Of course Ben was startled, and, failing to give proper attention to his reel, he permitted the fish to dart under a projecting root near the bank, where it broke away.
“There, you made me lose him!” he exclaimed resentfully.
“But I won’t lose you, if you don’t hiper in a hurry!” retorted the man, advancing upon the fallen tree with the pitchfork threateningly poised.
“That’s right, dad!” cried another voice, and Jim Simpson rose from a place of concealment on the opposite bank somewhat further down the stream. In his hands he held an old muzzle-loading gun.
“What right have you to trouble me?” demanded Ben. “I’m not on your land.”
“But you’re fishing in my brook,” declared the man. “I’ll show you sassy young cubs that you can’t fish in this brook!”
He had reached the middle of the log, from which Ben now stepped back to the ground without showing a disposition immediately to retreat further.
Springer, above, had heard Stone’s exclamation when the fish struck, and, hurrying back, he reached the upper end of the pool as the man with the pitchfork balanced himself precariously upon the fallen tree. Instantly Phil lifted his fly-rod and made a skillful cast, which sent the hook sailing through the air to strike the collar of the man’s coat and cling there. Reaching out hurriedly, Springer grasped the line beyond the tip of the rod and gave it a pull.
It needed no more than this slight tug to cause Hank Simpson to lose his balance, and backward into the water he fell with a tremendous splash.
At the same moment Grant, who a short time before had detected young Simpson hiding behind the bushes, which led Rod to ford the stream unperceived, sprang forward and landed fairly upon the fellow’s back. Seizing the gun, Rodney wrested it from Jim’s hands.