The Lucky Piece: A Tale of the North Woods

by Albert Bigelow Paine

  CHAPTER VII

  THE PATH THAT LEADS BACK TO BOYHOOD

  The sun was not yet above the hills when Frank Weatherby left the Lodgenext morning. He halted for a moment to procure some convenientreceptacle and was supplied with a trout basket which, slung across hisshoulder, gave him quite the old feeling of preparation for a day'ssport, instead of merely an early trip up McIntyre. Robin Farnham wasalready up and away with his party, but another guide loitered about thecabin and showed a disposition to be friendly.

  "Better wait till after breakfast," he said. "It don't take long to runup McIntyre and back. You'll have plenty of time."

  "But it looks clear up there, now. It may be foggy, later on. Besides,I've just bribed the cook to give me a bite, so I'm not afraid ofgetting hungry."

  The guide brought out a crumpled, rusty-looking fly-hook and a littleroll of line.

  "Take these," he urged. "You'll cross a brook or two where there's sometrout. Mebbe you can get a few while you're resting. I'd lend you a rodif we had one here, but you can cut a switch that will do. The fish aremostly pretty small."

  The sight of the gayly colored flies, the line and the feeling of thebasket at his side was a combination not to be resisted. The yearsseemed to roll backward, and Frank felt the old eager longing to befollowing the tumbling, swirling water--to feel the sudden tug at theend of a drifting line.

  It was a rare morning. The abundant forest was rich with every shade ofgreen and bright with dew. Below, where the path lay, it was still dimand silent, but the earliest touch of sunrise had set the tree-topsaglow and started a bird concert in the high branches.

  The McIntyre trail was not a hard one to follow. Neither was it steepfor a considerable distance, and Frank strode along rapidly and withoutfatigue. In spite of his uneasiness of spirit the night before, he hadslept the sleep of youth and health, and the smell of the morning woods,the feel of the basket at his side, the following of this fascinatingtrail brought him nearer to boyhood with every forward step. He wouldgo directly to the top of the mountain, he thought, find the curiousflower or fungus which Robin had seen, and on his return trip would stopat the brooks and perhaps bring home a basket of trout; after which hewould find Constance and lay the whole at her feet as a proof that hewas not altogether indifferent to her wishes. Also, it might be, as atoken that he had renewed his old ambition to be something more than amere lover of ease and pleasure and a dreamer of dreams.

  The suspicions stirred by Edith Morrison the night before had growndim--indeed had almost vanished in the clear glow of morning. Constancemight wish to punish him--that was quite likely--though it was highlyimprobable that she should have selected this method. In fact, it wasquite certain that any possibility of causing heartache, especiallywhere Edith Morrison was concerned, would have been most repugnant to agirl of the character and ideals of Constance Deane. She admired Robinand found pleasure in his company. That she made no concealment of thesethings was the best evidence that there was nothing to be concealed.That unconsciously she and Robin were learning to care for each other,he thought most unlikely. He remembered Constance as she had seemedduring the days of their meeting at Lenox, when she had learned to know,and he believed to care for him. It had never been like that. It wouldnot be like that, now, with another. There would be no other. He wouldbe more as she would have him--more like Robin Farnham. Why, he wasbeginning this very moment. Those years of idleness had dropped away. Hehad regarded himself as beyond the time of beginning! What nonsense! Attwenty-four--full of health and the joy of living--swinging up amountain trail to win a flower for the girl he loved, with a cavalcadeof old hopes and dreams and ambitions once more riding through hisheart. To-day was life. Yesterday was already with the vanished ages.Then for a moment he recalled the sorrow of Edith Morrison and resolvedwithin him to see her immediately upon his return, to prove to her howgroundless and unjust had been her conclusions. She was hardly to blame.She was only a mountain girl and did not understand. It was absurd thathe, who knew so much of the world and of human nature, should haveallowed himself even for a moment to be influenced by the primitivenotions of this girl of the hills.

  The trail grew steeper now. The young man found himself breathing atrifle quicker as he pushed upward. Sometimes he seized a limb to aidhim in swinging up a rocky steep--again he parted dewy bushes thatlocked their branches across the way. Presently there was a sound ofwater falling over stones, and a moment later he had reached a brookthat hurried down the mountain side, leaping and laughing as it ran.There was a narrow place and a log where the trail crossed, with alittle fall and a deep pool just below it. Frank did not mean to stopfor trout now, but it occurred to him to try this brook, that he mightjudge which was the better to fish on his return. He looked about untilhe found a long, slim shoot of some tough wood, and this he cut for arod. Then he put on a bit of the line--a longer piece would not do inthis little stream--and at the end he strung a short leader and twoflies. It was queer, but he found his fingers trembling just a littlewith eagerness as he adjusted those flies; and when he held the rig atarm's length and gave it a little twitch in the old way it was not sobad, after all, he thought. As he stealthily gained the exact positionwhere he could drop the lure on the eddy below the fall and poised theslender rod for the cast, the only earthly thing that seemed importantwas the placing of those two tiny bits of gimp and feathers just on thatspot where the water swirled under the edge of the black overhangingrock. Gently, now--so. A quick flash, a swish, a sharp thrilling tug, aninstinctive movement of the wrist, and something was leaping andglancing on the pebbles below--something dark and golden and gaylyred-spotted--something which no man who has ever trailed a brook can seewithout a quickening heart--a speckled trout! Certainly it was but a boywho leaped down and disentangled the captured fish and held it joyouslyfor a moment, admiring its markings and its size before dropping it intothe basket at his side.

  "Pretty good for such a little brook," he said aloud. "I wonder if thereare many like that."

  He made another cast, but without result.

  "I've frightened them," he thought. "I came lumbering down like aduffer. Besides, they can see me, here."

  He turned and followed the stream with his eye. It seemed a successionof falls and fascinating pools, and the pools grew even larger and moreenticing. He could not resist trying just once more, and when anothergoodly trout was in his creel and then another, all else in life becamehazy in the joy of following that stream from fall to fall and from poolto pool--of dropping those gay little flies just in the particular spotwhich would bring that flash and swish, that delightful tug, and thegayly speckled capture that came glancing to his feet. Why not do hisfishing now, in these morning hours when the time was right? Later, thesport might be poor, or none at all. At this rate he could soon fill hiscreel and then make his way up the mountain. He halted a moment to linethe basket with damp moss and water grasses to keep his catch fresh.Then he put aside every other purpose for the business of the moment,creeping around bushes, or leaping from stone to stone--sometimesslipping to his knees in the icy water, caring not for discomfort orbruises--heedless of everything except the zeal of pursuit and the zestof capture--the glory of the bright singing water, spilling from pool topool--the filtering sunlight--the quiring birds--the resinous smell ofthe forest--all the things which lure the feet of young men over thepaths trod by their fathers in the long-forgotten days.

  The stream widened. The pools grew deeper and the trout larger as hedescended. Soon he decided to keep only the larger fish. All others hetossed back as soon as taken. Then there came a break ahead andpresently the brook pitched over a higher fall than any he had passed,into a larger stream--almost a river. A great regret came upon the youngman as he viewed this fine water that rushed and swirled among athousand bowlders, ideal stepping stones with ideal pools below. Oh,now, for a rod and reel, with a length of line to cast far ahead intothose splendid pools!

  The configuration of the land caused this larger stre
am to pursue acourse around, rather than down the mountain side, and Frank decidedthat he could follow it for a distance, and then, with the aid of hiscompass, strike straight for the mountain top without making his wayback up stream.

  But first he must alter his tackle. He looked about and presently cut amuch longer and stronger rod and lengthened his line accordingly. Thenhe made his way among the bowlders and began to whip the larger pools.Cast after cast resulted in no return. He began to wonder, after all,if it would not be a mistake to fish this larger and less fruitfulstream. But suddenly there came a great gleam of light where his fliesfell, and though the fish failed to strike, Frank's heart gave a leap,for he knew now that in this water--though they would be fewer innumber--there were trout which were well worth while. He cast again overthe dark, foamy pool, and this time the flash was followed by such a tugas at first made him fear that his primitive tackle might not hold. Oh,then he longed for a reel and a net. This was a fish that could not belightly lifted out, but must be worked to a landing place and draggedashore. Holding the line taut, he looked for such a spot, and selectingthe shallow edge of a flat stone, drew his prize nearer andnearer--drawing in the rod itself, hand over hand, and finally the lineuntil the struggling, leaping capture was in his hands. This wassomething like! This was sport, indeed! There was no thought now ofturning back. To carry home even a few fish, taken with such a tackle,would redeem him for many shortcomings in Constance's eyes. He was sorrynow that he had kept any of the smaller fry.

  He followed down the stream, stepping from bowlder to bowlder, castingas he went. Here and there trout rose, but they were old and wary andhesitated to strike. He got another at length, somewhat smaller than thefirst, and lost still another which he thought was larger than either.Then for a considerable distance he whipped the most attractive waterwithout reward, changing his flies at length, but to no purpose.

  "It must be getting late," he reflected aloud, and for the first timethought of looking at his watch. He was horrified to find that it wasnearly eleven o'clock, by which time he had expected to have reached thetop of McIntyre and to have been well on his way back to the Lodge. Hemust start at once, for the climb would be long and rough here, out ofthe regular trail.

  Yet he paused to make one more cast, over a black pool where there was afallen log, and bubbles floating on the surface. His arm had grown tiredswinging the heavy green rod and his aim was poor. The flies struck alittle twig and hung there, dangling in the air. A twitch and they werefree and had dropped to the surface of the water. Yet barely to reachit. For in that instant a wave rolled up and divided--a greatblack-and-gold shape made a porpoise leap into the air. The lower flydisappeared, and an instant later Frank was gripping the tough green rodwith both hands, while the water and trees and sky blended and swambefore him in the intensity of the struggle to hold and to keep holdingthat black-and-gold monster at the other end of the tackle--to keep himfrom getting back under that log--from twisting the line around alimb--in a word, to prevent him from regaining freedom. It would belunacy to drag this fish ashore by force. The line or the fly wouldcertainly give way, even if the rod would stand. Indeed, when he triedto work his capture a little nearer, it held so like a rock that hebelieved for a moment the line was already fast. But then came a suddenrush to the right and another stand, and to the left--with a plunge fordepth--and with each of these rushes Frank's heart stood still, for hefelt that against the power of this monster his tackle could not hold.Every nerve and fiber in his body seemed to concentrate on theslow-moving point of dark line where the tense strand touched the water.A little this way or that it swung--perhaps yielded a trifle or drewdown a bit as the great fish in its battle for life gave an inch onlyto begin a still fiercer struggle in this final tug of war. To all elsethe young man was oblivious. A bird dropped down on a branch and shoutedat him--he did not hear it. A cloud swept over the sun--he did not seeit. Life, death, eternity mattered nothing. Only that moving point ofline mattered--only the thought that the powerful, unconquered shapebelow might presently go free.

  And then--inch by inch it seemed--the steady wrist and the crude tacklebegan to gain advantage, the monster of black and gold was forced toyield. Scarcely breathing, Frank watched the point of the line, inch byinch, draw nearer to a little pebbly shore that ran down, where, ifanywhere, he could land his prey. Once, indeed, the great fellow came tothe surface, then, seeing his captor, made a fierce dive and plungedinto a wild struggle, during which hope almost died. Another draggingtoward the shore, another struggle and yet another, each becoming weakerand less enduring, until lo, there on the pebbles, gasping and strikingwith his splendid tail, lay the conquered king of fish. It required butan instant for the captor to pounce upon him and to secure him with apiece of line through his gills, and this he replaced with a doublewillow branch which he could tie together and to the basket, for thisfish was altogether too large to go inside. Exhausted and weak from thestruggle, Frank sat down to contemplate his capture and to regainstrength before starting up the mountain. Five pounds, certainly, thisfish weighed, he thought, and he tenderly regarded the fly that hadlured it to the death, and carefully wound up the cheap bit of line thathad held true. No such fish had been brought to the Lodge, and then, boythat he was, he thought how proud he should be of his triumph, and withwhat awe Constance would regard his skill in its capture. And in thatmoment it was somehow borne in upon him that with this battle and thisvictory there had come in truth the awakening--that the indolent,luxury-loving man had become as a sleep-walker of yesterday who wouldnever cross the threshold of to-day.

  * * * * *

  A drop of water on his hand aroused him. The sun had disappeared--thesky was overcast--there was rain in the air. He must hurry, he thought,and get up the mountain and away, before the storm. He could not see thepeak, for here the trees were tall and thick, but he knew his directionby the compass and by the slope of the land. From the end of his laterod he cut a walking stick and set out as rapidly as he could make hisway through brush and vines, up the mountain-side.

  But it was toilsome work. The mountain became steeper, the growththicker, his load of fish weighed him down. He was almost tempted toretrace his way up the river and brook to the trail, but was loath toconsume such an amount of time when it seemed possible to reach the peakby a direct course. Then it became darker in the woods, and the bushesseemed damp with moisture. He wondered if he was entering a fog that hadgathered on the mountain top, and, once there, if he could find what hesought. Only the big fish, swinging at his side and dragging in theleaves as he crept through underbrush, gave him comfort in what wasrapidly becoming an unpleasant and difficult undertaking. Presently hewas reduced to climbing hand over hand, clinging to bushes and bracinghis feet as best he might. All at once, he was face to face with a cliffwhich rose sheer for sixty feet or more and which it seemed impossibleto ascend. He followed it for a distance and came at last to where aheavy vine dropped from above, and this made a sort of ladder, by which,after a great deal of clinging and scrambling, he managed to reach theupper level, where he dropped down to catch breath, only to find, whenhe came to look for his big fish, that somehow in the upward struggle ithad broken loose from the basket and was gone. It was mostdisheartening.

  "If I were not a man I would cry," he said, wearily--then peering overthe cliff he was overjoyed to see the lost fish hanging not far below,suspended by the willow loop he had made.

  So then he climbed down carefully and secured it, and struggled backagain, this time almost faint with weariness, but happy in regaining histreasure. And now he realized that a fog was indeed upon the mountain.At the foot of the cliff and farther down the air seemed clear enough,but above him objects only a few feet distant were lost in a white mist,while here and there a drop as of rain struck in the leaves. It wouldnot do to waste time. A storm might be gathering, and a tempest, or evena chill rain on the top of McIntyre was something to be avoided. Herose, and climbing, stooping, crawling, strugg
led toward themountain-top. The timber became smaller, the tangle closer, the whitemist thickened. Often he paused from sheer exhaustion. Once he thoughthe heard some one call. But listening there came only silence, andstaggering to his feet he struggled on.