CHAPTER XII
CONCERNING TROUT AND OTHER THINGS
The boys of the club stretched themselves out, very much at their ease, with the glowing embers of a camp-fire in the center of their circle. The tent was pitched and made securely fast to well-driven pegs; a ditch was dug about it to take care of surplus water in case of a rain; in one corner was a shake-down of spruce boughs, artfully interwoven into a thick, elastic mattress, which promised a restful bed in case any of the party chose to remain over night in camp. Poke had spent two hours in bringing stones from the lake shore and building a fireplace to his satisfaction. Orkney had cleared a path from the glade to the beach. The Trojan and Herman Boyd had stacked a noble pile of fire-wood. Indeed, everybody had been remarkably busy through the afternoon, and had brought a wonderful appetite to supper, when lunch baskets were unpacked, and a coffee-pot sent forth delicious odors to mingle with those others which come only from bacon frying to a turn in skilful open air cookery. And then there had been the trout! But that was almost a story by itself.
Sam had wondered a bit that Lon, instead of aiding in the work, disappeared soon after the party reached its destination. And Lon was gone for hours. He came back, with a rod (cut from a thicket) over his shoulder and a string of trout, at sight of which the boys raised a shout. They rained inquiries upon him. How many had he caught? Where had he found them? Would he show them the brooks? Trout, be it understood, were much sought by anglers thereabouts, and such a “mess” as Lon had caught was a rarity. But Lon, though much importuned, merely shook his head and laughed. He’d caught his trout “over there,” he said, giving the boys the traditional answer of the lucky fisherman. Would he guide them to the brooks? That depended. He’d see—some day, perhaps—meanwhile, here were some fine fish to be cooked and eaten before they lost their freshness. And as for the cooking—well, Lon called attention to the fortunate chance that he had brought along a special frying-pan, and a piece of pork, and some meal; and modestly remarked that he was something of a chef himself when it came to dealing with trout just out of their native waters. As he more than made good his statement, it was a very toothsome as well as a very merry supper to which the club gave its undivided attention.
Then came the leisurely hour about the fire. In the early twilight of the long spring day, when the shadows were thickening under the trees and the air was taking a hint of crispness, it was good to draw close to the glowing bed of coals and snuggling comfortably in jacket or sweater, chat lightly of the day’s incidents and plan improvements in the camp and expeditions about the surrounding country. Lon, with his back against a stump, was a picture of contentment.
“Tell you, boys, this is the life!” he said. “I’d live it all the while, if ’twa’n’t for jest one little drawback.”
“What’s that, Lon?” Step demanded.
“The need o’ gettin’ three square meals a day. Somehow, my constitution seems to require ’em. It’s funny, but ’long about seven in the mornin’, and again at noon, and once more near sundown I begin to get that gone feelin’ under the belt. And when it comes to supplyin’ victuals reg’lar, the woods ain’t in it with what us poets call the haunts o’ man. It’s a pity it’s true, as we say in rhyme.”
“But that isn’t a rhyme.”
“It’s part of one, anyhow. Don’t expect me to give you a whole recitation, do you?”
“I’d rather hear where you caught those trout.”