And make a speech as well as those
Who wear the largest kind of clothes.”
Do you know how he feels? Well, that’s way I felt.
CHAPTER XV.
MY FIRST TRIP TO INDIAN LAKE.
THE next morning, just as the clock was striking the hour of four, I was aroused from a reverie into which I had fallen by a hasty step, followed by a blinding glare of light, and Joe Wayring came hurrying into the kitchen. He didn’t look much as he did the last time I saw him, and if it hadn’t been for his curly head and blue eyes, I don’t think I should have recognized him. But he was a nobby looking fellow, all the same, dressed as he was in a neat suit of duck, dyed to a dead grass shade, a light helmet with a peak before and behind, and leggings and gaiters instead of boots. Joe was not the boy to make himself uncomfortable, or to go about in a ragged coat and with his hair sticking out of the top of his cap, just because he intended to spend the day in the woods out of sight of every body. He knew of anglers and hunters who affected that style, and they could follow it, if they wanted to, but he wouldn’t. Leggings and gaiters were easier to walk in than heavy boots, and whole clothes looked better than shabby ones.
Placing the lamp on the table Joe began bustling about the kitchen, and in a very few minutes the fire was started and the tea-kettle filled. Then he threw back the cloth before spoken of, revealing a substantial lunch, a liberal portion of which he proceeded to pack away in the creel.
About the time the coffee was ready, the door opened again, and Uncle Joe came in. He, too, was dressed for the woods, and carried a rod of some sort in one hand and a creel in the other. The latter must have been a fine looking article in his day, but now he was as weather-beaten as any old sailor. And that was not to be wondered at, for he had traveled much, and had seen many hardships. He had accompanied his master from one end of the country to the other. He had held captive for him many a nice breakfast of grayling captured in Michigan waters, and carried his dinner while he was fighting with the big trout in Rangeley Lakes. He went with him on one of his Western tours, and would certainly have fallen into the hands of the Utes when they arose in rebellion and massacred all the whites they could find, had it not been for the fact that he was slung over his master’s shoulder, and the latter was in too great a hurry to stop and throw him off. He had many thrilling recollections of the Indian Lake country, for he had been capsized on the rapids more times than he could remember. He was a good talker, and as full of stories as the canvas canoe.
“Well, sir,” said Uncle Joe, as he deposited his rod and creel on the table, “what are the prospects?”
“Couldn’t be better,” replied the boy. “It’s cloudy, and there is every sign of rain before noon.”
“I hope it will stay cloudy, but I can’t say that I want to see it rain,” said Uncle Joe, as he drew a chair up to the table and took the cup of coffee his nephew poured out for him. “The bushes around the old spring hole are pretty thick, and I long ago ceased to see any fun in getting drenched for the sake of catching a mess of half-pound trout. If they were salmon, now, the case would be different.”