The Safety First Club fights fire

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.”

“That’s tellin’.”

“Oh, well, I’ve seen bigger ones,” said Sam mischievously.

“Humph! so’ve I,” Lon agreed placidly.

“My uncle got a two-and-a-half-pounder once—I saw it,” Poke contributed.

“Square-tail?” asked Herman.

“Sure!”

“Then it had run into some pond.”

“No; he caught it in a brook.”

“I’ve heard of them as big as that,” said the Trojan.

“Fellow last year was showing one that was over three pounds—brook trout, too,” declared Step.

Tom Orkney shook his head. “I know, I know! You hear such yarns, but, somehow, the proof isn’t conclusive. And if you’re talking about the genuine native trout, and not about some of the imported varieties that have been used to stock the streams——”

There he was interrupted by two or three, speaking at once. “I tell you those big fellows are pond fish!” “The native’s the best of the lot, but he won’t grow so big!” “It’s all a question of food supply—my father says so!”

Tom chose to accept none of the challenges. Instead, he turned to Lon.

“Look here! You’ve fished all the streams around here. What do you say about it?”

“I ain’t sayin’, son. I ain’t quite sure what’s the question before the house.”

“It’s how big will a brook trout grow—in a brook?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you must have some idea,” Tom urged. “What’s the biggest you ever saw?”

“It was so big I’d hate to say jest how big it was.”

“I don’t understand.”

Lon deliberated a moment, while the boys, getting hint of a story, drew closer.

“Well, I say I saw the big fellow, but that’s sort o’ misleadin’. I didn’t see well enough to go to measurin’ or estimatin’ in feet and inches, or in pounds, for that matter. But I did see Old Man Freeman’s William Trout, and he was a buster, I tell ye!”

“Freeman’s William Trout?” Sam repeated. “What’s that? A species?”

“Nope—straight brook trout. Leastwise, Old Man Freeman said so.”

“Seems to me I’ve heard of Freeman,” Poke put in. “Guess my father knew about him.”

“Likelier your grandfather. ’Twas a good ways back when he flourished. I was a little shaver fust off in our acquaintance.”

“Let’s have the story!” cried Step.

“Yes—the story!” echoed Poke.

“Well, I ain’t got my notes with me, but I’ll do my best to entertain the company,” said Lon. “Way of it was this: When I was the age of you chaps—no; I guess ’twas when I was a size smaller—there wasn’t anything I’d rather do than get out on a good brook ’long in the spring. And there wa’n’t many brooks in my part o’ the country that I didn’t try to see if they was good or not. So that was how, workin’ along a stream way back in the hills one day, I stumbled on Old Man Freeman’s place.

“It was a new brook to me, and there was a lot of woods, so I was doin’ a heap o’ wadin’, the brook bein’ the nearest thing to a path there was. I wasn’t payin’ much attention to the scenery, and I guess I plumb forgot it when I come to jest about the most promisin’ lookin’ pool you ever sot eyes on. But I hadn’t more’n dropped in my hook when there was a roar like a bull’s, and a wild old codger was rushin’ at me. He grabbed me by the collar, and yanked me up the bank, and began to shake my back teeth loose. Course, I wriggled and fit like a cat, but ’twa’n’t no use. Mebbe that was so plain it kinder reminded him what a little fellow I was, for, after a while, he quit treatin’ me like a bottle o’ medicine before takin’, and stopped to have a good look at me. Then he asked me, mighty sharp, what in tarnation I meant by tryin’ to catch his pet trout Bill, and why I didn’t stay home and tend to my own business, or couldn’t my folks find nothin’ for me to do.

“Well, I got back breath enough to say that I didn’t mean no harm, and I’d never heard tell o’ his Bill, and if he didn’t leggo o’ me he’d be sorry—you know the kind o’ oratory a youngster puts up in a case like that. I guess it didn’t skeer him none; but it gave him a chance to look me over some more. All of a sudden he says, ‘Boy, you watch sharp, and you won’t have to have nobody tell you about Old Man Freeman’s Bill. Now look!’

“Then he lets go my collar, and steps forward, and bends over the water, and pats it two-three times with his cupped hand. And there’s a swish and a swirl, and something comes shootin’ across the pool. And the something’s the biggest trout I’d ever see or ever dreamed of. Not that I made him out like print, as you might say—I couldn’t tell jest where he began or where he ended, but in between them p’ints was a mighty lot o’ concentrated trout. He whirled around the old man’s hand—playin’ tag with him, by jingo!—and then he shot back across the pool like a streak o’ fish lightnin’.

“I guess I gave a gasp like a fish out o’ water. ‘My eye, Mister,’ says I, ‘but he’s bigger’n I be!’

“Now, a joke’s like the measles; you never can tell how good it’s goin’ to take hold; sometimes it’s jest a flat failure like a case o’ mock measles. Then again it’s the real thing. That was the way with Old Man Freeman. Somehow I’d hit his funny bone, and hit it hard. He looked at me for a minute, his face creasin’ crosswise till I thought the skin’d crack. And then he hawhawed. Boys, I tell you, I never heard such a laugh before! It fair creaked, his laughin’ machinery was so rusty from lack o’ use! And he shook till I thought his old clothes’d drop off him. But that laugh did a lot. It made me and Old Man Freeman friends for life.”

“But didn’t he tell you how much his trout weighed?” Poke demanded.

Lon shook his head. “He didn’t; for he didn’t know. He didn’t have no more scales than a hornpout.”

“You mean the big trout didn’t?”

“I mean Old Man Freeman. He didn’t have many o’ what you’d call luxuries. Fact is, he lived like a hermit in a cabin beside the brook. He trapped some, and raised a few vegetables, and got along somehow. He’d no kith or kin, so far’s I ever heard of. And about his only interest in life was his Bill Trout. He’d sit beside the pool, and talk to that fish same’s if he was a human. And he fed him—oh, yes; Bill didn’t go hungry if Old Man Freeman did. Later on I found that if I wanted to be real popular, the way to do it was to bring along a couple o’ pound o’ liver for Bill Trout. And Bill seemed to understand a heap—for a fish. He’d let the old man pet him; and he got so he didn’t mind havin’ me around, though we never got what you’d call real familiar.”

“But you’re not giving us much light on how much a trout can weigh,” Sam objected, as Lon paused.

“Well, for one thing, I ain’t quite through with the story. Happened there was a long spell when I couldn’t go to see Old Man Freeman. I was down country, workin’. Must ’a’ been all of five-six years before I got out to the cabin. The old man didn’t know me fust off, I’d growed so. Fact is, he come at me mighty hostile with a shotgun; but when I’d persuaded him I was jest a small boy shot up a foot or two, he allowed I didn’t need no more shootin’, and was real glad to see me.

“‘And what’s become o’ Bill?’ says I. ‘Hangin’ round the place yet, is he?’

“‘William Trout is very well, thanky; if it’s him you’re alludin’ to,’ says the old codger, mighty solemn.

“‘William Trout?’ says I, kinder questioning.

“‘Yes, William,’ says he, waggin’ his head like a good fellow. ‘It ain’t fittin’ and proper to be puttin’ no nicknames on a fish o’ his heft and trainin’. But come along and take a look at William.’

“Well, we went down to the pool, and Old Man Freeman cupped his hand and slapped the water. There was a sunbeam pourin’ down through a break in the leaves overhead, and hittin’ the water so that right in the middle was a space all bright and shinin’, and around it a band of still and shadowy surface. The big trout must ’a’ been feelin’ his oats that day, for as he shot out of the shadow and into the brightness he gave a leap. Jerusalem! Talk about prisms and rainbows! There he was for jest a second, archin’ like the bow and blazin’ like a sunset, with the gleamin’ drops fallin’ from him in a shower of jewels. Then, splash! He was under again, and the water near the old man’s hand was a boilin’ swirl. This time I didn’t even gasp. I hadn’t breath enough left. I jest stood there, shakin’.”

“But how big was he?” persisted Poke.

Lon hesitated an instant. “I—well, I ain’t sayin’ what my guess would be—and it’d have to be a guess. If I told the whole truth—or what I believe’s the truth—none o’ you’d believe me. I dunno’s Ananias ever went fishin’, but there’s them as’d figger he’d ’a’ had a special gift that way. And I never sot out to qualify in the Ananias class.”

“But you must have some notion?”

“Yes; I have a notion,” Lon said slowly. “It’s a notion that I’ve seen ‘lakers’ paraded as big fish that weren’t as husky chaps as Old Man Freeman’s square-tail William Trout. But that’s as fur as I’ll go.”

There was a moment’s silence in the group about the fire. Sam ended it.

“I’ve heard my father say size was pretty much a matter of conditions. So, with the right conditions, I suppose a brook trout could do pretty well.”

Lon nodded. “That’s about it, Sam. And William Trout was a reg’lar parlor boarder. He lived in a nat’ral trout brook, which means a brook that yields trout food; then Old Man Freeman kept fattin’ up his rations. So he had nothin’ to do but keep on growin’ and growin’.”

“But I should think somebody’d have caught him,” Step put in.

“The old man stood guard. He’d posted his land with ‘No fishin’’ signs, and he was runnin’ a shotgun quarantine to boot. Fact is, he peppered two-three trespassers with birdshot, and after that got to be known he wasn’t bothered much.”

“But why did the fish stay in the pool? Why didn’t he run down stream or up?”

Lon chuckled. “That was where Old Man Freeman figgered again. He liked to let on that William Trout lingered from pure affection for him, but I noticed that what with rocks and wire there was a fairly effective fish-screen below the pool. It didn’t show much, but it was there. And there was another a lot like it higher up. No; the big trout was caged all right. And that, I reckon, was why Old Man Freeman come to be dead where they found him.”

“Go on! Tell us!” cried two or three together.

“Well, that summer I was out to see the old man half a dozen times. He was growin’ mighty stiff and feeble, and more obstinate and notional about William Trout. He’d sit on the bank for hours, mumblin’ to himself and talkin’ to that fish. And William—he was livelier’n a cricket, but, somehow, I never seemed to get a chance to look him over, cool and calculatin’. The old man let on he was worryin’ about what’d happen to William, if he should be took sick, allowin’ that the critter’d die of a broken heart or some such foolishness. I tried to cheer him up, but it didn’t do no good. William’d pine and waste away, and that was all there was to it. But one day, when I heard that Old Man Freeman was dead, and that somebody’d found him lyin’ between the brook and his cabin, and when I went out to the place—well, I’ll own up I took a look for William Trout. I couldn’t spy him nowhere in the pool. I cupped the water, but he didn’t come. Then I prodded around with a pole, and still no William! That sot me thinkin’. I moseyed down to the screen below the pool, and sure enough, the wires was cut. I reckoned I knew what had happened. The old man must ’a’ felt the last attack comin’ on, and used up what strength he had gettin’ to the wire and clearin’ a way for William to scoot—he didn’t mean to have no fellow with a net scoopin’ up the big fish and never givin’ him a chance. And William, he found the gap, and vamoosed; and the old man, he tried to get back to the cabin, and dropped half-way. So that was the end of the story for both of them, so far as I ever heard tell.”

“But didn’t anybody ever catch the big trout?” queried Step.

“Enough tried—they fair wore a path along the bank below the pool; but nobody landed William. There were a couple o’ ponds the brook run through, and he might ’a’ stayed in one of ’em, or then again he might ’a’ navigated right through to the big river. Anyhow, he dropped out o’ sight, and stayed out. And that’s the end of the story. And the moral of it? Well, I dunno’s there’s any moral, exactly, except that you can’t get me to say how big a brook trout can grow.”

“Where’s the brook he lived in?” asked Poke.

“Oh, over there!” Lon said, and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Some ways off. And ’twouldn’t interest you boys now—there ain’t no more William Trouts in it.” Then he rose to his feet, and his tone changed. “Look here, youngsters! Time we was movin’ along, if you don’t expect to put up here over night. You get me yarnin’ about my misspent youth, and I don’t notice how late it’s gettin’ to be.”

The club followed his example, and rose, not too willingly. The dusk had deepened, but it was still very pleasant to lounge about the dying fire.

“Well, I suppose we’ll have to go back to town,” Sam said reluctantly. “There’s school in the morning, as usual.”

“That’s so—worse luck!” growled Step.

Lon began to kick dirt upon the embers.

“No use takin’ unnecessary chances,” he remarked. “It’s powerful dry in the woods just now, and you never can tell what’d happen if a breeze should spring up and find a spark to carry. And this ain’t a good country to fight a healthy forest fire in. Too much truck jest waitin’ to burn, I tell you!”

“Huh! I’d like to see a good, ripping old fire once,” said Step. “I’ve never had the luck to be close to one.”

“Then you’ve been luckier than you know,” said Lon drily, and sent a shower of dust upon the coals.