Arrival of Jimpson, and Other Stories for Boys about Boys

by Ralph Henry Barbour

  A PAIR OF POACHERS

  Tom Pierson strode briskly down the hill, fishing-rod in hand. As longas he had been in sight of the school he had skulked in the shadow ofthe hedges, for he knew that Satterlee 2d was looking for him, and thesociety of that youth was the last thing he desired at present. ForSatterlee 2d possessed the highly erroneous idea that the best way tocatch trout was to make as much noise as possible and to toss sticksand pebbles into the brook. And so Tom, a devout disciple of IzaakWalton, preferred to do without his chum when he went fishing.

  The time was a quarter after four of a late May afternoon. Tom hadtossed the last book into his desk and slammed the lid just fifteenminutes before. From the school-hall he had sneaked to the dormitory,and secured his rod, line, and flies. Even as he had descended warilyby means of the fire-escape, he had heard the voice of Satterlee2d calling his name in the corridor. He had reached the brookpath undetected by dodging from dormitory to school-hall and fromschool-hall to engine-house, and so to the protecting shadows of thehigh hedge that marked the western limit of the school-grounds. Most ofthe other two dozen pupils of Willard's were down on the field, busywith balls and bats. But no form of athletics appealed to Tom Piersonas did angling, and to-day, with the white clouds chasing one anotheracross the blue sky and the alder-bordered brook in sight, he wasalmost happy. Almost, but not quite; for even at sixteen life is notalways clear of trouble. Tom's trouble was "Old Crusty." If it were notfor "Old Crusty," he thought gloomily, as he swung his pole through thenew grass, he would be quite happy.

  "Old Crusty's" real name, you must know, was Professor Bailey: hewas one of the two submasters; and as for being old, he was in truthscarce over forty--a good ten years younger than Doctor Willard, thehead master, to whom, for some reason, the fellows never thought ofreferring as "Old Willard." Professor Bailey and Tom had never, fromthe first, got on at all well together. The professor believed Tomquite capable of mastering mathematics as well as others of his form,and had scant patience for the boy's sorry performances. Tom believedthat "Old Crusty" dealt more severely with him than with the rest--inshort, to use his own expression, that the professor "had it in forhim." One thing is certain: the more the submaster lectured Tom andridiculed his efforts before the class, the more he kept him in afterschool, the less Tom knew of mathematics, and the wider grew the breachbetween pupil and teacher.

  In all other studies Tom was eminently successful, and there isno doubt but that with a better understanding between him and thesubmaster the former would have made a creditable showing in thescience that was at present the bane of his life. But, as it was, Tomhated "Old Crusty" with a great hatred, while the submaster felt forTom a large contempt, if not an absolute aversion. And it must beacknowledged that Tom gave him sufficient cause.

  A great deal of this passed through Tom's mind as he descended the pathand reached the shelter of the low-spreading alders that marked thecourse of the brook. But, with the sound of the bubbling water in hisears, he put trouble behind him. Laying aside his coat, he fitted hissplit-bamboo rod, and studied the sky and the pool before him. Thenhe chose a rather worn brown fly, and cast it gently into the centerof the limpid basin. Above him the branches almost met, and he knewfrom experience that if he hooked a trout he would have to play himdown-stream before he could land him. Ten minutes passed, but, save forthe inquiring nibble of a sunfish or similar small fry, he found noencouragement. The sun went behind a large cloud, and Tom changed hisfly for a bright red-and-gray one. But even that failed to entice thetrout. He grew impatient, for the school rules required him to be backin bounds by half past five. Presently he drew in his line, donned hiscoat, and made his way noiselessly down-stream. When he had gone someten yards, creeping from bank to rock and from rock to bank again, notwithout more than once filling his scuffed shoes with water, he cameto a fence, the rails of which reached straight across the stream,which here narrowed to a rocky cascade. On the trunk of a big willow atone side there was a board. On the board was the legend:

  PRIVATE PROPERTY

  TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED

  TO THE FULL EXTENT OF THE LAW

  Tom winked at the sign, and climbed the fence. He did it so nimblyand expeditiously as to suggest a certain amount of experience. Intruth, Tom had crossed that fence before, not once but several times,since the trout had commenced to bite that spring. If it will makehis conduct appear any less heinous, it may be said in his behalfthat he always gave a fair trial to that part of the brook within theschool-grounds, and only when success failed him there did he defy thelaw and become a trespasser on the estate of Fernwood. It would beinteresting to know whether old Father Walton always respected "Notrespassing" signs. Whether he did or did not, he appears to have leftas a heritage to his followers a special code of morals where forbiddenproperty is concerned; for often a man who will hold the theft of anapple from a roadside orchard in utmost horror will not hesitate toextract a fish from a neighbor's brook and bear it off in complacent,untroubled triumph. If I have dealt at undue length upon this subject,it is because, for the sake of my hero, I wish the reader to view suchamateur poaching as his with as lenient an eye as possible.

  Fernwood held one widely celebrated pool, from which, even when allof the other pools refused to give up a single fish, the practisedangler could invariably draw at least a trio of good-sized trout.Toward this ideal spot Tom Pierson, making his way very quietly thathe might not disturb and so cause unnecessary trouble to a couple ofvery alert gardeners, directed his steps. Once, in spite of care, hisline became entangled, and once he went to his knees in the icy water.Yet both these mishaps but whetted his appetite for the sport ahead.When he had gained a spot a dozen yards up-stream from the big pool,he paused, laid aside pole-rod and paraphernalia, and crept cautiouslyforward to reconnoiter. If, he argued very plausibly, discovery wasto fall to his lot, at least it were better to be found guiltlessof fishing-tackle. He crouched still lower, as, over by a clump ofdead willows within the school bounds, he espied through the treesthe jauntily appareled Satterlee briskly whipping the surface of thebrook with unsportsmanlike energy and apparent disregard of results.Tom, however, knew himself to be unobserved, so felt no fear from thatsource. But just as the dark waters of the pool came into sight betweenthe lapping branches, a sound, close at hand and unmistakable as toorigin, caused his heart to sink with disappointment. There would be nofishing for him to-day, for some one was already at the pool. The softclick of a running-reel came plainly to his ears.

  He paused motionless, silent, and scowled darkly in the directionof the unseen angler. Then he went forward again, peering under theleaves. At least he would know who it was that had spoiled his sport.Three steps--four; then he suddenly stood upright and gasped loudly.His eyes opened until they seemed about to pop out of his head, andhe rubbed them vigorously, as though he doubted their evidence. Aftera moment he again stooped, this time sinking almost to his knees, andnever heeding the icy water that well-nigh benumbed his immersed feet.On the farther side of the broad pool, in plain sight, stood "OldCrusty!"

  He was hatless and coatless, and palpitant with the excitement ofthe sport. His lean and somewhat sallow face was flushed above theprominent cheek-bones, and his gray eyes sparkled brightly in thegloom of the clustering branches. He stood lithely erect, the usualstudious stoop of the shoulders gone for the time, and, with one handfirmly grasping the butt of his rod and the other guarding the reel,was giving every thought to the playing of a big trout that, fly inmouth, was darting and tugging until the slender basswood bent nearlydouble. As Tom looked, surprised, breathless with the excitement ofhis discovery, the fish shot under the shelter of an overhangingboulder, weary and sulky, and the angler began slowly to reel in hisline. Inch by inch came the trout, now without remonstrance, nowjumping and slashing like ten fishes, yet ever nearing the captor andthe landing-net. It was a glorious battle, and Tom, forgetting allelse, crept nearer and nearer through the leaves until, hidden onlyby a screen of alder bra
nches, he stood at the up-stream edge of thebasin. At length, resisting heroically, fighting every inch of theway, the trout was drawn close in to the flat rock where stood hisexultant captor. The latter reached a hand softly out and seized thelanding-net. Then, kneeling on the brink of the pool, with one leg, hemade a sudden dip; there was an instant of swishing, then up came netand trout, and----

  At the end of the pool there was a terrifying splash, a muttered cry,and Tom, forgetful of his precarious footing, sat down suddenly andforcibly on a stone, his legs up to the knees in water. The landing-netdropped from the angler's hand, and the trout, suddenly restored to hiselement, dashed madly off, while the reel screeched loudly as the lineran out. The professor, white of face, stared amazedly at Tom. Tomstared defiantly, triumphantly back at the professor. For a long, longminute the two gazed at each other across the sun-flecked water. Then,with a shrug of his shoulders, "Old Crusty" stooped and recovered hisrod. When he again faced the boy there was a disagreeable expressionabout his mouth.

  "Well, Pierson," he said as he wound up his line, "you're better atplaying the spy than at studying your lessons, it seems."

  The blood rushed into Tom's face, but he held his tongue. He couldwell afford to pass the insult, he argued with savage triumph; "OldCrusty" was in his power. He had only to inform Dr. Willard, and,beyond a doubt, the submaster's connection with the school wouldterminate instantly. The head master held poaching to be the deadliestof sins, and poaching on Fernwood especially heinous. That his enemywas poaching, that he did not hold permission to whip the big pool,was evident from the confusion into which Tom's sudden entry on to thescene had thrown him. Yes, "Old Crusty" could vent his anger to hisheart's content; for, when all was said, Tom still held the whip-hand.But then the enormity of the crime with which he had been chargedstruck Tom with full force, like a blow in the face. At Willard's, asat all schools, spying, like tale-bearing, was held by the pupils to besomething far beneath contempt. And "Old Crusty" had called him a spy!The blood again dyed the boy's face, and he clambered to his soakingfeet and faced the submaster angrily.

  "It's a lie!" he said hotly. "I was not spying. I didn't follow youhere."

  The submaster raised his eyebrows incredulously.

  "Is that the truth?" he asked.

  "I don't lie," answered Tom, with righteous indignation, glaring hatredacross the pool.

  "Ah," said the other. "In that case I beg your pardon. I retract myremark, Pierson."

  The line was again taut, and now, apparently indifferent to the boy'spresence, he began to play the trout once more, warily, slowly. Tomlooked on from his rock, the intensity of his anger past. He wasforced to acknowledge that "Old Crusty" had at least apologizedhonestly and fairly; he wished he hadn't: somehow, he felt at adisadvantage. And there was the enemy proceeding with his wicked sportfor all the world as though Tom did not hold his fate in his hand, asit were! Tom swelled with indignation.

  "I suppose you know you're poaching?" he asked, presently, breaking thelong silence. The submaster did not turn his head; he merely drew hisbrows together as though in protest at the interruption. Tom scowled.What a hardened criminal "Old Crusty" was, to be sure!

  The trout had but little fight left in him now, and his journey backacross the pool was almost without excitement. Only when he felt theimminence of the shore did he call upon his flagging strength and makeone last gallant struggle for liberty. To such purpose did he battlethen, however, that the man at the rod was forced to play out a yardor so of line. Tom's interest was again engaged, and, much against hisinclination, he had to acknowledge that "Old Crusty" was a masterangler. And with that thought came another and a strange one, and itwas just this:

  "Why," he asked himself, "if he can be as wonderfully patient with atrout as all that, why can't he be a little patient with me?"

  Suddenly, with the trout almost under the bank, the angler paused andlooked about him, at a loss. Tom instantly divined his quandary; thelanding-net was floating on the surface of the pool fully three yardsdistant. Tom grinned with malicious satisfaction for a moment; butthen----

  "Will you take the rod a minute?" asked "Old Crusty," just as thoughthere was no enmity between them. "I'll have to get that net somehow."

  Tom looked from the net to his soaking shoes and trousers. There wasbut one thing to do.

  "I'll get it," he answered. "I'm wet already."

  He threw aside coat and hat, and waded in. The professor watched himwith expressionless face. Tom secured the runaway net, and came out,dripping to his armpits, at the submaster's side. But when he offeredthe net the other only asked anxiously:

  "Do you think you can land him? The leader's almost cut through, andI'm afraid to bring him in any farther."

  Tom hesitated, net in hand.

  "That will be all right," continued the other; "I promise you I'llnever tell that you had a hand in it."

  Tom flushed.

  "I wasn't thinking of that," he said. "Hold him steady, and I'll gethim."

  He knelt on the rock and looked for the trout. It was nearly two yardsaway and well under the water. He put one foot over the edge and gropedabout until he found a support for it below the surface. But even thenhis arm was too short to get the net to the fish.

  "Can't you coax him in another foot?" he asked anxiously.

  "I'll try," answered "Old Crusty." "If the line will hold----"

  He wound gingerly. The gleaming sides of the trout came toward thesurface. Tom reached out with the net, slipped it quietly into thepool, and moved it toward the prey.

  Tom moved the net toward the prey.]

  "Now!" whispered the professor, intensely.

  Up came the landing-net, and with it, floundering mightily and castingthe glittering drops into the air, came the captive.

  "Well done!" cried the professor, laying aside his rod. Praise from anenemy is the sweetest praise of all, and Tom's heart gave a bound. Theprofessor seized the trout, took it from the net, and, laying it uponthe bank, removed the hook from its gasping mouth. Then, with a fingercrooked through its gill, he held it admiringly aloft.

  "Isn't he a beauty?" he asked.

  "You bet!" replied Tom, in awestruck tones. "The biggest I ever saw inthis stream. Must be two pounds and a half, sir?"

  "Well, two pounds easily," answered "Old Crusty," shutting one eye andhefting his troutship knowingly.

  "What will you do with him?" asked Tom.

  The other smiled. For answer he knelt again on the rock, and, removinghis hold, allowed the fish to slide from his open palms back into thepool. Tom's eyes grew round with surprise. The trout, after one briefmoment of amazement quite as vast as the boy's, scuttled from sight.Tom turned questioning eyes upon the professor. The latter shrugged hisshoulders and smiled.

  "I don't want him; he would be of no use to me, Pierson. All I want isthe joy of catching him."

  He turned, donned his hat and coat, and began to wind up hisline, examining the frayed leader critically. Tom began to feeluncomfortable; it seemed to him that the truce should be at an end now,and that he ought to take his departure. But he didn't; he merely stoodby and watched. Presently the professor turned to him again, a ratherrueful smile on his lips.

  "Pierson," he said, "what are you going to do with me now that you'vecaught me here where poachers and trespassers are forbidden?"

  Tom dropped his gaze, but made no answer. The submaster thrust thesections of his rod into a brown leather case and slipped his fly-bookinto his coat pocket. Then he said suddenly:

  "Look here, Pierson, I'm going to ask a favor of you: don't sayanything about this to the doctor, please."

  Tom's momentary qualm of pity disappeared. "Old Crusty" was beggingfor mercy! The boy experienced the glow of proud satisfaction feltby the gladiator of old when, his foot on the neck of the vanquishedopponent, he heard the crowded Colosseum burst into applause. Butwith the elation of the conqueror was mingled the disappointment ofone who sees the shattering of an idol. "Old Crusty" had b
een to himthe personification of injustice and tyranny; but never once hadTom doubted his honesty or courage. An enemy he had been, but anhonored one. And now the honesty was stripped away. "Old Crusty" hadnot the courage to stand up like a man and take his punishment, buthad descended so low as to beg his enemy to aid him in the cowardlyconcealment of his crime! And this man had dared to call him a spy! Tomgulped in an effort to restrain his angry indignation.

  And all the while he had been looking across the pool, and so was notaware that the submaster had been studying his face very intently, orthat the submaster's lips held a queer little smile oddly at variancewith the character of a detected criminal at the mercy of his enemy.

  The detected criminal continued his specious pleading.

  "You see, Pierson," he said, "there's just one thing that can happen toa person in my position convicted of poaching, and that's discharge.Of course you don't recognize much difference between discharge andresignation; but I do: the difference is apparent when it comes toobtaining a new position. A discharged instructor is a hopelessproposition; one who has resigned may, in the course of time, findanother place. And so what I ask you to do is to keep quiet and give metime to resign."

  "Oh!" said Tom. His faith in mankind was reestablished. He hadmisjudged the enemy. After all, "Old Crusty" was worthy of his hatred.He was very glad. But before he could find an answer the other went on:

  "If I were a younger man, Pierson, my chances would be better. But atmy time of life losing my position means a good deal. You must seethat. And--could you give me until to-morrow evening?"

  Tom nodded without looking up. He wanted to say something, he didn't atall know what. But the elation was all gone, and he felt--oh, miserablymean!

  "Thank you," said the submaster, pleasantly. "And now I think we'd bestgo home. You should get those wet clothes off as soon as possible."He looked at his watch. "I had no idea it was so late," he muttered."We'll have to hurry." He moved off along the edge of the stream, andTom recovered coat and hat and followed. He didn't feel happy. Histhoughts were fixed on matters other than his footing, and more thanonce he went into the brook. Presently he broke the silence.

  "Are you going to--resign, sir?"

  "Doesn't that seem best, Pierson?"

  "I--I don't know," muttered Tom. There was another silence, lasting fora few yards. Then, "I--I wish you wouldn't, sir," he said with a gulp.

  "Eh?" The submaster paused, turned, and faced him in surprise. "What'sthat, Pierson?"

  Tom cleared his throat.

  "I said--I wished you wouldn't; resign, you know."

  "What do you mean?" asked the other. "Do you want to have medischarged, or----"

  "No, sir, I don't," answered the boy, getting his voice back. "I--I'mnot going to tell at all, sir--ever!"

  "How's that?" asked the submaster, in puzzled tones. "You don't likeme the least bit in the world, my boy; in fact, I'm not sure you don'thate me heartily. Doesn't it strike you that you've got your chancenow? Get rid of me, Pierson, and there'll be no mathematics--for awhile."

  "I don't want to get rid of you," muttered Tom, shamefacedly. "I--Ididn't like you: you'd never let me; you've always been as hard on meas you could be. I can get those lessons--I know I can!--if you'll onlynot be down on me. I did hate you, sir"--he looked up with a gleam ofthe old defiance--"but I don't any longer."

  "Why?" asked "Old Crusty," after a moment, very quietly and kindly. Tomshook his head.

  "I don't know--exactly. I guess because you're a good trout fisher, andyou begged my pardon, and--and you treated me like--like--" He falteredand came to a pause, at a loss for words. But the other nodded his headas though he understood.

  "I see," he muttered. Then, "Look here, Pierson," he said, "I see thatI've been mistaken about you; I've been greatly at fault. I tell you sofrankly; and--I'm sorry. If I were going to remain I think you and Iwould get on a lot better together."

  "Yes, sir," answered Tom, eagerly. "And--and couldn't you stay, sir?"

  The other was silent a moment, looking smilingly at the boy's benthead. At length, "If I should accept of your--ah--mercy, Pierson, itwould have to be understood that there was no bargain between us. Ithink we'd get on better, you and I, but I wouldn't buy your silence.If you ever needed a wigging or any other punishment I'd give it toyou. Would you agree to that?"

  "I don't want any old bargain, sir," Tom cried. "And I'll take thepunishment. I'm--I'm not a baby!"

  "Good! Shake hands. Now let us hurry home."

  "Yes, sir, but--just a minute, please." Tom darted into the wood andcame back with his rod and flies. He did not try to conceal them, buthe looked sheepishly up into the submaster's face. This was a studyof conflicting emotions. In the end amusement got the better of theothers, and he viewed Tom with a broad smile.

  "And so there is a pair of us, eh?" he asked.

  "Yes, sir," answered Tom. The submaster laughed softly and put one handcompanionably upon the boy's shoulder.

  "Pierson," he said, "suppose you and I agree to reform?"

  "All right, sir."

  "No more poaching, eh? After this we'll stick to our own preserves."

  "Yes, sir. I'm willing if you are."

  "Because, after all, we can't improve on that trite old proverb whichsays that honesty is the best policy, can we?"

  "No, sir," Tom responded.

  They left the thicket together and began the ascent of the meadow hill.Twilight was gathering, and a sharp-edged crescent of silver glowedin the evening sky above the tower of the school-hall. It was thesubmaster who broke the silence first.

  "And yet there are fine trout in the big pool," he said, musingly.

  Tom sighed unconsciously. "Aren't there, though?" he asked.

  "I took one out one day last spring that weighed nearly three pounds,"continued the submaster.

  Tom sighed again. "Did you?" he asked dolefully.

  "Yes; and--look here, Pierson, tell me, how would you like to fishthere as often as you wanted through the trout season?"

  "I'd like it!" answered Tom, briefly and succinctly, wishing,nevertheless, that the submaster wouldn't pursue such a harrowingsubject.

  "Would you? Well, now, I haven't the least doubt in the world but thatI can obtain permission for you. Mr. Greenway is a friend of mine, andwhile he wouldn't care to allow the whole school to go in there, I'mcertain that----"

  "A friend of yours?" gasped Tom. "Then--then----"

  The submaster smiled apologetically as he replied:

  "No, Pierson, I wasn't poaching."

  Tom stared in amazement and dismay.

  "But--but you said----"

  "No, I didn't say it, but I allowed you to think it; and I plead guiltyto a measure of deceit. But I think you'll forgive it, my boy, becauseit has led to--well, to a better understanding between us. Don't youthink it has?"

  "Yes, sir," answered Tom, wondering but happy.

  "Good; and-- Hello, there's the bell!" cried the submaster. "Let's runfor it!"

  And they did.