Oakdale Boys in Camp

Simpson seemed to interpret this as a concession or symptom of backing down, and it made him still more arrogant in his manner.

“I told ye you’d better skedaddle, to start with, but you was chumps enough to stand and argue with me, and you even handed me some sass. I won’t take sass from nobody like you, by heck! Now you’ve got jest about ten seconds to pick up and hiper. Dig, I tell ye – dig out!”

“We’re no diggers,” returned the Texan, whose eyes had swiftly taken cognizance of the immediate footing, that he might not stumble over any obstruction upon the ground in the encounter which seemed unavertible save by retreat. He had passed his rod to Springer, in order that his hands might be free.

“There’ll be some doings,” Phil whispered to himself, “when Mr. Simpson attempts to put his bub-brand on this Texas maverick.”

Phil knew Rod’s nature – knew that he was a quiet, peaceful chap, who never sought trouble and usually tried to avoid it when he could without positive loss of self-respect. Furthermore, Phil was aware by observation that, when aroused through physical violence, the boy from Texas, having a fiery temper, was a most formidable and dangerous antagonist.

Well aware of his own volcanic nature when provoked or aroused, since coming to Oakdale, it had been Rodney Grant’s constant purpose to hold himself in check and master the fighting strain in his blood. In this he had succeeded at first only by avoiding violent clashes of any sort, which had, for the time being, given him among the Oakdale lads the reputation of being something of a coward. In the end, however, circumstances and events had conspired to reveal their mistake of judgment, and had led them to acknowledge Rodney as a thoroughbred in whose veins there was not one craven drop.

Feeling certain he knew quite well what would happen to Simpson if the fellow attacked Rod, Phil believed it a duty to give him fair warning.

“Sus-say, look a’ here,” he cried, pointing a finger at the pugnacious rustic, “if you don’t want to get the worst lul-licking you ever had, you better keep away from this fellow. He’ll pup-punch the packing out of you in just about two jabs.”

“Ho! ho! Is that so!” mocked Simpson. “Why, I can wallop the both of you, and not half try. I’ll learn ye to fish in our brook! So that’s what ye ketched, is it?” he went on, his eye falling on the contents of the basket, at sight of which he became still more enraged. “Well, you won’t take any of them to your old camp.” With a sudden swing of his heavy boot, he kicked the basket over and sent the fish flying toward the water, some of them falling into it.

A moment later, as Springer scrambled frantically to recover as many of those fish as possible, Grant, moving like lightning, seized Simpson by the neck and a convenient part of his trousers and pitched him sprawling into the brook.

CHAPTER VIII.

ONE FROM THE SHOULDER

Spluttering, choking, snarling, the astonished recipient of this summary treatment scrambled to his feet, dripping and as enraged as a mad bull. Brushing the water from his eyes with a sweep of his hand, he beheld Grant, hands on his hips, standing as if waiting, wholly unconcerned.

With a roar, Simpson splashed out of the water, his boot-legs full and sloshing, and charged at Rodney.

“Oh,” said Springer, recovering two of the trout from the water and tossing them back into the basket, “the performance is just beginning in the big tut-tent; the circus has started.”

The performance, however, terminated quite as suddenly as it had commenced. Stepping deftly aside as the fellow rushed, Grant swung hard and accurately, planting his fist against Simpson’s jaw. Down with a crash went the pugnacious rustic, dazed and wondering at a tremendous display of fireworks, which seemed to be celebrating a belated Fourth, in his upper story. Indeed, for the time being the fellow had not the slightest idea of what had happened to him.

It was a good thing for Jim Simpson that all the fight had thus quickly been knocked out of him, for Springer saw the old wild light of ungovernable rage blaze in Grant’s eyes, and beheld on the face of the Texan an expression which seemed to threaten utter annihilation for his antagonist. And, as Rod took a stride in the direction of the chap who was weakly trying to lift himself upon one elbow, Phil cried sharply:

“That’s enough, Rod! Dud-don’t hit him again, or you will knock his bub-bub-block off.”

The Texan checked himself sharply, and the fighting flare faded from his eyes, while his face resumed its normal expression.

“You’ve whipped him a’ready,” asserted Phil, still apprehensive. “You took the fuf-fight out of him with the fuf-first wallop. If he’s got any sense at all, he won’t want any more.”

Three times Simpson attempted to lift himself before he was able to sit up, and when he succeeded he was forced to hold his swimming head in his hands. His appearance was so pitiful that neither of the boys felt in the least inclined to laugh.

“Why, he can’t fight at all,” said Grant. “I wonder how he ever got the notion that he could?”

“Knocking the block off such chaps as Carl Duckelstein, I calculate,” said Phil.

“I reckon that’s right. Heaps of these self-judged fighters get false notions of their scrapping abilities through whipping fellows no way their equals; and when that happens they’re pretty sure to go prancing round in search of other worlds to conquer, until somebody hands them what’s coming to them.”

Slowly and weakly Simpson lifted his head and stared around like one just beginning to comprehend. There was still a ringing in his brain, but the lights had ceased to flash, and he perceived his own position and observed the fellow he had sought to attack standing near at hand, untouched, steady and now calm as ever. For the first time he began to understand that this calmness did not indicate timidity, and, understanding, he was filled with awe bordering on fear.

“I reckon, stranger,” said Grant, “that you’re not hurt much; but I hope you’ve tumbled to the fact that you can’t fight any more than a gopher with the croup. If this brook belongs to your governor, and you’d been half decent about asking us not to fish in it, I reckon we’d found plenty of other places to enjoy the sport. But you chose to come at us with spurs on, and you got bucked a plenty when you tried your broncho busting.”

This caused Springer to laugh at last. “The idiom of the West is certainly expressive,” he observed. “And one time we thought you a fake because you didn’t say ‘galoot’ and ‘varmint’ and such bub-book lingo of supposed-to-be Westerners.”

Simpson made no retort, and, as he continued to sit there, the boys gathered up their tackle and the basket containing the trout and prepared to depart.

“If, on further consideration,” said Grant, turning to him, “you should hold to the notion that you still have a grievance, you’ll find us over at Pleasant Point.”

“So long, Simpy,” called Phil, unable to repress a parting fling. “Hope your headache don’t lul-last long.”

They were some distance away when they heard him, his courage revived, shouting after them:

“You better git! Come round this brook again, and see what happens to you!”

“Well,” chuckled Springer, as they pushed their way through the thickets, “this has been a real lul-lively morning. We’ve had sport enough for one day.”

“I’m glad you called to me just when you did, Phil,” said Rodney. “I was getting a touch of that old blazing rage that always makes me lose my head complete.”

“A tut-touch of it! Great Caesar! I wish you could have seen your own face. I thought you were going to obliterate Mr. Simpson then and there.”

At the camp Stone and Crane were waiting, and the smoke of the brisk fire rose into the still air. The sight of the white tent, the dancing blaze and their waiting friends was good indeed to the returning anglers, who gave a hail as they approached. Sile answered the call with a question:

“Did you fellers ketch anything? I’ll bate yeou ain’t had a bit of fun.”

“Oh, is that sus-so!” scoffed Phil hurrying forward with the basket. “Fun! We’ve had more than you could sus-shake a stick at.”

“But have you ketched anything?” persisted Crane.

Springer waited until he could place the basket before them and lift the cover. When this was done they broke into exclamations of admiration and delight.

“Jiminy cripes!” sputtered Sile. “Here’s a breakfast fit for a king. Yeou must have had fun, sure enough.”

“All sorts,” said Phil; and then he proceeded in his whimsical faltering way, to tell of the encounter with Jim Simpson.

“Just one cuc-crack, that’s all Rod had to hand him,” he finished. “It cooked his goose quicker than you could say Juj-Juj-Juj-Jack Rob-bib-bib-binson.”

“It sartain wasn’t so very quick,” returned Sile, “unless it was done quicker than yeou can say Jack Robinson. I’ll clean the fish. Ben, yeou get ready to fry ’em.”

“Where’s Sleuth?” asked Grant.

“Oh, he isn’t up yet,” said Stone.

“Not up?” whooped Springer. “Then I’ll pup-pull him out in a hurry.”

But Piper had heard them and was dressing. Presently he came forth, looking grouchy enough, and had no word of applause for the success of the anglers.

Nevertheless, when the fish were cooked he ate his share.

CHAPTER IX.

CARL DUCKELSTEIN FISHES

That breakfast was, in truth, one not to be soon forgotten. Such appetites as those boys had, whetted and sharpened by bounding health and the tonic of the great, clean, unpolluted outdoor world! It was the tempting sight and delightful odor of trout frying in a pan of deep fat that really put the feather edge on their hunger. Fortunately, they had bread enough, and, even though Carl Duckelstein had not appeared with milk for their coffee, never in the memory of one there had food tasted so delicious.

“Um-mum!” mumbled Crane, his mouth full. “I cal’lated I’d et fish before, but, by Jinks! I was mistook; this is the fust time. Stoney, either yeou’re a rip tearin’ cook, or them’s the sweetest trout that ever swum.”

“I opine Ben is sure some cook,” said Grant; “but, likewise, I reckon these trout must be pretty good.”

“They ought to be,” grinned Springer, forking another fish on to his tin plate. “We had to fuf-fight for ’em. That is, Rod did.”

“It wasn’t really a fight,” said the Texan. “I wonder if we’ll hear anything more from James Simpson.”

“Don’t believe so,” said Phil. “It’s my opinion he got enough to satisfy him. What’s the matter, Sleuthy? You’re yawning. Didn’t you sus-sleep well last night?”

“Bah!” mocked Piper. “You know I didn’t sus-sus-sleep well. I feel like a fool this morning.”

“Sort of a natteral feelin’, hey?” laughed Crane unsympathetically.

“Go to the ant, thou sluggard,” put in Stone, by way of a thrust. “I really don’t wonder that you shot a hole in that old sleeping bag, Pipe, for it certainly was alive.”

“Is it possible,” said Grant, “that you failed to acquire wisdom from the owl last night? If you had listened attentively to its ‘frightful voice’ I’m sure the creature would have told you who’s who around here.”

“Yah! I s’pose you think you’re funny, the whole of you!” rasped Piper, whose sense of humor, if he had any, was doubly dulled by the fact that the joke was on him. “I s’pose you’ve got to have somebody to pick on, but don’t rub it in too hard. That’s all I’ve got to say: don’t rub it in too hard. Many a man, driven desperate by similar treatment, has risen in his wrath and given his torturers just cause to rue their rashness.”

“Look aout for Sleuthy,” warned Crane. “Don’t forget that we’re in the land of the bloodthirsty Wampanoags, and if we drive him to desperation mebbe he’ll turn renegade and betray us into the hands of murderous redskins.”

“That,” observed the Texan soberly, “would be right bad for us. I know,” he added reminiscently, “for didn’t I have an experience with painted Indians shortly after coming to Oakdale? Why, they even tried to burn me to the stake.”

“And by sus-so doing,” declared Springer, “they made a mistake, as they afterwards found out. I ought to know, for I was one of those redskins.”

Crane breathed a sigh, rubbed his hand over his stomach and gazed regretfully at the remnants of the fried fish.

“I declare,” he confessed, “I didn’t cal’late when Stoney was cookin’ them that there’d be half enough for us, but now I’m chock full, and I’ll be switched if there ain’t goin’ to be some scraps left.”

“Mighty small scraps,” laughed Grant. “I think we’ve cleaned things up pretty well. But if Phil and I hadn’t made this catch we’d fared rather slim, with Duckelstein failing to bring the provisions he promised to have here bright and early.”

“I don’t sus-suppose that sleepyhead is awake yet,” said Phil, moving back in a manner which indicated that he had finished. “We’ll be lucky if he gets our canoe over from Pemstock today.”

“With plenty of fish in these pellucid waters,” said Piper, whose spirits seemed to be reviving, “there’s no reason why we should perish of hunger, even though the pack train of provisions is delayed.”

“I guess that’s right,” chuckled Crane. “We mustn’t forgit that we have in aour midst an angler we can rely on when all others fail. Sleuthy ain’t had a chance yet to demonstrate his ability in that line.”

“I think I’ll do so right away,” said Piper. “I’ll get out my tackle and try the fish without delay.”

“You’ve gug-got another guess coming,” said Springer. “There’s dishes to wash and other work to do around this camp, and we’re not going to let you sus-sneak off to fish while the rest of us do the work. You can’t pup-play that game on us.”

Baffled, Piper, who abhorred work, reluctantly abandoned his design, and again it became his duty to wash the dishes, a task at which his soul revolted.

There was still enough to do around the camp, and when the breakfast dishes were cleared away, the blankets brought forth and hung up for an airing and the tent tidied, they decided to build a dining table. This was located beneath a tree that would afford cool shade in the middle of the day. There four stakes were driven into the ground for legs, to the tops of which, running lengthwise, were nailed long, straight poles, hewn flat on two sides with the axe. Then, taking one of the larger boxes carefully to pieces by drawing the nails, they obtained boards sufficient to form the table top. Following this, a bench on the same principle was made on each side of the table.

“There,” said Stone in satisfaction, as he stood back and surveyed the completed work, “that looks pretty good to me. Now we can dine in comfort, like civilized human beings.”

By this time the forenoon was advancing and the sun blazing hotly from an unclouded sky. However, a slight breeze had risen to ripple the lake, and its tempering breath blew gratefully across the point, proving that, considering the season, the camping spot had been well chosen for comfort.

“I wonder where that sleepy Dutchman can be?” speculated Rodney.

As if in answer, the sound of wagon wheels were heard, and in a few moments the old white horse came into view, drawing a farm wagon on which the canoe rested, bottom upward. Sitting on the wagon, a dumpy figure held the reins and nodded with every swaying movement, eyes tightly closed. Even when the old horse came to a full stop a short distance from the camp, Carl Duckelstein slept on.

“What do you think of that, fellows?” laughed Grant.

Awkwardly tiptoeing forward, Crane reached the wagon, bent forward, placed his lips within a foot of Carl’s head and gave utterance to an ear-splitting yell. If he had expected to see the Dutch boy awaken in a terrified manner, Sile was much disappointed, for Carl slowly lifted one hand, brushed at his ear, and thickly mumbled:

“Got avay, mosquito.”

The laughter that followed caused Carl to pry his eyes open with considerable effort, following which he surveyed the laughing lads with a dumb, comical expression of perplexity.

“Vot it vas?” he yawned. “Vhere iss it I am yet?”

“Why don’t you do yeour sleepin’ nights?” snapped Crane disgustedly.

“Some of my sleeping does do me nights,” returned the fat boy; “but enough of it couldt not get me. Goot morning. Your canoes I haf brought – undt der milks undt der eggs undt der putter.”

“You certain took your time about it,” said Grant. “You agreed to bring the milk and eggs and butter early, and pack the canoe in to us later on.”

“Yah,” acknowledged Carl complacently; “but I out figured it dot I couldt vurk save by doing him all at vunce. It iss now did; I haf with me brought eferything, undt I vill not haf to dood him twice.”

“Carl,” said Stone, “you’ve got a long head.”

“Yah,” returned the boy, with a touch of pride, “I peliefe a long head hass got me.”

“But if we hadn’t cuc-caught plenty of fish,” said Springer, “we might have starved for all of you.”

“Nefer mind dot. Didt you some fish catch already yet? Vhere didt dese fish get you?”

“Out of the brook over yonder, and I tell you they were bub-beauties; handsomest trout you ever saw. We run across a fuf-friend of yours over there, a fellow by the name of Jim Simpson.”

“Chim Skimpson didn’t peen no friendship uf mine,” cried Carl, with a surprising display of spirit. “Efery time he sees me it iss a fight he vants to up pick. Dot Chim Skimpson didt not like me. Sometimes, ven der chance gets me, I vill hit him mit a club.”

“It was right evident to us,” said Grant, “that Mr. Simpson thought himself quite a scrapper, but I opine he’s changed his mind some.”

“I gug-guess he has,” laughed Springer. “Say, Dutchy, you should have seen this Texas longhorn polish off Jim Simpson in double-quick time. Simpson tut-tried to drive us away from the brook, claiming it belonged to his old man; but Grant pitched him into the water, and then, when he came tearing out, frothing for a scrap, Rod whipped him with a sus-single wallop on the jaw.”

“Vot?” squawked Carl, in still greater excitement, scrambling off the wagon. “Vot iss it you didt told me? Iss it dot you didt vhip Chim Skimpson? I couldt not peliefe it possibility.”

“It’s a fact,” declared Phil, “and it only took one wallop from Grant’s fuf-fist to settle his hash.”

Spluttering his delight over this piece of intelligence, the Dutch boy rushed at Rodney and clasped him in his arms.

“Mine gootness! I vill hug you for dot. Mine cracious! I couldt kiss you for dot.”

“Don’t!” entreated Rod, pushing his overjoyed admirer away with some difficulty. “I did it on my own account, although I will confess it afforded me additional satisfaction because of his boast that he had thrashed you. Is that brook on Simpson’s land?”

“His land didt begin der prook at.”

“And he doesn’t own any territory on this side of the brook?”

“Nefer a foot uf territories owns him this side uf der prook on.”

“Then anybody can fish the brook without trespassing by following along the nearest bank?”

“Yah,” nodded Carl. “Uf you fish along der nearest side avay from us, you vill not trespass. Undt you didt vallop Chim Skimpson! Dot inflamation almost makes me cry for choy.”

“Come, fellers,” invited Crane, “let’s unload the canoe and launch her. Git holt.”

Lifting the light craft, they bore it to the water’s edge in the sandy cove, Sile expressing his eagerness to try it out. The paddles were produced, and soon Crane and Springer were afloat in the canoe, propelling it with considerable skill, the others watching them from the point.

“Dot vas too much like vurk,” murmured the Dutch boy, shaking his head. “It vould not like me at all.”

“Still fishing would be the sport for you, I judge,” said Grant.

“Yah, undt der stiller it vas der petter. I vould like to try him now uf I had the outfits.”

“Where would you fish?”

“Der vater in, uf course. I vould like to haf a goot mess uf fish to take me home for dinner.”

“We can provide you with tackle, but no bait for still fishing. We have nothing but flies for casting.”

“Dot kind uf bait didt not use me,” said Carl solemnly; “but uf you vill let me haf the tackles, I vill der bait get. Yah.”

Rodney brought forth a stout steel rod, which he quickly put together and to which he attached a line-wound reel. The line being run through the eyelets, he bent on a leader and hook and nipped some split shot into place, to serve as sinkers.

“There you are,” he said, handing the outfit over to Duckelstein. “Now go ahead and fish as much as you like.”

“I vas much opliged,” grinned the Dutch boy. “I vill get some bait undt fish der rocks off, undt see what vill catch me. I hope it vas not an eels. An eels iss a pad fish und I didt not like him. An eels I vould not touch uf you vould a hundred tollars gif me.”

“I don’t think you’re likely to catch an eel off those rocks,” said Rod.

A short distance from the point was a bit of wet shore, where Carl proceeded to search for his bait, turning over a number of flat rocks and capturing some wiggling creatures, which he calmly put into his pocket. When he had secured enough of these, he proceeded to the rocks, sat down on one of them and baited his hook.

“He’ll never catch anything there,” declared Piper. “If he does, it won’t amount to anything.”

“Never mind,” said Stone; “it will make him happy to fish.”

In the meantime Springer and Crane had paddled well out upon the lake, and presently they turned back toward Pleasant Point. Approaching the camp, they stared at the Dutch boy, who had dropped his baited hook into the water and then serenely fallen sound asleep. There he sat, the rod drooping, his fat chin on his breast, snoring distinctly.

“Look at that!” said Phil, as they silently swept near. “He must sus-sleep pretty near all the time.”

“By Jinks!” chuckled Sile. “He’d wake up pretty sudden if he was to fall in.”

They landed in the sandy cove and hastened to call the attention of the others to the snoozing fisherman.

“We know it,” laughed Grant. “I rather wish he’d get an eel on now. He’s right scared of eels.”

“Oh, is he, hey?” snickered Crane. “Well, mebbe I can pervide an eel for him. Jest wait, fellers.”

Over to the marshy shore he hastened, where, after some searching, he got hold of the end of a root and tore it out of the muddy ground. With this pliable, slimy root, which was nearly five feet in length, Crane hastened to get into the canoe and push off. Expectantly the others watched Sile paddle round the point and get close to Duckelstein’s dangling line. Without awakening Carl, the joker drew up the line and tied it fast to one end of the root, which he then let down into the water. In a few moments he was back on shore with his chuckling, expectant companions.

“Naow,” he said, “jest yeou watch me wake him up.”

Silently he sneaked up behind the sleeper, reached over, got the line in his fingers, and made a loop, which he slipped over the reel-handle so that it would not run out. Then he grabbed Carl by the shoulder and yelled into his ear:

“Wake up! Yeou’ve got a bite! Yank him in!”

Carl awoke and gave a mighty yank with the rod, which, fortunately, did not break beneath the strain. Out of the water sprang the old root, seeming to writhe and squirm in a most lifelike manner. Straight at the angler the thing came, striking him in the face and whipping its cold, clammy folds around his neck.

CHAPTER X.

AN EXPERIMENT WITH FLAPJACKS

A wild yell of terror burst from the lips of the horrified Dutch boy, who flung himself backward upon the flat rock, kicking, flopping and clawing at the slippery, clinging root.

“Eels!” he yelled chokingly. “Hellup! Took him off quervick! Safe me, pefore I vas dead already!”

The spectators were convulsed with laughter, and Springer, clinging to his sides, collapsed upon the ground.

“Oh! oh!” gasped Phil. “Did you ever see anything so funny? It will kill me!”

“It vill kill me uf you don’t took him avay!” screamed Carl, tearing frantically at the entwined root, his eyes seeming ready to pop from his head. “An eel hass got me! Hellup!”

Even Stone was shaken by laughter.

“Vot vas der matter?” wailed the floundering Dutch boy. “Vhy didt you not assistance gif me? Pimepy I vill pite dot eel, undt it vill poison me!”