Scott Morgan
Oakdale Boys in Camp

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?”

The eyes of the chap on the opposite bank glared still more fiercely, and his lips, drawn back a little, revealed some uneven snags in crying need of a toothbrush.

“That ain’t none of your business,” he retorted; “but I don’t mind tellin’ ye it’s Simpson – Jim Simpson. My father, Hank Simpson, owns this strip of land, sixty-three acres, running from the lake back to the main road, and we don’t propose to have no trespassers on it. Understand that. What fish there is in this brook we want for ourselves.”

“Where does your land begin? Where is the boundary on this side toward Pleasant Point?”

“That ain’t none of your business, either. Think I’m going to bother to tell you where the bound’ries are? You’re on our property, and you want to get off and stay off, I tell ye that. If ye don’t – ” He lifted his clenched fist in a threatening gesture.

“Regular sus-scrapper, isn’t he?” chuckled Springer, who, stimulated by his companion’s example, had become outwardly cool and undisturbed.

As far as Rod was concerned, this calmness was all outward seeming, for beneath the surface his naturally belligerent disposition had been aroused by the threatening truculence and insolence of young Simpson.

“If you don’t tell us where your boundary line is,” said Rod, in that quiet way which Simpson mistook for timidity, “how are we going to know when we’re trespassing? We’re camping on Pleasant Point, and – ”

“If you don’t come over this way you won’t do no trespassin’, and you’ll be likely to save yourselves a lot of trouble.”

“But what if we do come this way? What sort of trouble will we get into?”

“You’ll get your heads everlastingly lammed off your shoulders, that’s what,” snarled Jim Simpson.

“You seem to consider it your specialty to lam folks’ heads off their shoulders. I’ve seen a heap of pugnacious parties like you before this, and I’ve always observed that if they were persevering enough they eventually succeeded in getting a lamming themselves.”

“What’s that?” shouted the fellow, dropping his fishing pole and starting forward into the brook until the water rose round the ankles of the long-legged boots into which his trousers were tucked. “What’re you doin’, making fightin’ talk to me? If you be, by heck, I’ll come over there and hand you one right on the kisser!”

“You’d better stay where you are, I reckon,” returned Rodney in continued calmness. “I’m not looking for a scrap, having learned by observation that the gent who prances round with a chip on his shoulder sure gets it knocked off by a better chap some day.”

“Gee whiz!” hissed Springer. “He’s gug-going to come over! It looks like a mix-up.”

“If he picks up a fight, leave him to me,” said Rodney, in a low tone. “We’re not hunting for trouble, but I admit this gent’s deportment is right displeasing to me, and I don’t think it advisable to let him browbeat us or drive us away like frightened sheep.”

Picking the shallow places, Jim Simpson waded the brook, maintaining a fierce and threatening manner, though possibly he was somewhat surprised by the lack of alarm evinced in the bearing of the young campers.

“You’ll find there ain’t no fooling about this business,” he declared, as he emerged from the water and paused a few feet distant, beginning to roll up his shirt sleeves. “You better skedaddle before I pitch into ye. I don’t want to hurt ye, but – ”

“That’s right kind of you,” scoffed Rod. “I opined by your remarks that you were yearning to hand us a sample lamming. If we had been properly warned in advance, or had seen ‘No trespassing’ signs hereabouts, we might not have fished in this brook.”

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.