I looked up, and there was another lancewood bow, resting on a pair of deer’s antlers. He was not quite as fancy as the prize bow of whom I have already spoken. His green plush handle was beginning to look threadbare, and that, to my mind, indicated that he had seen service.
“You wouldn’t think that a few insignificant things like that could be the means of setting a whole village together by the ears, would you?” continued the canoe.
“Insignificant yourself,” retorted the long bow; but I was glad to notice that he did not speak as if he were angry. The various articles I saw about me all cherished the most friendly feelings for one another, but when they had nothing to do, they were like a lot of idle boys—always trying to “get a joke” upon some of their number. “You never won a prize for Joe, did you? Well, I have. Go and win a race before you brag. You can’t; you’re much too clumsy. One of those Shadow or Rob Roy canoes out there on the lake would beat you out of sight in going a mile.”
I cared nothing at all for this side sparring. I knew that I would have plenty of time in which to listen to it during the long winter months, when canoe, long bow and fly-rod would be laid up in ordinary, while skates, snow-shoes and toboggans took our places in the affections of our master for the time being. For I saw snow-shoes and a toboggan there, and I knew what they were, because I had seen some like them in Mr. Brown’s store. They came from Canada, and were almost as full of stories as the canoe was. Joe had worn the snow-shoes while hunting caribou in Newfoundland in company with his uncle, and the toboggan had carried his master with lightning speed over the ice bridge at Niagara Falls. Many an hour that would otherwise have dragged by on leaden wings did they brighten for us by relating scraps of their personal history, and at some future time I may induce them to put those same narratives into print for your benefit; but just now we are interested in Tom Bigden. We want to know why he disliked Joe Wayring, and what made him take every opportunity he could find to annoy him.
“When you talk about racing you don’t want to leave me out,” observed the toboggan, “for I am the lad to show speed. Give me a fair field, and I would not be much afraid to try conclusions with an express train. And it takes as much, if not more, skill to manage me than it does to handle an awkward canvas canoe, who is always bobbing about, turning first one way and then another as if he were too contrary to hold a straight course.”
“I wasn’t intended for a racing boat, and I know I can’t compete with such flyers as you and a Rob Roy,” said the canvas canoe, modestly; and I afterward found that none of my new acquaintances were half as conceited as they pretended to be. They boasted just to hear themselves talk, and because they had no other way of passing the time when they were unemployed; but each was perfectly willing to acknowledge the superiority of the other in his own particular line of business. “I was intended for a portable craft—something that can be folded into a small compass and carried over a portage without much trouble; and in that respect I am far ahead of a stiff-necked Canuck, who, having made up his mind just how much space he ought to occupy in the world, would rather break than bend to give elbow-room to his betters.” “You wanted me to tell you something about Tom Bigden, I believe,” added the canoe, addressing himself to me. “Well, it is a long story, but you will have plenty of time to listen to it; for if Joe and Roy have gone out on the lake, they will not return much before dark. You ought to know the full history of Tom’s dealings with Joe, for you may become the victim of persecution as the rest of us are and have been ever since Tom came here; and if you were not posted, you would not know how to account for it. A long time ago—”
But there! I never could learn to tell a story in the words of another, so I will, for a time, drop the personal pronoun, which I don’t like to use if I can help it, and give you in my own homely way the substance of the narrative to which I listened that afternoon. But please understand one thing before I begin: The historian was not a personal witness of all the incidents I am about to describe. He couldn’t have been, unless he possessed the power of being in half a dozen different places at the same time. He saw and heard some things, of course, but much of his information had been obtained from the long bow, and from Joe and his friends, who had freely discussed matters in his presence; and by putting all these different incidents together, he was able to make up a story which, to me, was very interesting. I hope it may prove so to you.
CHAPTER III.
SOMETHING ABOUT TOM BIGDEN AND HIS COUSINS.
MOUNT AIRY, the village in which Joe Wayring and Roy Sheldon lived, was situated a few miles away from a large city which, for want of a better name, we will call New London. It was so far distant from the city that it could not properly be spoken of as one of its suburbs, and yet the railroad brought the village so near to it that a good many men who did business in New London, Joe’s father and Roy’s among the number, had their homes there. It was a veritable “hide and seek town”. Sometimes, as you were approaching it on the cars, you would see it very plainly, and then again you wouldn’t. It was nestled in among high mountains, and in the woods which covered them from base to summit could be found an abundance of small game, such as hares, squirrels and grouse, that afforded sport to the local Nimrods, and even received attention from the New London gunners. It was surrounded by a perfect network of babbling trout brooks, and there were several lakes and ponds in the vicinity in which some of the finest fish in the world awaited the lure of the skillful angler. And it required skill to take them, too. They were shy of strangers, and it wasn’t every body who could go out in the morning and come back at night with a full creel.
Nor was larger game wanting to tempt the hunter who plumed himself on being a good shot with the rifle. Visitors standing upon the veranda of the principal hotel in the village had often heard wolves howling in the mountains, and on more than one occasion a deer had been seen standing on the opposite shore of Mirror Lake (it was generally called Wayring’s Lake, because Joe’s father owned the land on all sides of it), regarding with much curiosity the evidences of civilization that had sprung up on the other side. More than that, a bear was expected to make his appearance at least once every season; and when word was passed that he was in sight, what a hubbub it created among the visiting sportsmen! How prompt they were to seize their guns and run out after him, and how sure they were to come back empty-handed! Uncle Joe used to say that he believed the managers of the hotels would close their doors against the man who was lucky enough to shoot that bear, for unless Bruin had a companion to take his place, his death would spoil their advertisements. For years the proprietor of the Mount Airy House had been accustomed to tell the public, through the New London papers, that bear could be seen from the piazza of his hotel, and the announcement had brought him many a dollar from sportsmen who came from all parts of the country to shoot that bear. Why didn’t Uncle Joe shoot him? He owned the hotel.