When the squatter picked up Joe’s double paddle and shoved away from the shore, after taking possession of all the fishing rods and bundles that he could lay his hand on, he told himself that he had done something toward paying off the Mount Airy people for the shameful manner in which they had treated him and his family.
“They wouldn’t let us stay up there to the village an’ earn an honest livin’, like we wanted to do,” said Matt, with a chuckle, “an’ now I’ll show ’em how much they made by it. Them things must be wuth a power of money,” he went on, looking down at the elegant rods which he had unjointed and laid on the bottom of the canoe, “an’ I reckon mebbe we’ve got grub enough to last us fur a day or two—good grub, too, sich as don’t often come into our house less’n we hooks it. This is a powerful nice little boat, this canoe is, an’ now we’ll go up to Injun Lake, an’ me an’ the boys will set up fur independent guides. If they won’t have us there, we’ll bust up the business.”
While communing thus with himself the squatter did not neglect to ply his paddle vigorously, nor to look over his shoulder now and then to satisfy himself that his rascality had not yet been discovered. But Joe and his companions spent fully half an hour in roaming about through the woods, looking for the bear and shooting squirrels for their dinner, and when they came out, Matt was nowhere in sight. He had crossed the pond, and was urging the canoe up a narrow winding creek toward his habitation. With a caution which had become a part of his nature, he had concealed his place of abode so effectually that a fleet of canoeists might have passed up the creek without knowing that there was a shanty within less than a stone’s throw of them. The only visible sign that any body had ever been in the creek was a disreputable looking punt, with a stove and battered bow, which was drawn out upon the bank. She had had a hard time of it in getting through the rapids, and it was a mystery how Matt had saved himself from a capsize, and kept his miserable old craft afloat until he could get her up the creek. She had carried the squatter and all his worldly possessions for many a long mile on Indian Lake and its tributary streams, but her days of usefulness were over now. Her trip down the rapids was the last she ever made. She was in Sherwin’s Pond and there she must stay.
“Hi, there!” yelled Matt, as he ran the bow of the canvas canoe upon the bank.
An answering yelp came from the bushes, and presently Matt’s wife and boys came hurrying out. They would not have expressed the least surprise if the squatter had come back with as many turkeys or chickens as he could conveniently carry, because they were accustomed to such things; but to see him in possession of a nice little canoe, five silver mounted fishing rods and as many big bundles, excited their astonishment.
“Where did you get ’em, old man, an’ what’s into them there bundles?” was the woman’s whispered inquiry.
“I got ’em up there in the pond clost to the foot of the rapids,” answered Matt, gleefully. “I’ll learn them rich fellers up to Mount Airy to treat a gentleman right the next time they see one. We’re jest as good as they be if we are poor.”
“Course we be,” said Jake, Matt’s oldest boy. “What’s them there things—fish poles? I want one of ’em.”
“All right. You an’ Sam take your pick, an’ we’ll sell the rest. If you see a feller that is needin’ a pole, you can tell him that you know where he can get one worth the money.”
“About how much?” queried Jake.