[A PAIR OF POACHERS]
Tom Pierson strode briskly down the hill, fishing-rod in hand. As long as he had been in sight of the school he had skulked in the shadow of the hedges, for he knew that Satterlee 2d was looking for him, and the society of that youth was the last thing he desired at present. For Satterlee 2d possessed the highly erroneous idea that the best way to catch trout was to make as much noise as possible and to toss sticks and pebbles into the brook. And so Tom, a devout disciple of Izaak Walton, preferred to do without his chum when he went fishing.
The time was a quarter after four of a late May afternoon. Tom had tossed the last book into his desk and slammed the lid just fifteen minutes before. From the school-hall he had sneaked to the dormitory, and secured his rod, line, and flies. Even as he had descended warily by means of the fire-escape, he had heard the voice of Satterlee 2d calling his name in the corridor. He had reached the brook path undetected by dodging from dormitory to school-hall and from school-hall to engine-house, and so to the protecting shadows of the high hedge that marked the western limit of the school-grounds. Most of the other two dozen pupils of Willard’s were down on the field, busy with balls and bats. But no form of athletics appealed to Tom Pierson as did angling, and to-day, with the white clouds chasing one another across the blue sky and the alder-bordered brook in sight, he was almost happy. Almost, but not quite; for even at sixteen life is not always clear of trouble. Tom’s trouble was “Old Crusty.” If it were not for “Old Crusty,” he thought gloomily, as he swung his pole through the new grass, he would be quite happy.
“Old Crusty’s” real name, you must know, was Professor Bailey: he was one of the two submasters; and as for being old, he was in truth scarce over forty—a good ten years younger than Doctor Willard, the head master, to whom, for some reason, the fellows never thought of referring as “Old Willard.” Professor Bailey and Tom had never, from the first, got on at all well together. The professor believed Tom quite capable of mastering mathematics as well as others of his form, and had scant patience for the boy’s sorry performances. Tom believed that “Old Crusty” dealt more severely with him than with the rest—in short, to use his own expression, that the professor “had it in for him.” One thing is certain: the more the submaster lectured Tom and ridiculed his efforts before the class, the more he kept him in after school, the less Tom knew of mathematics, and the wider grew the breach between pupil and teacher.
In all other studies Tom was eminently successful, and there is no doubt but that with a better understanding between him and the submaster the former would have made a creditable showing in the science that was at present the bane of his life. But, as it was, Tom hated “Old Crusty” with a great hatred, while the submaster felt for Tom a large contempt, if not an absolute aversion. And it must be acknowledged that Tom gave him sufficient cause.
A great deal of this passed through Tom’s mind as he descended the path and reached the shelter of the low-spreading alders that marked the course of the brook. But, with the sound of the bubbling water in his ears, he put trouble behind him. Laying aside his coat, he fitted his split-bamboo rod, and studied the sky and the pool before him. Then he chose a rather worn brown fly, and cast it gently into the center of the limpid basin. Above him the branches almost met, and he knew from experience that if he hooked a trout he would have to play him down-stream before he could land him. Ten minutes passed, but, save for the inquiring nibble of a sunfish or similar small fry, he found no encouragement. The sun went behind a large cloud, and Tom changed his fly for a bright red-and-gray one. But even that failed to entice the trout. He grew impatient, for the school rules required him to be back in bounds by half past five. Presently he drew in his line, donned his coat, and made his way noiselessly down-stream. When he had gone some ten yards, creeping from bank to rock and from rock to bank again, not without more than once filling his scuffed shoes with water, he came to a fence, the rails of which reached straight across the stream, which here narrowed to a rocky cascade. On the trunk of a big willow at one side there was a board. On the board was the legend:
PRIVATE PROPERTY
TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED
TO THE FULL EXTENT OF THE LAW