AN EVENTFUL FISHING TRIP
Jess and Bobby were both disappointed and disturbed over the interview with Professor Dimp. Laura said so little about it that Jess was really suspicious.
“Can you see through it?” she demanded. “What do you think the Dimple means?”
“I haven’t the least idea,” said her chum, frankly.
But there was another thought which Laura Belding was not so frank about. She spoke of this to neither Jess nor Bobby.
They agreed, as they went back toward their camp, with Barnacle, that they would take nobody into their confidence about the professor being up here at Lake Dunkirk, fishing. Suspicious circumstances had attached themselves to the old gentleman’s presence here; yet the girls could not believe that Professor Dimp had anything to do with the raid on their larder, or the frightening of Liz Bean the evening previous. 160
However, Laura took Liz aside when they arrived at the camp and endeavored to get the truth out of her.
“Liz,” she said to the sad-faced girl, who seemed gloomier than ever on this morning, “who was the man who scared you in the rain last evening?”
The maid-of-all-work did not look startled. Perhaps she had nerved herself already for just this question.
She merely stared at Laura unblinkingly and asked. “What, Ma’am?”
“Don’t pretend that you don’t know what I mean, Liz,” said Laura, impatiently. “I found the man’s tracks and the Barnacle found his camp for us. The man came right into this tent last evening in all that storm, and you let him out at the back and laced down the flaps.
“Of course, there was no harm in it. And there may be no harm in the man himself, or his reason for being here on Acorn Island.
“But if the girls hear of it—all of them, I mean—they are going to be scared again, and it will break up our outing and spoil all our fun. Now! I want to know what it means, Liz.”
“Don’t mean nothin’,” declared the girl, sullenly.
“Why, that is no answer,” cried Laura. 161
“Then there ain’t none,” said Liz, shrugging her narrow shoulders, and she turned to her work again.
“You absolutely refuse to talk to me about him?” demanded Laura, rather vexed.
“I ain’t got nothin’ to say,” muttered Lizzie Bean.
“Then I’ll find out about him in some other way. It is that Mr. Norman you spoke about before—I am sure of that. And I shall write to Albany and learn why he is up here and what he is doing. Of one thing I am sure: he has no business on this island frightening the girls. The island is private property and is posted.”
If Liz was at all frightened by this threat, she did not show it. And, to tell the truth, it was an empty threat. Laura Belding did not know whom to write to in the city. She did not know the address at which Liz had worked there, and at which the mysterious Mr. Norman had been a boarder.
Some of the boys came over that afternoon and arranged with the girls of Acorn Island Camp to go fishing up the lake the next day. There was a certain creek, which came in from the north side, that was supposed to be well stocked with perch and trout.
“Part of it is posted, I believe,” said Chet. “Some old grouch owns a fishing right on the 162 stream. But we can keep off his territory. And we’ll show you girls how to fish with a fly, and to use your reels.”
“Teach us how to fish with mosquitoes—they’re more plentiful than flies since the rain,” Jess said, slapping at one which was just presenting his bill.
“Crackey!” exclaimed Billy Long. “You’ve got it good here. There are not many of the beasts on this island. But there’s a swamp not far behind our camp, and it’s a shame to call the things that come from that swamp, mosquitoes—they are more like flying tigers!”
“I suppose the old sabre-toothed tiger, of our prehistoric days, was no more savage than these swamp fly-by-nights,” Chet laughed.
“Don’t you have any other visitors over yonder?” Laura asked.
“Oh, say! we had some this morning. Did you hear the hounds baying?”
“Hounds?”
“Real bloodhounds,” said her brother. “Sheriff’s posse––”
“Hush!” gasped Laura, clapping a hand over his mouth. “Haven’t you any sense at all? Want to scare Lil and Nellie out of their next five years’ growth?”
“Shut Billy off, too. And then come and tell me all about it,” commanded Laura.
Chet grabbed Billy by the collar and dragged him away from the girls. Then, after whispering to the smaller boy, emphatically, for a minute, he let him go and rejoined his sister.
“Now, what do you want to know, Sis?” he demanded.
“All about it,” said Laura, eagerly. “Is there really a sheriff’s posse hunting him?”
“Who’s who?” asked Chet, in much amazement.
“Why—whoever they are chasing,” replied Laura, rather blankly.
“Just curiosity?” Chet wanted to know.
“You can call it that,” responded the girl, smiling whimsically at him.
“You never were just idly curious in all your life,” declared Chet, grinning at her. “Well! the men were after that fellow who stole from the Merchants and Miners Bank of Albany.”
“Oh!”
“They got wind of his being up this way. Somebody saw him, or thought he did. Crackey! Do you suppose he was the fellow who took the food from your tent, Laura?”
“Yes, I do,” admitted his sister.
“Then he’s far enough away from the lake 164 now,” said Chet, nodding. “That amount would have lasted him till he got over the Canadian border.”
“Perhaps,” said Laura. “At any rate, those dogs won’t be able to follow his trail much after the hard rain of last night.”
“Sure not,” Chet rejoined. “That’s what the sheriff said. He got us to promise to let him know at Creeper Station if we saw anybody who looked like Norman Halliday––”
“That’s it!” gasped Laura, clapping her hands together.
“What’s ‘it?’” demanded her brother, wonderingly.
“His name.”
“Of course it is. The fellow who stole the securities from the bank. They will get him of course.”
“With bloodhounds? How terrible!”
“Not at all. They are muzzled. And friendly brutes, at that. They only follow the scent they are put on, and probably would do their quarry no harm, even if they were unmuzzled.”
“Well, it seems terrible, just the same,” murmured Laura. Then she added: “Suppose he was somebody we had an interest in, Chet?”
“Humph! that would be tough. But he isn’t.” 165
“Just the same, promise me something,” urged Laura, clinging to his shoulder with both hands.
“What is it, Sis?” asked Chet, in surprise.
“Don’t tell the sheriff if you should run across the poor young man. Don’t tell anybody!”
“Why, Sis!”
“I have a reason. I can’t tell you what it is,” Laura said, half sobbing. “Will you mind me, Chet?”
“Surest thing you know!” declared her brother, heartily.
“And without asking questions?”
“That’s putting a bit of a strain on me,” laughed Chet. “But I know you must have a good reason, Sis. Only remember, when you want help, you haven’t any friend like your own ‘buddy.’”
“I know it, dear,” said Laura, kissing him. “You are the best brother who ever lived!”
This was all “on the side.” When they rejoined the others, neither Chet nor Laura revealed any particular emotion. The girls all promised to be ready for the fishing trip an hour after daybreak on the following morning.
Meanwhile, everything at Acorn Island went on as usual. Liz Bean seemed no more morose than before. Mrs. Morse was much too busy to notice small things. She had half-heartedly offered 166 to accompany the girls and boys to Bang-up Creek for the fishing; but they had all assured her that it would be unnecessary.
Instead, they were to come home by mid-afternoon and all have supper at the island. The boys brought over a part of their own provisions, when they arrived in the bigger motorboat soon after sun-up.
Purt Sweet was the only boy who did not have a smile on; he looked gloomy indeed.
“What’s the matter?” asked Jess.
“Surely he isn’t afraid of the Barnacle, is he?” queried Dora.
“Don’t bother about him,” said Dorothy. “He’s tied up, anyway, so as not to follow us.”
“How do you think that dog can follow us, when we’re going ten miles by boat?” demanded Reddy Butts.
“I don’t know but the Barnacle would sprout wings and fly through the air after Purt,” giggled Bobby.
“It isn’t the dog this time that troubles Purt—deah boy!” drawled Lance Darby.
“What is it?” asked Laura.
“Purt’s day is spoiled,” declared Lance. “He has come off without his cigarettes.”
“Cigarettes!” exclaimed Jess. “I thought we had shown him the folly of smoking coffin nails long ago.” 167
“Oh, he doesn’t smoke any,” Lance returned. “But he always carries a case of them around with him. You know, he bought a thousand once with his monogram printed in gold on them, and he never will get rid of them all. He thought it would be a good thing to bring them to camp with him so as to use them for a smudge to chase off the mosquitoes.”
“And they work all right,” grunted Chet. “The smoke chases the mosquitoes, you can believe. But then, the smoke chases us, too. Purt’s brand of cigarettes is made out of long-filler Connecticut cabbage.”
“That’s all right; don’t make fun of the poor fellow,” Lance said, with exaggerated sympathy. “Even if anybody had cigarettes to lend him, he couldn’t smoke any with anothah fellah’s monogram on ’em, don’tcher know, old top?”
But it came out that there was something else on Purt Sweet’s mind. He had a very expensive rod, reel, and book of flies. And to tell the truth, he had never strung a line on such a rod, and did not know any more about using the flies than a baby in arms!
He hated to admit his ignorance, for the boys were not at all tender with the Central High dude. However, Chet and Lance were not ill-natured, and Purt plucked up courage finally to beg Lance 168 to take him privately up stream (when they reached the creek) and give him a lesson in fly-casting.
Lance had already taken Laura under his wing—as was to be expected; but Mother Wit made him give Purt the assistance he needed. The three wandered up stream, far above the series of quiet pools where the other members of the party were casting for trout, or fishing for perch.
The trio passed a series of rapids, several rods long, and then struck a very beautiful stretch of calm water, with tree-shaded banks, and shallows where the cat-tails and rushes grew in thick clusters.
“I see a sign up yonder,” Laura said to Lance. “Didn’t you say a part of this stream was a private fishing preserve?”
“So I’ve been told. We won’t go beyond the sign,” said Lance.
He got Laura and Purt properly stationed and then cast, himself. They were having good sport and had landed several beauties, when Billy Long came idly up the stream on the other side.
“Hello!” he grunted. “Everywhere I go, there are girls. Isn’t there a place where a fellow can get away from them and fish? They chatter so much that they drive all the fish into the mud, with their fins over their ears—that’s right!” 169
“Horrid thing!” said Laura. “We can keep just as silent when we’re fishing as any of you boys.”
“Try it, then,” advised Short and Long, gruffly.
He kept on up stream. “Look out there, Billy,” Lance advised. “It’s posted above there.”
“Posted?”
“Yes. Don’t you see that sign?”
“Huh!” said the smaller boy. “I never did believe in signs. And besides, it says there’s no fishing here—and I believe it! I haven’t had a bite all the way up this brook.”
He went on a bit farther and cast his fly again. Quiet fell upon the long pool, where the shadow and sunshine lay in alternate blocks.
Suddenly there was a scrambling through the brush on the side of the stream where Short and Long was standing, and then appeared a big dog and a big man, the latter holding the former in leash. The man was just as ugly looking as the dog—and the Barnacle was a howling beauty beside this dog!
“Hey, you!” exclaimed the man to Short and Long—and he certainly did speak savagely.