“And, in spite of howling dogs, flashing lights, and ghostly figures,” said Ben, “there may be as much truth in one story as there is in the other. A hermit once lived on Spirit Island; doubtless a hunter once caught a trout and put it in a tub.”
“Nevertheless,” sighed Springer, “I’m almost tut-too weak to proceed on this little fishing expedition.”
He led the way along the nearest bank, exercising due caution in order not to frighten the fish in the pools; but, to the wonderment and perplexity of the young anglers, their efforts continued futile. Annoyed, they watched their flies bob in the little eddies or skim across the placid places, untroubled and untouched. This lack of success served to spur them on, and they followed the brook further and further into the woods, Springer still leading.
Finally Stone reached a broad, deep pool, spanned at its lower edge by an old limbless tree that had fallen from bank to bank. If there were trout anywhere, it seemed that they must be here, and Ben crept up toward the near end of the pool and made a cast. Over his head a red squirrel scolded at him from a limb, and he could hear the flute-like notes of the hermit thrush sounding from various parts of the woods. Suddenly there was a whirling movement on the surface of the water and a jerk at Ben’s line.
“I’ve got one!” he exclaimed, quickly stepping out upon the old tree in order to have plenty of elbow room for the task before him.
“And I’ll get you if you don’t skedaddle!” roared a hoarse voice, following which a grizzled, bewhiskered man crashed forth from the bushes on the opposite bank and sprang on to the log, a pitchfork in his calloused hands.
Of course Ben was startled, and, failing to give proper attention to his reel, he permitted the fish to dart under a projecting root near the bank, where it broke away.
“There, you made me lose him!” he exclaimed resentfully.
“But I won’t lose you, if you don’t hiper in a hurry!” retorted the man, advancing upon the fallen tree with the pitchfork threateningly poised.
“That’s right, dad!” cried another voice, and Jim Simpson rose from a place of concealment on the opposite bank somewhat further down the stream. In his hands he held an old muzzle-loading gun.