Brick heaved the sack into the rear seat of the rattletrap car. “Say, Lem,” he said, “we just saw a strange guy fishin’ down by the creek. Know who he is? Wearin’ a blue suit, and doesn’t know much about how to catch fish.”
Lem scratched one ear. “Heard tell of him as I come along. Peaked kind of little feller, eh? Yep, he drove up to the Petties last night in a blue sedan, and they took him in to board. Give his name as Brown or McGillicuddy or Harkins or some such. Claimed he wanted to do a bit of fishin’.”
“Well, he was tryin’ to catch ’em without any bait on his hook. Down by the creek, too.”
The mail-carrier chuckled. “Don’t surprise me a mite, now! Them city folk is all of ’em crazy as coots! Most of ’em don’t know oxen from buttercups! Wal, got to be goin’.” He tossed out the sack of incoming mail, released the brakes, and stepped on the gas. “Giddap, Napoleon!”
The boys watched him as he careened off down the dusty road. Brick Ryan nodded reflectively.
“H’mm! He wants to catch some fish, so he takes along a pair of field glasses to see ’em with! Stayin’ up at the Pettie house. Well, Van, old oyster, I’ll bet you this won’t be the last time we see Mr. Nosey Fisherman, or my name’s not F. X. A. Ryan!”
CHAPTER XIII
ON THE MARCH
The mysterious fisherman, none the less, was pushed out of Dirk’s mind by the crowded hours of the camp routine. There were still half a dozen blank spaces on the emblem card that pointed his way to the Long Trail; and as the end of the week drew near, he was in a fever of excitement, wondering if ever he would complete all the needful tests in time.
His day of service as aide to Tent One was finished without mishap; and late the same afternoon he managed, after scorching a pan of rice and burning his fingers, to produce an edible meal cooked over an open fire built by himself. On Friday morning he rose before Reveille and in company with Long Jim Avery and Nig Jackson penetrated silently into the dewy woods, noting the plumage and song of many birds that Long Jim pointed out to the interested boys. At the performance that evening of the Lenape Vode-Villians on the improvised stage in the lodge, he won applause with a short act entitled “A Wee Drop of Scotch.” In golf sox, a kilt made of a plaid blanket, and a tam-o’-shanter, he sang several songs of Scotland and cracked all the jokes he knew about the canny race, marking his points with a crooked and knobbed cane cut from one of Farmer Podgett’s apple trees.
One by one the blank spaces on the card were filled in by the initials of some councilor. On Saturday afternoon Dirk, after helping Jim Avery after lunch at the store, raced to the boat dock and took his final swimming test, diving into the water head-first as Brick Ryan had taught him, and rounding a life-boat stationed fifty yards out, in all handling himself so neatly that he won a nod from Wally Rawn and a promise to be allowed to help keep the score in the inter-tent Boat Regatta that afternoon.