“But one day a sad tragedy occurred. It was one of those warm, balmy days of Indian summer, and the trout, probably feeling the need of exercise, followed his master to a stream, over which he attempted to cross on a slippery log. Losing his balance on the log, the fish fell off into the water and was drowned. In this manner, doubtless, perished one of the most remarkable——”
“Help!” cried Springer, clinging to the bole of a tree and gasping as if in great distress, while Stone, laughing heartily, had sunk upon the ground. “That’s the bub-biggest whopper I ever heard, and you sure told some beauts when you fuf-first hit Oakdale, Rod.”
The Texan regarded his companions with gentle reproof.
“You’ll observe,” he reminded, “that, like our interesting friend, Mr. Granger, I was careful to give the story as purely a matter of hearsay.”
“And, in spite of howling dogs, flashing lights, and ghostly figures,” said Ben, “there may be as much truth in one story as there is in the other. A hermit once lived on Spirit Island; doubtless a hunter once caught a trout and put it in a tub.”
“Nevertheless,” sighed Springer, “I’m almost tut-too weak to proceed on this little fishing expedition.”
He led the way along the nearest bank, exercising due caution in order not to frighten the fish in the pools; but, to the wonderment and perplexity of the young anglers, their efforts continued futile. Annoyed, they watched their flies bob in the little eddies or skim across the placid places, untroubled and untouched. This lack of success served to spur them on, and they followed the brook further and further into the woods, Springer still leading.
Finally Stone reached a broad, deep pool, spanned at its lower edge by an old limbless tree that had fallen from bank to bank. If there were trout anywhere, it seemed that they must be here, and Ben crept up toward the near end of the pool and made a cast. Over his head a red squirrel scolded at him from a limb, and he could hear the flute-like notes of the hermit thrush sounding from various parts of the woods. Suddenly there was a whirling movement on the surface of the water and a jerk at Ben’s line.
“I’ve got one!” he exclaimed, quickly stepping out upon the old tree in order to have plenty of elbow room for the task before him.
“And I’ll get you if you don’t skedaddle!” roared a hoarse voice, following which a grizzled, bewhiskered man crashed forth from the bushes on the opposite bank and sprang on to the log, a pitchfork in his calloused hands.