What else Joe was going to say about me I never knew; for just then the supper bell rang, and he made all haste to put me back in my case. After a hasty toilet he bolted out of the room with the same noise and racket he made when he came in, and I was at liberty to continue my conversation with the canvas canoe. As usual, that useful and talkative individual spoke first.
“What is your opinion of a boy who can deliberately persecute a fellow like that?” said he.
“He ought to receive the same punishment you want meted out to Matt Coyle; he ought to be abolished,” I replied. “But Joe doesn’t appear to think much of me.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” said the canoe, encouragingly. “You will not wonder at it when you have made the acquaintance of his bait-rod—if you ever do; I mean the one that was stolen from him. He’s a big heavy fellow, and strong enough to jerk a four pound black bass from the water without any nonsense. You can’t do that, and Joe isn’t certain that he can handle you. He doesn’t distrust you any more than he distrusts himself. There’s one thing I forgot to tell you,” added the canoe, “and that is, if any misfortune befalls you, you can lay it to Tom Bigden. I heard enough during my short captivity to satisfy me that he was the chap who put it into Matt’s head to steal Joe’s property. Matt is bad enough, goodness knows; but the advice Tom Bigden gave him made him worse. That is one of the secrets of which I spoke at the beginning of my story, and it troubles me all the time. I am sure that if I could talk to Joe about five minutes, I should feel easier; but that’s something I can’t do.”
At my request the historian then went on to tell of other interesting and exciting incidents in Joe Wayring’s life, but as they have no bearing with my own exploits and adventures I omit them now, although they may appear at some future period. By the time he grew weary of talking it was ten o’clock, and darkness had settled down over the room; but just as I was composing myself for the night, the door opened and Joe Wayring came in. Making good his boast, that if folks would let his property alone, he could find any thing he wanted on the darkest of nights and without the aid of a lamp, Joe caught up the creel with one hand, seized me with the other, and carrying us both down-stairs, deposited us on the kitchen table beside something that was covered with a snow-white cloth. Then he busied himself for a few minutes about the stove, getting kindling and light wood together so that a fire could be readily started; and after I had watched his movements for a while, I made up my mind that a campaign of some sort was in prospect. When he took the light and went out I said to the creel:
“Do you happen to know what day this is?”
“It’s Friday,” he replied. “To-morrow will be Saturday, and I should judge by the looks of things, that we are going to make our first trip after trout.”
Do you know by experience how a youngster feels when he is about to be called up before a hundred or more critical school mates to recite his little piece beginning—
“You’d scarce expect a boy like me
To get up here where all can see,