“When a person comes out fishing,” replied Deacon Hartley, growing irritated, “it is a poor way to be wanting to go home because another catches the fish, especially as I am perfectly willing to divide equally.”
“What do you think I care for those puny little fish? You may keep them all, in welcome.”
“I suppose I may if I wish; they are mine because I have caught them, or nearly all; but I will give you half if you will cease grumbling at what you call your luck.”
“Well, what is it if not luck! Perhaps you think you surpass me in skill and experience,” answered the other sneeringly. “I tell you I am going home. It is my horse, and you may come or stay, as you choose.”
With that he seized the oars and shipping them into the nearest rowlocks, commenced furiously rowing the boat stern first. But the anchor-stone was down, and although he dragged it a few inches, he did so slowly and with great labor. Mr. Hartley went on deliberately fishing, but of course could catch nothing while the water was being disturbed.
“Pull up the anchor-stone, sir,” said Mr. Goodlow fiercely, the perspiration streaming down his face.
“I will do nothing of the kind,” responded Mr. Hartley.
The tugging at the oars was resumed, but when Mr. Goodlow was nearly exhausted, whether by accident or not will probably never be known, the oar slipped along the surface throwing a shower of water over the quondam friend, fairly taking away his breath. Without a word the latter dropped his rod, and seizing the bailing scoop, a sort of wooden shovel with a short handle, dipped it full of water and threw the contents in his companion’s face; the latter replied with a fresh douche from the oar.
The water fairly flew in mimic cataracts for ten minutes, till both parties were wet to the skin; originally, scoop had the best of it, but as skin and clothes will not take wetting beyond a certain degree, oars caught up, and the two irate lights of the church were as well drenched as if they had fallen overboard. Mutual exhaustion produced a cessation of hostilities, and after a moment’s pause, Deacon Hartley slowly drew up the anchor-stone, and Deacon Goodlow rowed silently to shore. Without a word, without a glance, the latter stepped to his buggy, untied the horse, jumped in and rode off.
Mr. Hartley had to secure the boat, collect his fish, unjoint his rod, and walk four miles home. The day was hot, the road was dusty, the fish were heavy, and tired enough he would have been, if an acquaintance passing in a wagon had not taken him up. The dust having covered him from head to foot helped disguise what had happened, and he allowed the gentleman to think he had slipped into the water.