“I suppose this is historic ground, too,” suggested Jock, as he helped himself to a fourth ear of corn.
“I s’pose so,” replied Hank. “’Long in 1812 they had considerable many fracases here. Leastwise that’s what my grandfather used to say to me.”
“Where was the biggest fight?” said Jock, quickly, suspecting that Bob was about to make inquiries of his own, and desiring to forestall him.
“’Twas back by Chrysler’s Farm; that’s on the Canadian side of the river, across from Ogdensburgh. General Wilkinson had command o’ our forces, but he wasn’t much good. Indeed, from what my grandfather used to tell me I should think the American officers spent more time fightin’ among themselves than they did in fightin’ the redcoats. Neither side could lay claim to vict’ry in the battle o’ Chrysler’s Farm, but our men acted so that they left everything open to the British hereabouts, an’ you never saw a Englishman yet who was slow to use any chance that opened. An’ they didn’t hereabouts, I’m tellin’ you. They were all riled up over our trip to Toronto, and paid off old scores. I believe the expedition, which was bound for Montreal, was given up by Wilkinson after the fight back here. He wasn’t much good, though they whitewashed him in their investigations afterward. But if we’re goin’ to do any more fishin’ we’ll have to be startin’. I say, George,” he added generously, “I don’t s’pose you know the grounds as well as I do. If ye want to, you can come along with us.”
“No, I’m going somewhere else,” responded George, quietly, as he rose to assist Hank in clearing the table.
When at last our boys resumed their places in the skiff, George whispered to them, “I’m after a muscallonge this time. We’ll show Hank yet.”
His confidence increased the enthusiasm of Jock and Bob, and when, after going with the current for a mile or more, George rowed into a broad bay, they were more than ready for the attempt to secure the great fish of the St. Lawrence.