Just then the boat of which they had been talking came stealthily in sight, rowed by two other lads, much of the same age as Jack and his friend. The latter with the Yorkshireman quickly stepped into her, when without loss of time the boat glided again down the stream.
“This is a friend we have picked up, who is going to show us some sport, Bligh,” said Smedley in a low tone of voice. “We can trust him, and he knows that he can trust us; so it is all right.”
In a short time they entered the Trent, and quickly arrived at the weir, which was formed by large stones roughly laid together, so as to throw the water into a broad cascade, as it came tumbling over it to the lower reach of the river. Smedley was more inclined to be talkative than Jack or the other lads in the boat.
“What are we to call you, master?” he asked of the stranger.
“Call me Master Pearson; that is a good midland-county name enough,” he said with a low laugh. “You have not got a leister in the boat, have you? I have an idea, from the look of the place, that if I had one, I could catch you a salmon quicker than by any other way.”
The leister of which Master Pearson spoke is a three-pronged fork used for spearing fish.
“No,” answered Smedley; “none of us are good hands at using such a thing.”
“Well, just pull in here to the bank, and I will see if I cannot get a stick which will answer the purpose,” answered Master Pearson.
Without having to search long, he found a stake which had been driven into the stream to prevent drawing nets across it. The stick apparently suiting his fancy, with a piece of wire, with great dexterity, he in a short time manufactured a pronged harpoon. Balancing it in his hand, he seemed satisfied with his performance. Sitting down in the boat, he next took off his boots and long-skirted great coat, which he deposited on the seat, and then, tucking up his ample trousers, waded up to the weir, while the boat was still rocking some distance from it. Jack followed close behind him, and with delight saw a noble salmon glistening now and then in the straggling moonlight, and playing securely in the shallow water, but ready to dart out into the deeper part of the stream at the slightest sound. In another instant a crimson bubble came up to the surface of the water, showing with how unerring a hand the clumsy-looking weapon manufactured by Master Pearson had been struck home. At a signal the rest of the party came up to him to carry off their prize, while he continued looking about for another. They felt inclined to be rather annoyed at the ease with which the stranger had captured a fish which they would have thought it impossible to kill in the same way. Smedley at that moment declared that he heard sounds in the distance, which made him fear that the keepers were coming through the wood. “If we are not off we shall be getting into trouble,” he sung out.
“Hoot, mon!” cried Master Pearson, loud enough to be heard through the brawling of the weir; “you have time enough to learn how to strike a ‘sawmon;’ but come, I will show you another trick, since we have joined company for the night.”