catch some big ones flyfishing.”
I thought it strange that Tom didn’t open his tackle box but asked me for some bait, even though I knew he had a whole can of worms. We baited our hooks and dropped our lines into the deep pool. Sweyn gave up in about an hour, after only catching a little six-inch rainbow.
He went back to fishing in the rapids.
Tom opened his tackle box. “Keep a sharp lookout, J. D.,” he said. “Let me know if Sweyn or Papa head this
way.”
I was so curious about what Tom was doing that it was
hard for me to keep a sharp lookout. He removed a half-pint whiskey flask with the label washed off from his tackle box. It had some kind of liquid in it.
“What’s in the flask?” I asked.
“Sweet oil I got from Mamma’s kitchen,” he answered.
Then he got an empty, clean, pork-and-bean can from
his tackle box. He filled it half full of water from the stream. I watched wide-eyed as he took something wrapped in tin foil from the box. He unrolled the tin foil, revealing something white about the size of a marble. “What is that?” I asked.
“A piece of phosphorus,” he said as he dumped it into the can of water. “I had to tell Mr. Nicholson at the drug-store why I wanted it because it is poisonous.”
Then he took out his jackknife and opened a blade. “It has to be cut under water,” he said.
“Won’t it dissolve?” I asked.
“Not in water,” he answered. “But after I cut it into small .pieces it will dissolve in the sweet oil.”
He cut up the piece of phosphorus under water. Then he poured the water from the can. He used the tip of the knife blade to put the pieces of phosphorus into the whiskey flask. Then he put the cork in the bottle good and tight.
“And that, J. D.,” he said, “is how trappers and mountain men made fish lanterns.”
“I don’t see any light coming from it,” I said.
“It takes a few hours for the phosphorus to dissolve in the sweet oil,” he explained. “I’m going to circle the camp and go hide the fish lantern with the poles.”
It was lunchtime when Tom returned. During lunch Sweyn got in a few more digs at Tom. He had caught four good-sized trout that morning.
“I think you had better confine your fishing to before breakfast,” he said to Tom. “That seems to be the only time you can catch anything.”
“Maybe you are right,” Tom said. “I think I’ll go hunting this afternoon.”
Papa nodded his head. “Try to get some more quail,” he said. “They were delicious.”
I went hunting with Tom. We didn’t get any quail but we did kill three rabbits. We had fried rabbit, beans, and sourdough biscuits for supper. After eating Tom said he was going to go night fishing. I went with him. We
started upstream and then circled the camp to get to where the poles and fish lantern were hidden. Tom dug up the whiskey flask from under ground, where he had buried it. And I’ll be a four-legged duck if that flask wasn’t shining as if it had a light inside it.
“How did you do it?” I asked.
“The sweet oil dissolves the phosphorus,” he explained, “forming a thick fluid that throws out light.”
“Now that you’ve got it, what are you going to do with it?” I asked.
“You’ll see,” he said.
We walked downstream to the deep pool where we had seen the big trout on the bottom-Tom removed the hook from one of the poles. He tied the end of the line around the neck of the flask. Then he tied a rock to the fishing line so it would sink in water. He lowered the fish lantern into the deep hole. It gave me the willies, seeing that eerie light under water.
“What’s the idea?” I asked. “So the fish can see the bait at night?”
Tom laughed. “No, J. D..” he said. “According to the book, fish are attracted by any unusual brightness in a deep pool. When those big fellows on the bottom see the fish lantern they will come up to look at it. And when they do, they will see the bait. I am just hoping they will be hungry.”
Tom put big fat worms on the hooks of four of the poles. He set the poles so a baited hook was on each side of the fish lantern.
I was positive when I went to bed that night that the fellow who wrote the book was telling a tall fish story. Tom woke me up with his hand over my mouth while it
was still dark. We slipped out of the tent and dressed quietly. Taking our fishing poles and tackle boxes with us, we walked downstream to the deep hole. I could tell from the tightness on three lines there had to be fish on the other end. The sun was just coming up as Tom picked up the first pole.
“Got one,” he said, grinning.
But he wasn’t grinning for long after landing the fish. It was just a medium-sized rainbow trout. Tom removed the rock and picked up the second pole. I knew from the way he held it and the tightness of the line that he had a big one this time. He began to baA up to keep the line tight. And suddenly the biggest trout I’d ever seen was stirring up the water in the pool.
“Don’t lose him!” I shouted.
That fish gave Tom a longer and harder battle than the German brown had given Sweyn. But when Tom finally landed it, it was the biggest ‘rainbow trout I’d ever seen. It was a beauty and had to outweigh Sweyn’s by at least a pound. And I had to take my hat off to the fellow who wrote that book. Tom hauled in another rainbow trout bigger than Sweyn’s on the next pole. The fourth pole didn’t have a fish on the hook. But Tom had two big trout and either one ot them would outweigh the trout Sweyn had caught-
“You did it!” I shouted. “And if that doesn’t cure Sweyn of his selfishness and bragging, I don’t know what will.”
I removed all the hooks and lines from the poles while Tom took care of the fish lantern. We hid the poles and buried the fish lantern in the ground so it couldn’t be seen at night. We circled the camp to make it appear
69
we were coming from upstream. Tom had the three trout hooked through the mouth and gills to a Y tree branch. We hid in the bushes until we saw Papa and Sweyn come out of the tent.
“Now, J. D.,” Tom said. “And don’t forget to yell what I told you.”
I ran from behind the bushes toward the campsite. “Papa!” I shouted. “Papa! Papa! Wait until you see what T. D. caught! Get the scale ready!”
Tom came from behind the bushes, holding up the three trout. Papa got so excited he ran to meet us. He took the fish from Tom.
“Get them in water,” Papa said proudly. “We will want to take them home with us, packed in wet mud and grass to show people. There is no doubt about it. These are the biggest trout ever caught in Beaver Creek.”
“Not until I weigh the biggest one,” Tom said.
Papa insisted on weighing the biggest one himself. It weighed four pounds and five ounces. Poor Sweyn stood staring at the scales. He looked like a cowboy who, after losing his month’s pay playing poker, comes out of a saloon and finds somebody has stolen his horse.
“I’ve still got all day,” he said.
“Take all day,” Tom said, grinning. “And take all night too. Just remember we are breaking camp and leaving for home in the morning right after breakfast.”
Tom and I sure got even with Sweyn for his selfishness and bragging that day. Tom’s (rick of pretending he’d caught the fish upstream worked. Sweyn began fishing the deep holes upstream. Tom and I sat on the bank of the creek getting in our digs.
7n
“You are wasting your time in this hole,” Tom said. “It is all fished out.”
“You are just trying to talk me out of fishing this hole,” Sweyn said.
“Just be careful with my rod and reel,” Tom said. “I don’t want either one broken when you hand them over to me.”
“I’ll bet, T. D.,” I said, “that you aren’t going to be selfish like some fellow we know when the rod and reel belong to you.”
“That is a bet you’d win,” Tom said. “You can practi
ce casting any time you want. And when we go on our fishing trip next year, you can use my rod when I go hunting.”
I don’t know if it was to get away from Tom and me or because he hadn’t caught anything, but Sweyn finally decided to give up fishing the deep holes upstream. That afternoon he went back to fishing in the rapids. And for the first time he decided to try some night fishing after supper. Papa began to get a little edgy when Sweyn hadn’t returned by nine o’clock-
“We had better go look for him,” Papa said. “He might have slipped on a rock and fallen or something.”
We found Sweyn upstream, fishing in the dark at one of the deep holes.
“I know this is our last day,” Papa said, “but it is time we turned in.”
I couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for Sweyn when we got back to camp. He removed the reel and carefully placed it in its box. Then he unscrewed the rod and placed it in its canvas bag. But the saddest part of all was watching him remove the fly hooks from his fisherman’s
72
hat and placing them in a box. Then he handed Tom the rod, the reel, and the fly hooks.
“You won the bet,” he said sadly. “They’re all yours now.”
Papa stared at Sweyn over the flames of the campfire. “Just what was that all about?” he asked.
“I bet T. D. that I would catch the biggest fish on this trip,” Sweyn answered.
Papa then turned his head and stared at Tom. “Knowing you as I do,” he said, “I’m positive you wouldn’t have made the bet unless you knew you would win. But for the life of me I can’t understand how you could possibly know that you would catch the biggest trout.”
“Fisherman’s luck,” Tom said, grinning. “And J. D. is my witness that I won fair and square. I caught both of those big trout using just a pole, line, hook, and worm bait.”
“That’s right. Papa,” I said. “And T. D. only made the bet to cure Sweyn of his selfishness and bragging.”
“What selfishness and bragging are you talking about?” Papa asked.
I told him how selfish Sweyn had been with his rod and reel and how he had boasted he would catch twice as many fish as Tom and me put together.
Papa was shaking his head when I finished as he looked at Sweyn. “Under the circumstances,” he said, “you deserve to lose your fishing gear. Perhaps it was provi-dence’s way of punishing you for being selfish and a boaster. Let’s go to bed now.”
And that is the story of how The Great Brain hooked a fish named Sweyn.
CHAPTER FIVE
Alkali Flats
A FEW MILES SOUTH of Adenville there were twelve hundred and eighty acres of land called Alkali Flats which nobody wanted because it was all alkali soil-Being rather arid country, Utah has many of these large alkali beds. Nothing would grow on this land, not even range grass for grazing, which made it worthless. Papa told us an easterner named Boswell had bought the land sight unseen many years ago. When he discovered it was all alkali soil, he had stopped paying taxes on the land.
Every year old-man Hobbs, the country treasurer and tax collector, posted delinquent tax notices on Alkali Flats in Papa’s newspaper. Anybody foolish enough to pay
74
the back taxes could have the land.
It was right after we returned from our fishing trip that a man named Wilbur Cummings arrived in town. He registered at the Sheepmen’s Hotel. He purchased a dozen fruit-canning jars at the Z. C. M. I. store. The full name of the store was Zion’s Cooperative Mercantile Institute. There was one of these stores owned by the Mormon church in every town in Utah. The only thing Mr. Har-mon, the manager of the store, found out about Mr. Cummings was that he was a chemical engineer.
Mr. Cummings rented a horse and buggy at the livery stable and drove out to Alkali Flats. He took samples of the alkali soil in twelve different places, putting the soil in the twelve fruit-canning jars. Upon his return he went to the courthouse where he was told Alkali Flats could be purchased for back taxes. This caused a lot of curiosity in town. But Mr. Cummings refused to answer any questions before leaving Adenville.
A few days later another stranger arrived on the morning train from Salt Lake City. He was a distinguished-looking gentleman with gray hair, a gray mustache and goatee, and he was wearing very fashionable clothes. He took the most expensive suite at the Sheepmen’s Hotel and registered as Francis K. Pendleton from Chicago.
Mr. Pendleton went to the courthouse after eating lunch at the hotel. He purchased Alkali Flats in the name of Alkali Products Incorporated for two hundred and ten dollars in back taxes. Then he rented a horse and rig and drove out to the farm of Carl Underwood. He told the farmer he wanted an option to build a spur track from the railroad across the south pasture of his farm to Alkali Flats. He offered a hundred dollars for a thirty-day option
7.^
to purchase the right-of-way for fifteen hundred dollars before the option expired-Mr. Underwood was delighted because he would have sold his whole farm for two thousand dollars. He rode into town with Mr. Pendleton. They went to the law office of Judge Potter, where the option papers were signed and the hundred dollars in cash given to Mr. Underwood.
The next morning Mr. Pendleton went to the telegraph office. He sent a telegram to Frederick Ames Hollingsworth. President, Alkali Products Incorporated, Salt Lake City branch office in the Newman Building. Nels Lar5on, who was the telegrapher, station master, and everything else at the depot, made a copy of the telegram.
Calvin Whitlock, the town mayor and president of
the Adenville Bank was seated in his private office when Nels entered.
“I know it’s against the rules,” Nels said, “but I made a copy of a telegram I think you should see.” He handed the copy to the banker. It read:
PROPERTY KNOWN HERE AS ALKALI FLATS IS NOW OWNED BY ALKALI PRODUCTS INCORPORATED. OPTION FOR SPUR TRACK RIGHT OF WAY THROUGH UNDERWOOD FARM HAS BEEN NEGOTIATED. ESTIMATE WE WILL NEED APPROXIMATELY FORTY THOUSAND DOLLARS TO BEGIN MINING OPERATION HERE. SUGGEST COMPANY RAISE NEEDED CAPITAL BY ISSUING ONE THOUSAND SHARES OF FIFTY DOLLAR PAR VALUE PREFERRED STOCK FOR SALE TO CHICAGO BROKERAGE HOUSES AT TEN PERCENT DISCOUNT. WILL ARRANGE FOR SURVEY OF PROPERTY TODAY.
FRANCIS K. PENDLETON VICE PRESIDENT
76
Mr. Whitlock sent tor Papa after reading the telegram.
“This is the biggest economic development that could happen to Adenville,” he told Papa. “You and I are going to call on Mr. Pendleton and convince him that the citizens of Adenville should be permitted to buy stock in the company.”
The banker telephoned the hotel. Mr. Pendleton wasn’t in but Mr. Whitlock knew Robert Meredith was the only surveyor in town. He reached Mr. Pendleton in the surveyor’s office. Mr. Pendleton told the banker he was going out to Alkali Flats with Mr. Meredith that morning but would meet Mr. Whitlock and Papa in his hotel suite at two o’clock.
Mr. Pendleton was such a high-class fellow that he didn’t go to a barber shop for a haircut. Danny Forester’s father was cutting Mr. Pendleton’s hair in the suite when Mr. Whitlock and Papa arrived. The banker introduced himself and Papa.
“I assume, gentlemen.” Mr. Pendleton said, “that you are here to learn why Alkali Products Incorporated purchased Alkali Flats. Our company manufactures lye, soap, and Epsom salts. Our present source of supply for raw material is getting low. We sent our chemical engineer, Mr. Cummings, west to locate a large bed of al-kali soil rich in the chemicals needed for our products. With the help of state boards of agriculture Mr. Cummings located large alkali deposits in Kansas, Colorado, and Utah. But the others were either too far from a railroad or so poor in the chemicals needed as to be worthless.”
“Excuse me,” Mr. Forester said, as he moved Mr. Pendleton’s head slightly to continue the haircut.
“To go on, gentlemen,” Mr. Pendleton said. “One alkali bed suggested to Mr. Cummings was Alkali Flats. You will be glad to know that the soil is very rich in the chemicals needed for our products and onl
y half a mile from the main railroad line. We expect to be mining and shipping carloads of raw material to our Chicago plant in about two months. We will employ approximately twenty-five local men when mining operations begin. I believe that answers all of your questions, gentlemen.”
“Not quite,” Mr. Whitlock said. “Mr. Larson showed us a copy of the telegram you sent.”
At first Mr. Pendleton was angry. “Doesn’t your Mr. Larson know that is against the rules and regulations?” he asked. “I could have the man terminated for it.” Then he shrugged. “No real harm has been done. Whatever was in the telegram will become public knowledge when the new stock is issued.”
“That is what we wanted to talk to you about,” Mr. Whitlock said. “As mayor of Adenville, may I suggest that your company permit our citizens to invest in the first big industry to locate here?”
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Pendleton said, “but that is impossible. The thousand shares of stock will be sold to stockbrokers in blocks of one hundred shares at forty-five dollars a share. This will enable the company to get the capital needed immediately. The brokers will then sell shares of stock to the public. You can purchase stock that way. Instead of paying forty-five dollars a share, the stock will cost you about fifty-five dollars a share. The brokerage firms must pay their salesmen a commission and make a
78
profit. But even at fifty-five dollars a share the stock is a bargain. It will be worth a great deal more when we pay our first dividend in about six months.”
Mr. Whitlock didn’t become a banker because he didn’t know his arithmetic, “Assume that other citizens and I,” he said, “wanted to purchase a block of one hundred shares. Could we buy them at the same price as a stockbroker?”
Mr. Pendleton thought about it for a moment. “I can’t think of any possible objection,” he said. “I would, of course, have to get President Hollingsworth’s approval. And I would have to be certain that the money to pay for the stock was on deposit in your bank.”
Great Brain Reforms Page 6
