Now part of the story that Harry Donnelle told us, I knew already, but the other fellows didn’t, because I never told them how I had met him before. So this is the story just the way he told it to us that night, because afterward I got him to write it out for our hike record. And the reason I put it in here is, because it has something to do with the story that comes after this. So here it is, and oh boy, didn’t we listen as we sat around that camp-fire in Mr. Hasbrook’s orchard. That’s where stories are best—around the camp-fire.
Well, messmates, when my father told you that you could have the old house-boat for the summer, you never knew he had a son in the army, now, did you? But just the same, little Harry was trotting around in Camp Dix, all dolled up in his lieutenant’s uniform, waiting to be mustered out. Little Harry had just come home from France where he had been mixed up in the big—_episode_.
One fine day I said to myself, “While I’m waiting here, I guess I’ll go home.” So I got a short leave and the next that was seen of me I was stepping off the train in Bridgeboro. That was early in the morning; the dawn was just breaking. Pretty soon it broke. Just as it was all broken I saw Jake Holden, the fisherman, standing near the milk train. You’ll see that this is a fish story. It is a fishing _episode_.
That man persuaded me to go fishing with him. I knew that if I went home I’d have to meet all my sister’s friends and maybe drink tea and play tennis. So I decided to go fishing with Jake. I thought I’d be safer. I was a coward. I was afraid to go home and drink tea and play tennis. So I went up to the old house-boat where the governor had it tied up in the creek near home. The scene was dark and gloomy. It was early in the morning. Even the swamp grass wasn’t up; it was all trampled down. Not a sound could be heard—except the milkman rattling bottles up near the house.
I crept into the house-boat, took off my uniform, put it into a locker that I had the key of, and togged myself out in a set of old rags which I found there. Many were the times I had fished in those rags. I don’t know how long I stayed in the house-boat. Jake was to come through the creek in his motor boat and I was to meet him. But I was foiled—foiled by the Boy Scouts. I heard voices in the distance and pretty soon I recognized my father’s voice and the voice of Skeezeks Blakeley and the uproarious clamor and frantic utterances of Pee-wee Harris. I can hear it now, it haunts me night and day.