," said the canvas canoe, modestly; and I afterward found that none of my new acquaintances were half as conceited as they pretended to be. They boasted just to hear themselves talk, and because they had no other way of passing the time when they were unemployed; but each was perfectly willing to acknowledge the superiority of the other in his own particular line of business. "I was intended for a portable craft—something that can be folded into a small compass and carried over a portage without much trouble; and in that respect I am far ahead of a stiff-necked Canuck, who, having made up his mind just how much space he ought to occupy in the world, would rather break than bend to give elbow-room to his betters. "You wanted me to tell you something about Tom Bigden, I believe," added the canoe, addressing himself to me. "Well, it is a long story, but you will have plenty of time to listen to it; for if Joe and Roy have gone out on the lake, they will not return much before dark. You ought to know the full history of Tom's dealings with Joe, for you may become the victim of persecution as the rest of us are and have been ever since Tom came here; and if you were not posted, you would not know how to account for it. A long time ago—"
But there! I never could learn to tell a story in the words of another, so I will, for a time, drop the personal pronoun, which I don't like to use if I can help it, and give you in my own homely way the substance of the narrative to which I listened that afternoon. But please understand one thing before I begin: The historian was not a personal witness of all the incidents I am about to describe. He couldn't have been, unless he possessed the power of being in half a dozen different places at the same time. He saw and heard some things, of course, but much of his information had been obtained from the long bow, and from Joe and his friends, who had freely discussed matters in his presence; and by putting all these different incidents together, he was able to make up a story which, to me, was very interesting. I hope it may prove so to you.