Oakdale Boys in Camp

“Right out there,” answered Sleuth – “right out under that tree near the fireplace. Hadn’t I better load the gun again before we go out?”

“Here, gug-give me that,” snapped Springer, snatching the piece from Piper’s hands. “You’ll be shooting the top of somebody’s head off yet. Now let’s see what he fuf-fired at.”

Directed by Sleuth, who timorously held back and permitted the others to precede him, they went forth to investigate, Crane leading with the lantern.

“Here ’tis,” said Sile, holding up the light with one hand and pointing with the other. “I’ll bet a dollar that’s what Sleuthy fired at; and, so help me Bob, it’s his sleepin’ bag hangin’ over that limb!”

Springer, his agitated nerves suddenly relaxing, uttered a shout of laughter, in which the others joined, with the exception of Piper himself, who immediately began protesting that he had not fired at the dangling sleeping bag.

“That’s not the thing,” he rasped furiously. “I tell you what I shot at had a white head with big fiery eyes. Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“Let’s see if he hit the bag,” suggested Grant. “That will tell.”

It did tell, for the light of the lantern showed them a ragged hole torn through the very center of the sleeping bag by the two charges of shot, and once more Sleuth’s companions gave vent to unbridled merriment.

“Oh, this is the fuf-funniest thing yet,” howled Springer, clinging to his sides. “Old Sleuthy shot his own sus-sleeping bag. And it had a white face with fiery eyes as big as saucers, and he blew the head of the thing right off and saw it go sus-sailing through the air! Oh, dear! oh, dear! I’ll lose my breath!”

In sullen gloom Piper stood staring at the riddled sleeping bag. “I don’t care what you say,” he snarled; “it did have a white face with blazing eyes. Laugh, you mutts – laugh your heads off!”

“I won’t get over this for a week!” choked Crane.

Even Stone was convulsed, and Rodney Grant was compelled to lean against the tree for support.

“It had a terrible voice – don’t forget the voice,” said Ben.

“And he heard something wailing like a lost soul out toward Spirit Island,” put in Rod.

“Yes, I did; yes, I did!” rasped Piper repeatedly. “There – there it is now! Hear it yourselves! Now what do you think? Now what have you got to say?”

Out of the distance came a repetition of the cry which had contributed so much to the wakeful boy’s alarm.

“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” came again from Springer, as he rubbed his sides with both hands. “It’s a loon – nothing but a loon. They always holler lul-like that.”

“A loon!” muttered Sleuth, crestfallen. “It is? Well, anyhow, I know what I saw, and I’ll stick to it about the white face and the fiery eyes.”

Crane had placed the lantern on the ground almost beneath the dangling sleeping bag, and now Grant stooped and picked up something revealed by the light.

“Here’s a white feather,” he said. “A stray shot from Sleuth’s gun may have knocked it out of some sort of a bird. That’s it, I reckon; he saw a white owl that had lighted on the very branch this bag hangs from. That accounts for the big fiery eyes and the terrible voice.”

Piper was struck dumb; he tried to say something, but the words choked in his throat and he abandoned the effort. Mercilessly his companions joshed him, and he realized that his exploits on this first night in camp were destined to provide a topic for raillery for some time to come. With his head down, he turned and plunged into the tent. They found him wrapped in the blankets and stretched on the ground, and to their continued badinage he would utter no word of retort.

With the first gray streaks of morning showing in the eastern sky, Springer attempted to arouse Piper and get him up.

“Come on, Sleuth,” he said. “You want to fish, and this is the time to get at it.”

“Go on,” was the smothered retort. “I’m going to get some sleep. Fish all you want to; I don’t care.”

Grant was up in a moment. “I’m with you, Phil,” he said. “Let’s take a plunge and a rub-down to wake us up, then we can try the fishing, and leave the others to start the fire and have things ready for breakfast when we get back.”

Flinging off everything, they raced out to the rocky side of the point, and Sleuth heard them go plunging into the water, one after the other. With a shivering sigh, for the damp coldness of the earth had crept up through the ground-cloth and blankets and seemed to pierce his bones, Piper got upon his hands and knees, crawled to the bed of boughs just deserted, pulled the blankets of the others around him and again courted slumber. Hazily he heard the early risers return, rub down with coarse towels and get into their clothes. They were putting their rods and reels together when he drifted off for the first time into sound and peaceful sleep.

Rod and Phil made their way slowly along the lake shore toward the south, casting the flies as they went, at which feat Springer, having had more experience, was by far the most skilful.

“It’s the back-snap that does it, Rod,” he explained. “Don’t swing your whole arm so hard; use your wrist more. If you can get a good sharp back-snap and time the forward movement of your hand properly, you’ll catch on pup-pretty soon. You don’t want to cast out as hard as you bring the line back, for if you do you’ll snap the fly like a crack of a whip, and you may even snap it off. Watch me now.”

Rodney watched and saw his companion send the fly soaring far out on the water with a double movement of the wrist, sharp and then gentle, and scarcely any movement whatever of the shoulder.

“It sure looks right simple,” confessed the Texan. “I can do it fairly well with a short bit of line, but I get plenty balled up when I try to let it out and make a longer cast.”

Phil reeled in and gave a demonstration of the proper manner to whip a line out by repeated casts, drawing off more and more from the reel with the left hand and holding the slack until the proper moment to let it run. Indeed, as Grant had said, it seemed an extremely simple thing to do, and Rodney, being an apt pupil, soon began to get the knack of it, and was not discouraged, although he repeatedly made a failure right on the heels of a very praiseworthy effort.

“You’re getting it all right,” encouraged Springer. “You’re doing sus-splendidly.”

“There I go into a bush,” said Rod, as his fly caught in some shrubbery at a distance behind him.

“Never mind that. You’ll need pup-plenty of room at first, and you’ll keep forgetting every little while to make your back cast good and sharp and your forward cast easy. The two movements must be tut-timed just right, too.”

“It must be right good sport when there are fish to catch, but we don’t seem to get any bites.”

“There are fuf-fish enough in the lake,” declared Phil. “Wait till we find them. It’s only the real true fisherman who has plenty of pup-patience and perseverance; the ordinary fellow gets tired and quits after a short time. He seems to think he ought to find fuf-fish anywhere and everywhere. Perhaps the flies we have on are not right, and we’ll try some others as we mum-move along.”

In the east the pearly gray light was taking on the tint of pink coral, and gradually this deepened, until it displayed the tone of a red-cheeked apple dangling from an orchard branch in autumn. Presently the white cross marking the cliff called “Lovers’ Leap” at the further side of the lake gleamed out golden bright, like the spire of a church. The morning air was clear and sweet with the faint odors of the woods, and it seemed to effect the boys like wine, filling their bodies with vibrating energy and tingling enthusiasm.

Although Springer paused to change his flies as they moved along, trying in turn a “Morning Glory,” “Parmacheenee Belle,” “Silver Doctor” and “Brown Hackle,” it was not until he cast into the shadow of some overhanging bushes at the mouth of a brook that he had a strike. There, almost as soon as the hackle sailed out and dropped lightly upon the smooth surface of the water, there was a swirl, a snap at the line, a sharp bending of the delicate bamboo rod; and the clear, buzzing whirr of the multiple reel told that the fish was hooked and running with the fly.

CHAPTER VI.

A MORNING’S SPORT

Instantly both boys were athrob with excitement, although Springer, handling the rod and “playing” the fish, was somewhat less agitated than Grant, who immediately dropped his own tackle and seized the landing net, ready to render such assistance as he might.

“He sure must be a dandy, Phil,” palpitated the Texan, his cheeks flushed and his eyes glowing. “Great Scott! see the rod bend. He hasn’t jumped yet. Don’t they jump?”

“If it’s a sus-sus-salmon,” stuttered Phil, swiftly winding in as the fish ceased its spurt and yielded a little, “it will jump; and maybe it will if it’s a bub-bass. It may not break water at all if it’s a tut-trout.”

Heedless of wet feet, Phil waded out until the water had reached to the knees of his canvas trousers, and there he stood, displaying no small amount of skill at the delightful task of baffling and tiring the fighting fish. Whenever the finny victim grew weary and permitted the line to slacken the angler reeled in, keeping it fairly taut, all the while prepared to let the reel run when it was necessary. In this manner, following the fish’s repeated breaks for liberty, the boy gradually brought it closer, admonishing his companion, who had likewise waded out and was waiting near at hand, to be ready to dip with the net when told to do so.

It was indeed exciting work, which kept them keyed to the highest tension. Both knew what it was to experience the fierce thrills of a savage football clash and the triumphant elation of brilliant and successful work upon the baseball field, but in the sport of this midsummer morning hour there was something different, yet quite as intensely enjoyable and blood-stirring. The reason, perhaps, lay in the fact that both possessed the natural instincts of the sportsman who finds the highest pleasure in a fair and honorable battle where victory and defeat hang in the balance until the last moment. For until the net should lift the fish from its native element they could not know how securely or how lightly it was hooked, and it was possible that, through a sudden swirling struggle of the creature itself or an inopportune tautening of the line just when it turned desperately to run away, it might tear itself free and escape.

Three times Grant made ready to dip, and once he sunk the net deep in the water; and three times the weakening fish darted off, setting the reel whirring. On the last occasion both lads obtained a good view of the finny fellow, magnified by the water, and therefore looking large indeed.

“He certain is a corker, Phil,” breathed Grant. “Bring him up again. I’ll get him next time.”

“Sink the net as I reel him toward you,” instructed Springer, “and be ready to make a quick scoop under him. Here he comes now.”

Moving a bit heavily and slowly in protest against the treatment it was receiving, the fish was reeled in toward Grant, who obeyed directions faithfully, accomplishing the final coup by a swift forward and upward movement of the sunken net.

“Ah-ha!” exulted Springer. “That’s the sus-stuff! You did it fine, Rod.”

They waded ashore, and Phil, thrusting a thumb and finger into the fish’s gills, lifted the shining, spotted trout, flapping helplessly, from amid the meshes.

“Look!” he cried proudly. “Just had him caught by the corner of the lip. A pull an ounce too hard would have lost him.”

“Say,” said the Texan approvingly, “I opine you handled that baby right skilful. Jingoes! but he’s a beaut. Must weight better than two pounds.”

“Two and a-half, I should say,” nodded Phil, regarding his catch with a self-satisfied air. “He’ll go well for bub-breakfast.”

Rodney smacked his lips. “I should guess yes. Two or three more like that will make a mess for a hungry bunch.”

The creature was placed in the basket they had brought for that purpose, and Grant, eager to emulate his friend’s example, soon recovered his abandoned rod and resumed casting. Springer likewise lost little time in once more applying himself to the task of whipping the pool at the mouth of the brook.

By this time the sun was up, and in the near-by dewy thickets they could occasionally hear the flutter of a wing or the rustle of a running squirrel. The morning was breathless, and the surface of the lake reflected the sunlight like a polished mirror; but under the bushes along the shore were shadows in which trout might lie, and the artificial flies at the ends of the silken lines went dropping into those shadows and skimming across them, propelled by gentle movements of the rods that gave the luring baits the lifelike appearance of swimming insects.

At intervals Grant caught his hook in the bushes or tangled his line, but he could see that he was really making some progress in the art of casting, and he held his patience, despite these annoying interruptions.

And it was Rodney who got the second strike. He saw the swirl of the darting fish and gave the rod a sharp jerk, after the manner of Springer, instantly shot through by a thrill as he felt the line tighten, saw the bamboo bend and heard his reel humming.

“You’ve got him!” cried Phil. “Now pup-play him – play him carefully. Don’t let him have the slack when he stops. Be ready to reel in.”

In the excitement of the shifting of the rod from one hand to the other and getting ready to work the reel Grant gave the fish some slack, but was relieved, when he wound in, to find the creature had not broken away.

“Not too hard,” admonished Springer. “Don’t hold him tut-too hard when he tries to run.”

“I must have hooked him in good shape, or he’d sure freed himself right away,” said the Texan. “Look at my rod bend. He must be a whopper.”

The tugs and thrills of the vibrating rod seemed to permeate his entire body, causing his heart to leap and skip and his breath to come quickly through his nostrils. It was characteristic of the boy from Texas that in moments of stress he always kept his teeth set and his lips pressed together.

But Rod did not possess the angling skill of Springer, and presently, with a sudden tremendous swirl and splash, the fish caught him unprepared and jerked the rod downward till the tip almost touched the water. A moment later the strain upon the line relaxed, the end of the rod sprung back, and Phil uttered an exclamation of dismay.

“You’ve lul-lost him!”

“I opine that’s right,” confessed Grant, reeling in slowly, a comical expression of dejection upon his face. “The way he pulled he must have been a monster. It’s too bad, and I’m certain a rotten fisherman.”

“It’s always the bub-biggest ones that get away, you know,” laughed Phil cheerfully. “Chirk up, Rod; nobody gets them all. There ought to be more in here.”

But, although they continued to whip the mouth of the brook for some time, not another rise could they get.

“One isn’t enough for breakfast,” said Grant. “We ought to have more.”

“Let’s work up the brook,” suggested Phil. “You take one side, and I’ll follow the other. Just watch me and cuc-creep along quietly, the way I do. Don’t let your shadow fall on the water, and try to drop your fly into the pools without showing yourself to the fish that may lie there.”

He forded the brook a short distance above its mouth, and they began following it upward along a sort of ravine that cut through the woods.

In a few moments, dropping the flies into a quiet pool below the projecting end of a water-soaked log, both got a strike at the same time, and each one hooked his fish. Then there was sport and excitement enough, it being no simple matter to keep their lines from becoming tangled in that small pool. Neither of the fish, however, was nearly as large as the one already caught, and, after dipping his own in a genuinely skilful way, Phil used the net to secure Grant’s. Both were trout, weighing, probably, three-fourths of a pound each.

“There!” breathed Rod in deep satisfaction; “I’m an angler now, for I really caught something worth while with a fly-rod. Roping a steer is a heap more dangerous and strenuous, but the person who makes game of this sort of sport sure doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Continuing to follow the brook, they found sport enough to satisfy any genuine Nimrod, and ere long the basket contained a catch numbering at least a full dozen.

“I suppose it’s time we were getting back to camp,” said Springer at last. “The others must be up by this time, and hungry. They’ll wonder what has become of us.”

“I hate to quit,” admitted Rodney. “I could fish all day, I reckon.”

“You’re an angler all right,” laughed Phil. “You’ve gug-got the fuf-fever. But you mustn’t try to catch all the fish at once, you know. This brook won’t run away, and we’ll try it again.”

“Let’s look; let’s see how many we have,” urged Grant. “Open the basket, Phil.”

Springer had recrossed the brook, and he paused to comply with his companion’s request. The basket opened, they gazed with admiring eyes at the spotted beauties within, some of which were still breathing and moving. They were thus engaged when a startling interruption caused them to spring up swiftly and turn their heads.

“Here, you fellers!” rasped a harsh voice. “What are you doing, fishing in this brook? It’s private property.”

CHAPTER VII.

THE ENCOUNTER AT THE BROOK

The head of the speaker, crowned by an old straw hat, rose above a clump of alders on the opposite bank of the stream. His coatless shoulders, over one of which ran a single suspender, likewise could be seen. He wore no collar, and his shirt was open at the throat, exposing a hairy bit of chest. A “peeled” fishing pole, projecting upward beside him, betrayed the purpose of his visit to the brook at that early hour.

Somewhat less than twenty years of age, he was not a prepossessing looking fellow as he glared angrily at the surprised fishermen, who returned his gaze in silence, seemingly stricken dumb for the moment by his startling and unwelcome appearance.

“Say, you fellers,” again called the stranger in that challenging, threatening tone of anger, “what business you got fishing in this here brook? You’ll git into trouble, trespassin’ on private property.”

“Jug-jug-jingoes!” breathed Springer. “He gave me a start.”

“Is this brook private property?” asked Grant coolly.

“Is it?” snapped the fellow on the opposite side. “Of course ’tis. Everything’s private property ’round here. S’pose this land ain’t owned by nobody? You ought to know better’n that. Who be you, anyhow?”

“We’re camping near by on the lake,” explained Rod, maintaining his unruffled manner, “and we were not told that the streams running into this lake were closed by law.”

“They don’t haf to be closed by law, and I guess you know it, too,” was the retort. “Any man has got a right to keep trespassers off his property.”

“Do you own this brook?”

“My old man owns it, and that’s the same thing. We don’t ’low nobody but ourselves to fish it.”

“Have you posted signs, warning trespassers to keep off?” questioned Rodney. “We didn’t see any.”

“Nun-nary one,” put in Phil.

“If you had,” flung back the angry fellow, “I don’t s’pose you’d paid no ’tention to them, or else you’d ripped ’em down.”

“But you haven’t put up any such signs?” persisted Grant.

“That don’t make no difference at all,” declared the stranger, coming out from behind the alders and revealing a lean, muscular figure, with slightly stooped shoulders. “You hadn’t no right to fish here till you found out.”

“We were told we could fish anywhere on the lake or around it.”

“Who told ye that?”

“Herman Duckelstein.”

“That thick-headed old Dutchman? He don’t know nothin’. I’ve had to near punch the head off his pie-faced boy to keep him in his place.”

With calm, keen eyes the Texan took the measure of the arrogant stranger, betraying no symptom of alarm, a fact which seemed to increase the fellow’s irritation.

“So you near punched the head off Carl Duckelstein, did you?” said Grant, with a touch of scorn. “And I opine you’re two or three years older than he, while it’s right plain you’re much taller and stronger. You ought to be mighty proud of that performance. What’s your name?”

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