The Rival Campers Ashore Part 23

It was a little more than two weeks before Colonel Witham did return to his hotel. Had he gotten out of the way, thus hurriedly, to see what turn James Ellison's affairs might take? Had he hopes that the deeds he knew of might by some chance not be found? Was his absence carefully timed, to allow of whatever search was bound to be made to be done and gotten over with, ere he should presume to lay claim to the property?

It would not do to declare himself owner, should the chance arise, and then have the deeds that he had given back secretly to Ellison turn up.

It were safer surely to remain away and see what would happen.

At all events, when on a certain day the droning of the mill told that its wheels had resumed their interrupted grinding, there might have been seen, within, the burly form of Colonel Witham, moving about as one with authority. Short, curt were his answers. There was little to be made out of him by Lawyer Estes or anyone else. What was his business was his--and n.o.body else's. There were the deeds, duly signed. If anyone had a better claim to the property, let him show it. As for the Ellison boys--and all other boys--they could keep away, unless they had corn to be ground. The mill was no place for them.

And yet, as the days went by, one might have fancied, if he had observed, that all was not easy in the mind of the new owner of the mill. They might have noted in his manner a continual restlessness; a wandering about the mill from room to room; prying into odd corners here and there; pounding upon the beams and part.i.tions; poking under stair-ways; rummaging into long unused chutes and bins; for ever hunting, anxious-eyed; as though the mill had an evil and troublous influence over his spirits.

And now and then, pausing in the midst of his searching, the new owner might have been heard to exclaim, "Well, if I can't find them, n.o.body else can. That's sure."

But Colonel Witham did not discontinue his searching. And the mill gave up no secrets.

CHAPTER XII

THE GOLDEN COIN

Mill stream, coming down from afar up the country, on its way to Samoset river and bay, flowed in many moods. Now it glided deep and smooth, almost imperceptibly, along steep banks that went up wooded to the sky line. Again it hurled itself recklessly down rocky inclines, frothing and foaming and fighting its way by sheer force through barriers of reefs. Now it went swiftly and pleasantly over sand shallows, rippling and seeming almost to sing a tune as it ran; again it turned back on its course in little eddies, backing its waters into shaded, still pools, where the pickerel loved to hide.

They were lazy fellows, the pickerel. One might, if he were a lucky and persevering fisherman, take a trout in the swift waters of the brook; but for the pickerel, theirs was not the joy of such exertion. In the dark, silent places along Mill stream, where never a ripple disturbed their seclusion, you might see one, now and then, lying motionless in the shadow of an overhanging branch, at the surface of the water, as though asleep.

They were not eager to bite then, in the warmth of the day. You might troll by the edges of the lily pads for half an hour, and the pickerel that made his haunt there would scarce wink a sleepy eye, or flicker a fin. At morn and evening they were ready for you; and a quick, sudden whirl in the gla.s.sy, black water often gave invitation then to cast a line.

In the early hours of a July morning, a little way up from Ellison's dam, a youth stood up to his middle among the lily pads, wielding a long, jointed bamboo pole, and trolling a spoon-hook past the outer fringe of the flat, green leaves. He was whistling, softly--an indication that he was happy. He was sunburned, freckle-faced, hatless, coatless. He wore only a thin and faded cotton blouse, the sleeves of it rolled up, and a pair of trousers, rolled up above his knees--for convenience rather than to protect them, for he had waded in, waist deep.

Tied about him was a piece of tarred rope, from which there dangled the luckless victims of his skill, three pickerel. That they were freshly caught was evidenced by their flopping vigorously now and then, as the boy entered the deeper water, and opening their big, savage looking mouths as though they would like to swallow their captor.

A splash out yonder, just beside the clump of arrow-shaped pickerel weed! Tim Reardon's heart beat joyfully, as he turned and saw the ripples receding from the spot where the fish had jumped. He swung his long rod, dropped the troll skilfully near the blue blossoms that adorned the clump of weed, and drew it temptingly past. The spoon revolved rapidly, gleaming with alternate red and silver, the bright feathers that clothed the gang of hooks at the end trailing after.

Another splash, and a harder one. Tim Reardon "struck" and the fish was fast. Now it lashed the water furiously, fighting for its life. But it was not a big fish, and Tim Reardon lifted it clear of the water so that it swung in where he could clutch it with eager hands. Grasping it just back of the gills, he disengaged the hook cautiously, avoiding the sharp rows of teeth that lined the long jaws. He slung the pickerel on the line, and whistled gleefully.

It was a royal day for fishing; with just a thin shading of clouds to shield the water from the glare of sun; the water still and smooth; the shadows very black in the shady places.

It is safe to say, no one in all Benton knew the old stream like Tim Reardon. He fished it day after day from morn till evening, before and after school hours, and now in the vacation at all times. Tom Harris and Bob White knew it as canoeists; but Tim Reardon, following the ins and outs of its sh.o.r.es for miles above the Ellison dam, knew every little turn and twist in its sh.o.r.e.

He knew the places where the pickerel hid; where the water was swift, or shallow, or choked with weeds, and where to leave the sh.o.r.e and make a detour through the grain fields past these places. There were deep pools where the pickerel seldom rose to the troll, but asked to have their dinner sent down to them in the form of a fresh shiner; and Tim Reardon knew these pools, and when to remove the troll and put on his sinker and live bait.

He could have told you every inch of the country between Ellison's dam and the falls four miles above; where you would find buckwheat fields; where the corn patches were; where apple orchards bordered them; where the groves of beech-trees were, with the red squirrel colonies in the stumps near-by; and where the best place was to pause for noon luncheon, in the shade of some pines, where there was a spring bubbling up cool on the hottest days, in which you could set a bottle of coffee and have it icy cold in a half-hour.

There were big hemlocks along the way, in the rotted parts of which the yellow-hammers built their nests and laid their white eggs; hard trees to climb, with their huge trunks. He knew the time to scale the tall pines where the crows built, to find the scrawny young birds, with wide-open mouths and skinny bodies, that looked like birds visited by famine. He knew where the red columbines blossomed on the face of some tall cliffs, where the stream flowed through a rocky gorge; and how to crawl painfully down a zigzag course from the top to gather these, at the risk of falling seventy feet to the rocks below.

There were a thousand and one delights of the old stream that were a joy to his heart--though one would not have expected to find sentiment lodged in the breast of Little Tim. As for the boy, he only knew that it was all very dear to him, and that the whole valley of the stream was a source of perpetual happiness.

He waded ash.o.r.e now and went on, his pole over his shoulder, whistling, filled with an enjoyment that he could not for the world have described; but which was born amid the singing of the stream, the droning of bees, the noises of birds and insects, in a lazy murmur that filled all the quiet valley.

It was rare fun following the winding of that stream; among little hills, by the edges of meadows and through groves of mingled cedars and birches. Now and then he would rest and watch its noiseless flowing, past some spot where the branches hung close over the water; where the stream flowed so smoothly and quietly that the shadows asleep on its surface were never disturbed.

The noon hour came, and Little Tim seated himself for his luncheon on a knoll carpeted with thick, tufted gra.s.s. A kingfisher, disturbed by his arrival, went rattling on his way upstream. And as the boy drew from his dingy blouse a sc.r.a.p of brown paper, enclosing a bit of bread and cheese, and laid it down beside him, the stream seemed to be dancing just before him at the tune he whistled; a swinging, whirling dance from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e; a b.u.t.terfly dance, through a setting of b.u.t.tercups and daisies; with here and there a shaft of sunlight thrown upon it, where the thin clouds parted.

Afternoon came, and the shadows of the low hills were thrown far across the stream. Here and there a splash denoted that the fish were waking from their midday torpor and were ready for prey. Little Tim resumed his rod, and slowly retraced his steps along the sh.o.r.e in the direction of Ellison dam and Benton.

It was about four o'clock as he neared a point in the stream a half-mile above the dam, where the water flowed very quietly past the edge of some thick alders. There were pickerel in that water. Tim knew the place of old; and he drew near softly, to make a cast. The bright troll fell with a tinkle on the still surface, and he drew it temptingly past the thicket.

A quick whirl--and how the line did tauten and the rod bend! The whole tip of it went under water. He had struck a big fish. He brought him to the surface with some effort; but the fish was not to be easily subdued.

A sudden dart and he was away again, diving deep and straining the rod to its utmost.

Seeing he had a fish of unusual size, the boy played him carefully; let him have the line and tire himself for a moment, then reeled in as the line slackened.

"He's a four pounder; giminy, how he fights!" exclaimed Little Tim. And he gave a sudden yell of triumph as he saw that the fish was firmly hooked, with the troll far down its distended jaws.

Then his impatience got the better of him, and he gave a great lift on the rod, with the line reeled up short. Just at that moment too, it seemed the fish had tired; for, as Tim strained, the big pickerel came out of water as with a leap. The stout rod straightened with a jerk that yanked the fish out, sent it flying through the air and lodged it away up in the top of some thick alders that bordered the sh.o.r.e. There, the line tangling, it hung suspended, twisting and doubling in vain effort to free itself.

Little Tim laughed joyfully.

"Got to shin for that fellow," he said, stepping ash.o.r.e and eying the prize that dangled above his head.

But, as he stooped to lay down his pole, the discharge of a shotgun close at hand made him jump with astonishment. Still more amazed was he to see the dangling fish fall between the alder branches to the ground.

Then, before he had recovered from his astonishment, a youth dashed forward and seized it.

The youth was Benny Ellison.

Little Tim's blood was up.

"Think you're smart, don't you," he cried, "shooting my fish. Here, gimme that. What do you think you're doing?"

But Benny Ellison, holding the big pickerel away from Tim, showed no intention of giving it up.

"Who told you it was your fish?" he replied, sneeringly. "I shot it.

It's mine."

"Give me back that fish!" repeated Little Tim. "I'll tell Harvey on you.

You'll get another ducking."

He seized Benny Ellison by an arm, but the other, bigger and stronger, pushed him back roughly.

"Go on," he said, and added, while a grin overspread his fat face, "That's no fish, anyway. Whoever heard of catching fish in trees? That's a bird, Timmy, and I shot it. See its tail-feathers?"

He swung the fish and gave Little Tim a slap over the head with the tail of it, that brought the tears to Tim's eyes.

"Go on, tell Harvey," he said. "This bird's mine."

Dangling the pickerel by the gills, and shouldering his gun, he pushed on upstream through the alders, leaving Little Tim angry and smarting.

"I'll get even with you, Benny Ellison," called Tim; but the other only laughed and went on.

Tim slowly unjointed his rod, tied the pieces together in a compact bundle, gathered up his string of remaining fish and started homeward.