If I had been able to speak to him I would have told Tom that he was mistaken when he said this, for Joe Wayring knew well enough whom he had to thank for every thing that happened to him that winter. Tom and his allies forgot that their foot prints in the snow and the marks of their skates on the ice were, as Roy expressed it, “a dead give away.”
Joe, however, did not say or do any thing to show that he suspected Tom, for he was a boy who liked to live in peace with every body; but when he came down to the boathouse the next morning and found that some one had been tampering with the fastenings of the door, he took me on his shoulder and carried me to his room, where I remained until the winter was passed and the boating season opened.
In the meantime I made the acquaintance of Fly-rod, who has told you a portion of my history, and who was as green a specimen as I ever met; but what else could you expect of a fellow who had never seen any thing of the world or caught a fish! A few Saturdays spent at the spring-holes and along the banks of the trout streams proved him to be a strong, reliable rod, and by the time the summer vacation came Joe had learned to put a good deal of confidence in him. One of the most noteworthy exploits Fly-rod ever performed was capturing that big bass at the perch-hole. That was on the day that Matt Coyle and his boys came down the creek in their scow and made a captive of me and chased my master through the woods; and this brings me back to my story.
CHAPTER II.
CAPTURED AGAIN.
I need not assure you that I was deeply interested in the exciting scene that was enacted before me. I rode helplessly at my moorings and watched Joe Wayring as he swam down the stream with his sturdiest strokes to get clear of the lily-pads before attempting a landing, and then I turned my attention to Matt Coyle and his boys, who had come to grief in their efforts to force their way to the shore.
“Back out!” shouted Matt, when he found that his scow could neither ride over or break through the strong, tangled stems of the lily-pads. “Be in a hurry, or he’ll get sich a start on us that we can’t never ketch him.” And then he swung his heavy paddle around his head and threw it at Joe, just as the latter crawled out upon the bank.
Joe saw the missile coming toward him, and when it struck the ground he caught it up and threw it back. He didn’t hit Matt, as he meant to do, but he struck Jake such a stunning blow in the face that the boy could take no part in the pursuit that followed. It came pretty near knocking him overboard. I would have laughed if I could, but I did not feel so jubilant when I heard Matt say:
“Sam, you an’ Jakey get into the canoe an’ paddle down the pond so’s to cut him off when he tries to swim off to the skiff.”
In obedience to these instructions the two boys took possession of me, hauled up the anchor, and paddled swiftly down the creek, while Matt kept on after Joe, who was running through the woods like a frightened deer. When we came out into the pond I saw him standing on the bank beckoning to Arthur and Roy, who lost no time in bringing the skiff to his relief. I saw Joe run into the water and strike out to meet them, and I also heard him say:
“Boys, never mind me. I’ve got my second wind now and can swim for an hour. Go up there and capture my canoe, or else run over him and send him to the bottom. Don’t let those villains take him away from me again.”