by Morgan Scott
CHAPTER V.
WITH ROD AND REEL.
A great flash of fire burst from the double muzzle of the gun, and acrashing report woke the echoes of the woods and went reverberatingacross the bosom of the lake. Although staggered a bit by the recoil ofthe weapon, Sleuth seemed to see the white head of the figure at whichhe had fired fly off into space and go sailing away, visible for amoment against the sky ere it disappeared.
Needless to say, the sound of the shot brought the sleeping campers offtheir bed of boughs uttering exclamations of astonishment, alarm andinterrogation.
“Wha-wha-what’s the mum-matter?” spluttered Springer.
“Great thutter!” gasped Crane. “Sleuth’s shot at somethin’.”
“What was it, Piper?” asked Stone.
“Yes, what did you fire at?” demanded Grant, reaching the agitated boyand grasping his shoulder.
“Oh, it was the most horrible thing you ever saw,” palpitated Piper. “Itwas right out there under a tree, a big black creature with a face aswhite as a sheet and fiery eyes as large as saucers. It had a frightfulvoice that made my blood run cold as ice.”
“Oh, come, Sleuth, what are you talking about?” remonstrated Rodney.“You’ve been dreaming.”
“Not on your life!” retorted the still trembling lad. “Haven’t evenclosed my eyes. I couldn’t. I heard all sorts of creatures prowlingaround in the woods, and something wailing like a lost soul out there onthe lake in the direction of Spirit Island. You fellows snoozed like alot of dead ones,” he continued resentfully. “You’d let Old Nick himselfget you before you’d wake up. I never saw such a bunch of mummys.”
Crane’s fingers were not quite steady as he struck a match and lightedthe lantern.
“Think yeou hit the critter, Sleuthy?” he asked.
“Hit it! You bet I did! Why, I just blew its old white head right offits shoulders. I saw that head go sailing through the air, too. You’llfind out I hit it when you look around.”
“I reckon,” said Grant, “we’d better investigate. Come on with thelantern, Sile. Where did you say the thing was, Piper?”
“Right out there,” answered Sleuth—“right out under that tree near thefireplace. Hadn’t I better load the gun again before we go out?”
“Here, gug-give me that,” snapped Springer, snatching the piece fromPiper’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 toprecede him, they went forth to investigate, Crane leading with thelantern.
“Here ’tis,” said Sile, holding up the light with one hand and pointingwith the other. “I’ll bet a dollar that’s what Sleuthy fired at; and, sohelp me Bob, it’s his sleepin’ bag hangin’ over that limb!”
Springer, his agitated nerves suddenly relaxing, uttered a shout oflaughter, in which the others joined, with the exception of Piperhimself, who immediately began protesting that he had not fired at thedangling sleeping bag.
“That’s not the thing,” he rasped furiously. “I tell you what I shot athad 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 tornthrough 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 tohis sides. “Old Sleuthy shot his own sus-sleeping bag. And it had awhite face with fiery eyes as big as saucers, and he blew the head ofthe 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. “Idon’t care what you say,” he snarled; “it did have a white face withblazing 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 againstthe 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 SpiritIsland,” put in Rod.
“Yes, I did; yes, I did!” rasped Piper repeatedly. “There—there it isnow! Hear it yourselves! Now what do you think? Now what have you got tosay?”
Out of the distance came a repetition of the cry which had contributedso much to the wakeful boy’s alarm.
“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” came again from Springer, as he rubbed his sideswith both hands. “It’s a loon—nothing but a loon. They always hollerlul-like that.”
“A loon!” muttered Sleuth, crestfallen. “It is? Well, anyhow, I knowwhat I saw, and I’ll stick to it about the white face and the fieryeyes.”
Crane had placed the lantern on the ground almost beneath the danglingsleeping bag, and now Grant stooped and picked up something revealed bythe light.
“Here’s a white feather,” he said. “A stray shot from Sleuth’s gun mayhave knocked it out of some sort of a bird. That’s it, I reckon; he sawa 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 chokedin his throat and he abandoned the effort. Mercilessly his companionsjoshed him, and he realized that his exploits on this first night incamp were destined to provide a topic for raillery for some time tocome. With his head down, he turned and plunged into the tent. Theyfound him wrapped in the blankets and stretched on the ground, and totheir 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 toget at it.”
“Go on,” was the smothered retort. “I’m going to get some sleep. Fishall you want to; I don’t care.”
Grant was up in a moment. “I’m with you, Phil,” he said. “Let’s take aplunge and a rub-down to wake us up, then we can try the fishing, andleave the others to start the fire and have things ready for breakfastwhen 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 upthrough the ground-cloth and blankets and seemed to pierce his bones,Piper got upon his hands and knees, crawled to the bed of boughs justdeserted, pulled the blankets of the others around him and again courtedslumber. Hazily he heard the early risers return, rub down with coarsetowels and get into their clothes. They were putting their rods andreels together when he drifted off for the first time into sound andpeaceful sleep.
Rod and Phil made their way slowly along the lake shore toward thesouth, casting the flies as they went, at which feat Springer, havinghad more experience, was by far the most skilful.
“It’s the back-snap that does it, Rod,” he explained. “Don’t swing yourwhole arm so hard; use your wrist more. If you can get a good sharpback-snap and time the forward movement of your hand properly, you’llcatch on pup-pretty soon. You don’t want to cast out as hard as youbring the line back, for if you do you’ll snap the fly like a crack of awhip, and you may even snap it off. Watch me now.”
Rodney watched and saw his companion send the fly soaring far out on thewater with a double movement of the wrist, sharp and then gentle, andscarcely any movement whatever of the shoulder.
“It sure looks right simple,” confessed the Texan. “I can do it fairlywell with a short bit of line, but I get plenty balled up when I try tolet it out and make a longer cast.”
Phil reeled in and gave a demonstration of the proper manner to whip aline out by repeated casts, draw
ing off more and more from the reel withthe left hand and holding the slack until the proper moment to let itrun. Indeed, as Grant had said, it seemed an extremely simple thing todo, 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 onthe heels of a very praiseworthy effort.
“You’re getting it all right,” encouraged Springer. “You’re doingsus-splendidly.”
“There I go into a bush,” said Rod, as his fly caught in some shrubberyat a distance behind him.
“Never mind that. You’ll need pup-plenty of room at first, and you’llkeep forgetting every little while to make your back cast good and sharpand your forward cast easy. The two movements must be tut-timed justright, too.”
“It must be right good sport when there are fish to catch, but we don’tseem to get any bites.”
“There are fuf-fish enough in the lake,” declared Phil. “Wait till wefind them. It’s only the real true fisherman who has plenty ofpup-patience and perseverance; the ordinary fellow gets tired and quitsafter a short time. He seems to think he ought to find fuf-fish anywhereand everywhere. Perhaps the flies we have on are not right, and we’lltry 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 ared-cheeked apple dangling from an orchard branch in autumn. Presentlythe white cross marking the cliff called “Lovers’ Leap” at the furtherside 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 withvibrating energy and tingling enthusiasm.
THERE WAS A SWIRL, A SNAP AT THE LINE, A SHARP BENDING OF THE ROD—THE FISH WAS HOOKED. —Page 63.]
Although Springer paused to change his flies as they moved along, tryingin turn a “Morning Glory,” “Parmacheenee Belle,” “Silver Doctor” and“Brown Hackle,” it was not until he cast into the shadow of someoverhanging 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 thesmooth surface of the water, there was a swirl, a snap at the line, asharp bending of the delicate bamboo rod; and the clear, buzzing whirrof the multiple reel told that the fish was hooked and running with thefly.
