A DAY'S SPORT ALONG THE BEECH FORK.
Patter, patter, let it pour,
Patter, patter, let it roar;
O'er the housetop let it gush,
Down the hillside let it rush.
'Tis a welcome April shower,
And 'twill wake the sweet May flower.
Thus mused Owen as he sat late one afternoon husking corn, while the pelting rain overhead recalled some old nursery rhymes which he had learned by heart when a mere child. "No, it isn't April yet, and it will be a long time before we have May flowers. It's about the middle of March; I reckon the black-perch ought to bite now. It will be too wet to plow this week; so I'll ask father to let Martin and me go a-fishing." And he worked hard at his task to have the corn shelled before dark.
"Why, father, it's time to fish for black-perch," said he to Mr. Howard, who appeared at the door of the corn crib.
"I reckon it's time for you to have that corn ready for the mill," replied the farmer.
"I'll finish it to-day, take it to the mill to-morrow—and then may Martin and I go fishing on Thursday?" asked Owen.
"What about that field along the river to be plowed?" inquired the farmer. "You are getting to be a big boy now, and must be prepared to do your share of the work on the farm."
"Plow after this heavy rain?"
"Yes, when it is dry enough."
"But it won't be dry this week," argued Owen.
"Well, you may go fishing this week; that is, one day of this week. Then be ready for hard work—no fishing, no hunting for some time."
Mr. Howard was more than willing to let his son enjoy a day along the Beech Fork; still, it was evident from his way of speaking that he intended to keep him busily engaged during the coming month while getting the ground ready for the spring corn.
"Think you can go fishing to-morrow?" asked Owen of Martin on the following day while on his way from the mill.
"I reckon I can. It's too wet to plow, and there's nothing else to be done this time of the year."
"Better find out now."
"Father isn't here. It'll be all right; you can depend on me, and if anything happens to keep me from going I'll ride over and let you know to-night."
"Did you examine those reeds that we cut last fall?" asked Owen.
"No! haven't thought of them since."
"Well, I broke mine, and I'll have to depend on you for one."
"I can easily give you a dozen. We cut at least twenty-four, and half of them belong to you. They are well seasoned, too—been hanging in the barn for six months. I'll bring two along to-morrow, and you can get the others the next time our wagon passes by your house."
The reeds referred to grew in patches along the Beech Fork. The boys generally cut them in the fall to have them dry and seasoned for the spring fishing.
"I must hurry on home and fix the minnow net," said Owen, starting off.
"Good-bye."
"I'll meet you at the creek."
Old Hickory trotted off with Owen and the sack of meal.
Uncle Pius had taught Owen and Martin how to fish for the black-bass (or black-perch, as they are called in that section of the country) when the boys were quite small. Under his direction they had become expert fishermen. They knew nothing of the various contrivances described by Irving in "The Angler," nor were they equipped like our modern fisherman during his summer vacation—rods of split bamboo, patent reels and landing nets would have appeared useless to them.
When first accompanying Uncle Pius on his fishing expeditions they were surprised to find that he caught a perch every time he had a bite, while they lost minnow after minnow.
"Uncle Pius, you've got a bite, you've got a bite!" they would often exclaim, as his red-cedar float disappeared below the water. The old negro, however, seemed to take no notice of their warning. He remained motionless for a few seconds as if lost in deep thought, then gave a quick jerk to fasten the hook, and landed his prize, much to the admiration and astonishment of his young companions. One day the fish were biting rapidly. Uncle Pius had secured a nice string, while Owen and Martin had made their usual record—bite, bite, bite, but not a fish.
"Uncle Pius," said Owen, "I am getting tired of this. I wish you'd show us how to fish."
"Yes," chimed in Martin, "we've lost a bucketful of minnows and haven't caught one perch."
"Well, Massar Ow'n and Massar Martin," said the grave old negro, laying aside his reed and assuming an air of professional dignity, "dis am an awful good proposishion (he meant occasion) for to larn how to ketch perks, for dey's awful hungry to-day and is bitin' right smart—some days dey bite right scattarin'. I would hab tole you long 'fore dis how to fish, but I know'd you'd say dat you know'd all about fishin' before this old niggar told you. Fust, you must know how to put the minnar on de hook," he continued, taking a large shiner from the bucket and baiting the hook with great care. "Run de hook right fru de lower lip—see dar; den right fru the upper lip—see dar, just a little 'low de eye—see dar; not too deep, or you'll kill the critter—see dar."
Uncle Pius handed the pole to Owen, told him to cast out near a fallen tree, and not to pull until the perch started off with the line. Owen had not to wait long for a bite. His float soon disappeared, and although Uncle Pius yelled "let 'im go, chile," the young fisherman in his excitement jerked with all his force, missed the fish, and entangled his line among the branches overhead.
"You's always a-rushin'," expostulated the old negro.
While Owen climbed the tree to get the line, Martin took his lesson in fishing, and was determined not to pull until Uncle Pius gave the signal.
"How do you know when to pull?" he asked.
"Dar ain't no rule, Massar Martin; it kindar comes natu'al when one knows how."
Soon the cedar float went under. It was evident from the rapidity with which it disappeared that no small perch had bitten. The few brief seconds that followed seemed an hour. Martin trembled with excitement; still he waited for the word to pull.
"Dar's de time!" cried out Uncle Pius, as he saw the line stretch.
"I've got it, and a big one!" yelled Martin in triumph.
"Up here with it," shouted Owen from among the branches overhead.
"Keep the line a-stretchin'!" exclaimed Uncle Pius, "or he's a gonnar."
He had scarcely uttered these words when the fish leaped into the air, shook the hook from its mouth, and disappeared into the water.
"Jes' as I'se sayin'," remarked the old negro. "Now, Massar Martin, you've larned how to ketch perks, and you must larn how to lan' 'em."
"Is there anything to be learned about landing a perch?" inquired Martin, with surprise. "When you catch a catfish there is no danger of its getting off; in fact, you remember that we cut the heads off of several to get out the hooks."
"Dar's an awful 'stonishin' dif'erens 'tween a catfish and a perk," interposed Uncle Pius. "It's hard to keep a perk on, an' it's hard to get a catfish off. If ebbar you let de line slack de perk'll shake de hook from his mouth in free shakes of a sheep's tail."
"Here it goes again," said Martin. "I'll not only catch the first perch that bites, but will land it in a tip-top way."
From his position among the overhanging branches Owen watched Martin's next attempt with interest, while Uncle Pius, conscious of the dignity of his position, gravely directed the movements of his young disciple.
"Nebbar stop," said he. "Jest keep a-pullin' when you got him. Keep a-pullin' slow, an' you'll fetch him, sure's de rain helps young corn."
Martin followed directions carefully, and succeeded in landing the next perch.
"Hurrah!" he yelled in triumph, "that's a fine one, and here goes for another."
Before Owen had time to climb down the tree and bait his hook Martin had secured perch number two.
The two boys went to work in earnest, and, although many a perch escaped from them, in less than an hour they had fully a dozen fish on their string. Uncle Pius watched their progress with evident satisfaction, now yelling to Martin "to keep de line a-pullin'," and to Owen "not to be a-rushin'."
"Massar Martin and Massar Owen," he said to the boys when it was time to go, "you know how to fish for perks, but don't forget dat dis ole niggar larned you."
The first lesson of Uncle Pius was given some two years before our story commenced. On the morning to which we referred in this chapter our two young friends started out, not as tyros, but as experienced fishers.
On reaching the river the boys selected a spot near a fallen sycamore, where the water was about four feet deep, and the bank around was rocky and clear from all underbrush. This would enable them to land the perch without fear of tangling their lines.
On the way to the river, however, they did not notice that a man was following them for more than a mile through the forest, at times close enough to overhear their conversation without any risk of being discovered by them. It was Walter Stayford. He was evidently dogging their footsteps with a purpose. The ground over which he passed was certainly known to him, for even when he lost sight of the boys he followed them as a hound follows a fresh trail.
When the boys came to the river he ensconced himself behind a fallen log, where he could hear every word they uttered. What could be his object in watching them so closely? He certainly did not seek their lives, for he had many a chance to kill them in the depth of the forest. Besides, was not he the man who befriended them during that eventful night in the cave? Had they not shown their gratitude by keeping the secret which they had promised so faithfully to keep? That the cave had been discovered was not their fault. Tom the Tinker and he alone was answerable for this! And at the very thought of the old miser Stayford's face flushed with anger. With difficulty he stifled the curse he was about to utter, as he lay there listening to the boys.
"Now for good luck," said Martin, as he threw his minnow near the branches of the fallen tree.
"And here goes for a three-pounder," chimed in Owen, dropping his minnow on the opposite side of the sycamore.
Five minutes passed. The boys played their minnows up and down the stream, threw them out and pulled them in, vainly hoping to attract a fish.
"No three-pounder yet," said Owen, who, as the reader has seen, had not the patience of his companion.
"No, not yet," replied Martin, still manœuvering with his line. "Not yet, but they'll come soon. We can't expect the perch to be waiting at the exact spot where we chance to stop."
"And they can't expect us to wait all day for them," rejoined Owen, with a laugh.
"Give them a fair trial—say fifteen minutes more."
"All right," and Owen took out his father's watch, which he had borrowed for the day.
"Look at your bobber!" cried Martin before two minutes had passed.
"Where?"
"It's gone! Pull!"
Owen did pull, but it was too late, for he had lost his minnow.
"That wasn't a perch," said he. "Surely it wasn't a turtle, for they don't bite until warm weather."
"Surely it was a turtle," said Martin. "There it is."
As he spoke a large mossback came to the surface, and calmly surveyed the surroundings, as if to say: "Well, my little boy, that's all you know about turtles biting before warm weather."
"There's a target for us," said Martin. "Let him have a bullet."
As quick as a flash both boys grasped their pistols, which they took pride in wearing whenever they went into the woods or along the river, and fired at the same instant. One ball pierced the turtle's head. It gave several clumsy strokes, then gradually sunk, leaving a bloody streak behind.
From his place of concealment Stayford watched this exhibition of skill. "It is well for me that I am not here to meet those boys in a fair fight with pistols," he thought to himself. "How quick it was done, too. Of course it was that young Owen. He seems to handle a pistol as well as he does a rifle, and the very pistol he won at the shooting-match. How I would like to have one of that make," and Walter Stayford examined the rusty cap and ball revolver which hung at his side.
"Your bullet hit him," said Owen, who thought that in his eagerness to fire rapidly he had shot above the turtle.
"I reckon it's hard to judge," replied Martin.
"I reckon not!" muttered Stayford to himself, for in his opinion only the youthful victor of the shooting-match could have performed such a feat.
"No; I aimed too high," said Owen in response to Martin's doubt.
"That's bad luck, at any rate," Martin grumbled, "we've lost the turtle and frightened away the perch."
"I am willing to give them the full fifteen minutes; they have—have eight minutes left," replied Owen.
"In goes the minnow—and under goes the bobber—and out comes the first—first—first perch!" cried Martin, with excitement, at the same time landing a perch weighing about a pound.
"That must be a straggler," said Owen, "let us see whether he brought a companion along."
He threw in his line at the same place, and almost the same moment, as his float moved slowly off, began to repeat, "I—I—I—have—have—have—ve—a fine one," and when he finished the last word he pulled in a perch twice the size of Martin's.
"Good!" shouted Martin; "I wonder what brought him around."
"Don't know; but now for the fun if we have struck a school of them."
For four hours the boys did not move from the spot. Fish after fish was landed, until a string of forty perch was the reward of their day's effort.
"Only six minnows left," at last said Owen, feeling in the bucket for another bait.
"Wait a moment," interposed Martin, "let us try the new way. An old fisherman told me the other day that he always baited the shiners through the back, because in this position they appeared more natural."
"Now's a good time to try," said Owen, "for we can afford to lose a few minnows. How did he say to fix them?"
"Run the hook under the big fin on the back."
"How's that?" queried Owen, holding up the baited hook.
"It looks all right, but I don't know how it will work," said Martin.
"We'll soon find that out," replied Owen, casting his line into the stream. "At least, it hasn't frightened them away," he continued, after a short pause, "for one is biting now, and—and—and here it is."
"Yes, here the line is," said Martin, "but both perch and minnow are gone. I see that you don't understand the new way of fishing."
"It is much better to bait them through the mouth."
"That's to be proved," argued Martin, "look at this."
Both hooks were then baited in the new way. Bite—jerk—minnow lost—perch gone; it was all over in less than a minute.
"What'd I tell you?" cried Owen.
"Give them more than one chance! Remember how you wished to leave this place in the morning because the fish did not run up and bite immediately."
"There are three minnows left; if you wish to feed the perch with them, do so. I've had enough fishing for one day."
Martin selected the largest of the three minnows in the bucket. It proved to be a chub, fat and slimy; one that would disappear, oyster like, down the throat of a perch. An unfortunate gormand seized it, and was soon placed with the other finny captives.
"That was an accident! You'll not catch another perch!" exclaimed Owen.
"Fine luck you are having, boys," said a voice from behind, while at the same time a hand was laid upon Owen's shoulder. It was Walter Stayford who thus disturbed the boys in their sport. For hours he listened to their conversation, but so engrossed were they with the perch that not one word was uttered which gave Stayford the least satisfaction. Seeing that they would soon leave the place, he emerged from behind the bushes with the intention of questioning them and discovering whether or not any one in the neighborhood was suspected of illicit distilling. He congratulated Owen on the manly fight which he had made to save the war message, and then, from flattery, went on to ask if anything of importance had happened since the news from the battle. With all his prying and talking, however, he learned nothing. Certainly the boys had not heard of Simpson's adventure, nor was Owen aware that Tom the Tinker was the man who had sought to gain possession of the message.
While not altogether satisfactory, and of a negative character, the results of the meagre knowledge which Stayford thus obtained, were not without their importance. The fact that Simpson had been detected in delivering the whisky and had been pursued was not generally known, for, if so, the boys would certainly have heard some of the neighbors speak of it. This was good news. Yet it was just possible that those who were in possession of the secret pretended to know nothing of the matter, so as to facilitate the capture of the men who had sold the whisky. Such were the thoughts which Stayford revolved in his mind as he stood talking to the boys on the river bank. Nothing could now be done but return to the cave and wait for the stage. Jerry was right; no doubt, if any effort was being made to capture the illicit distillers, the men thus engaged were in correspondence with Squire Grundy.