CHAPTER XII
THE GOLDEN COIN
Mill stream, coming down from afar up the country, on its way to Samosetriver and bay, flowed in many moods. Now it glided deep and smooth,almost imperceptibly, along steep banks that went up wooded to the skyline. Again it hurled itself recklessly down rocky inclines, frothingand foaming and fighting its way by sheer force through barriers ofreefs. Now it went swiftly and pleasantly over sand shallows, ripplingand seeming almost to sing a tune as it ran; again it turned back on itscourse in little eddies, backing its waters into shaded, still pools,where the pickerel loved to hide.
They were lazy fellows, the pickerel. One might, if he were a lucky andpersevering fisherman, take a trout in the swift waters of the brook;but for the pickerel, theirs was not the joy of such exertion. In thedark, silent places along Mill stream, where never a ripple disturbedtheir seclusion, you might see one, now and then, lying motionless inthe shadow of an overhanging branch, at the surface of the water, asthough asleep.
They were not eager to bite then, in the warmth of the day. You mighttroll by the edges of the lily pads for half an hour, and the pickerelthat made his haunt there would scarce wink a sleepy eye, or flicker afin. At morn and evening they were ready for you; and a quick, suddenwhirl in the glassy, black water often gave invitation then to cast aline.
In the early hours of a July morning, a little way up from Ellison'sdam, a youth stood up to his middle among the lily pads, wielding along, jointed bamboo pole, and trolling a spoon-hook past the outerfringe of the flat, green leaves. He was whistling, softly--anindication that he was happy. He was sunburned, freckle-faced, hatless,coatless. He wore only a thin and faded cotton blouse, the sleeves of itrolled up, and a pair of trousers, rolled up above his knees--forconvenience rather than to protect them, for he had waded in, waistdeep.
Tied about him was a piece of tarred rope, from which there dangled theluckless victims of his skill, three pickerel. That they were freshlycaught was evidenced by their flopping vigorously now and then, as theboy entered the deeper water, and opening their big, savage lookingmouths as though they would like to swallow their captor.
A splash out yonder, just beside the clump of arrow-shaped pickerelweed! Tim Reardon's heart beat joyfully, as he turned and saw theripples receding from the spot where the fish had jumped. He swung hislong rod, dropped the troll skilfully near the blue blossoms thatadorned the clump of weed, and drew it temptingly past. The spoonrevolved rapidly, gleaming with alternate red and silver, the brightfeathers that clothed the gang of hooks at the end trailing after.
Another splash, and a harder one. Tim Reardon "struck" and the fish wasfast. Now it lashed the water furiously, fighting for its life. But itwas not a big fish, and Tim Reardon lifted it clear of the water so thatit swung in where he could clutch it with eager hands. Grasping it justback of the gills, he disengaged the hook cautiously, avoiding the sharprows of teeth that lined the long jaws. He slung the pickerel on theline, and whistled gleefully.
It was a royal day for fishing; with just a thin shading of clouds toshield the water from the glare of sun; the water still and smooth; theshadows very black in the shady places.
It is safe to say, no one in all Benton knew the old stream like TimReardon. He fished it day after day from morn till evening, before andafter school hours, and now in the vacation at all times. Tom Harris andBob White knew it as canoeists; but Tim Reardon, following the ins andouts of its shores for miles above the Ellison dam, knew every littleturn and twist in its shore.
He knew the places where the pickerel hid; where the water was swift, orshallow, or choked with weeds, and where to leave the shore and make adetour through the grain fields past these places. There were deep poolswhere the pickerel seldom rose to the troll, but asked to have theirdinner sent down to them in the form of a fresh shiner; and Tim Reardonknew these pools, and when to remove the troll and put on his sinker andlive bait.
He could have told you every inch of the country between Ellison's damand the falls four miles above; where you would find buckwheat fields;where the corn patches were; where apple orchards bordered them; wherethe groves of beech-trees were, with the red squirrel colonies in thestumps near-by; and where the best place was to pause for noon luncheon,in the shade of some pines, where there was a spring bubbling up cool onthe hottest days, in which you could set a bottle of coffee and have iticy cold in a half-hour.
There were big hemlocks along the way, in the rotted parts of which theyellow-hammers built their nests and laid their white eggs; hard treesto climb, with their huge trunks. He knew the time to scale the tallpines where the crows built, to find the scrawny young birds, withwide-open mouths and skinny bodies, that looked like birds visited byfamine. He knew where the red columbines blossomed on the face of sometall cliffs, where the stream flowed through a rocky gorge; and how tocrawl painfully down a zigzag course from the top to gather these, atthe risk of falling seventy feet to the rocks below.
There were a thousand and one delights of the old stream that were a joyto his heart--though one would not have expected to find sentimentlodged in the breast of Little Tim. As for the boy, he only knew thatit was all very dear to him, and that the whole valley of the stream wasa source of perpetual happiness.
He waded ashore now and went on, his pole over his shoulder, whistling,filled with an enjoyment that he could not for the world have described;but which was born amid the singing of the stream, the droning of bees,the noises of birds and insects, in a lazy murmur that filled all thequiet valley.
It was rare fun following the winding of that stream; among littlehills, by the edges of meadows and through groves of mingled cedars andbirches. Now and then he would rest and watch its noiseless flowing,past some spot where the branches hung close over the water; where thestream flowed so smoothly and quietly that the shadows asleep on itssurface were never disturbed.
The noon hour came, and Little Tim seated himself for his luncheon on aknoll carpeted with thick, tufted grass. A kingfisher, disturbed by hisarrival, went rattling on his way upstream. And as the boy drew from hisdingy blouse a scrap of brown paper, enclosing a bit of bread andcheese, and laid it down beside him, the stream seemed to be dancingjust before him at the tune he whistled; a swinging, whirling dance fromshore to shore; a butterfly dance, through a setting of buttercups anddaisies; with here and there a shaft of sunlight thrown upon it, wherethe thin clouds parted.
Afternoon came, and the shadows of the low hills were thrown far acrossthe stream. Here and there a splash denoted that the fish were wakingfrom their midday torpor and were ready for prey. Little Tim resumed hisrod, and slowly retraced his steps along the shore in the direction ofEllison dam and Benton.
It was about four o'clock as he neared a point in the stream a half-mileabove the dam, where the water flowed very quietly past the edge of somethick alders. There were pickerel in that water. Tim knew the place ofold; and he drew near softly, to make a cast. The bright troll fell witha tinkle on the still surface, and he drew it temptingly past thethicket.
A quick whirl--and how the line did tauten and the rod bend! The wholetip of it went under water. He had struck a big fish. He brought him tothe surface with some effort; but the fish was not to be easily subdued.A sudden dart and he was away again, diving deep and straining the rodto its utmost.
Seeing he had a fish of unusual size, the boy played him carefully; lethim have the line and tire himself for a moment, then reeled in as theline slackened.
"He's a four pounder; giminy, how he fights!" exclaimed Little Tim. Andhe gave a sudden yell of triumph as he saw that the fish was firmlyhooked, with the troll far down its distended jaws.
Then his impatience got the better of him, and he gave a great lift onthe rod, with the line reeled up short. Just at that moment too, itseemed the fish had tired; for, as Tim strained, the big pickerel cameout of water as with a leap. The stout rod straightened with a jerk thatyanked the fish out, sent it flying through the air and lodged it a
wayup in the top of some thick alders that bordered the shore. There, theline tangling, it hung suspended, twisting and doubling in vain effortto free itself.
Little Tim laughed joyfully.
"Got to shin for that fellow," he said, stepping ashore and eying theprize that dangled above his head.
But, as he stooped to lay down his pole, the discharge of a shotgunclose at hand made him jump with astonishment. Still more amazed was heto see the dangling fish fall between the alder branches to the ground.Then, before he had recovered from his astonishment, a youth dashedforward and seized it.
The youth was Benny Ellison.
Little Tim's blood was up.
"Think you're smart, don't you," he cried, "shooting my fish. Here,gimme that. What do you think you're doing?"
But Benny Ellison, holding the big pickerel away from Tim, showed nointention of giving it up.
"Who told you it was your fish?" he replied, sneeringly. "I shot it.It's mine."
"Give me back that fish!" repeated Little Tim. "I'll tell Harvey on you.You'll get another ducking."
He seized Benny Ellison by an arm, but the other, bigger and stronger,pushed him back roughly.
"Go on," he said, and added, while a grin overspread his fat face,"That's no fish, anyway. Whoever heard of catching fish in trees? That'sa bird, Timmy, and I shot it. See its tail-feathers?"
He swung the fish and gave Little Tim a slap over the head with the tailof it, that brought the tears to Tim's eyes.
"Go on, tell Harvey," he said. "This bird's mine."
Dangling the pickerel by the gills, and shouldering his gun, he pushedon upstream through the alders, leaving Little Tim angry and smarting.
"I'll get even with you, Benny Ellison," called Tim; but the other onlylaughed and went on.
Tim slowly unjointed his rod, tied the pieces together in a compactbundle, gathered up his string of remaining fish and started homeward.When he had gone on about a quarter of a mile, however, he suddenlypaused and stood for a moment, considering something. Then he lookedabout him, stepped into a little thicket where he hid his pole and fishcarefully from sight, then retraced his steps upstream.
He went on through the alders and brush, till presently he heard thereport of the gun. Guided by the sound, he continued on for a littleway, then shinned into the branches of a tall cedar, heavily wooded, andfrom there got a view upstream. Several rods away, he could see thealders move, thrust aside by Benny Ellison. Little Tim seated himselfamid the branches, safely hidden, and waited.
Some ten or fifteen minutes passed, and then the snapping of underbrushtold of the approach of Benny Ellison, on his return. That his shot hadtold was evidenced by another pickerel which he carried, hung by thegills on the crotch of an alder branch, together with the big fellowthat Little Tim had caught. Tim's eyes snapped as he saw the fish.
Benny Ellison, chuckling to himself, passed the tree where Tim crouched,high above him. Almost within the shadow of it, he stopped and laughedheartily, as he glanced down at the big pickerel.
"It's a bird," he cried. "Shot it in a tree--what luck!"
Not until he had gone some distance did Little Tim emerge from hiding,scramble to the ground and follow. Dodging from tree to tree, andpausing frequently, he saw Benny Ellison finally seat himself on a logbeside the stream. Tim waited. Then a smile of satisfaction crossed hisfreckled face as Benny Ellison began stripping off his clothes for aswim.
Little Tim, crouching low, almost crawling, crept closer.
Benny Ellison stood on a bank by the edge of a deep pool, a favouriteswimming-place, where he and his cousins, and Little Tim, too, had hadmany a swim. The water was inviting, with the sultriness of theafternoon. Tim's heart beat high as he saw Benny Ellison plungeheadforemost into the pool.
Then Tim's hopes were realized. Benny Ellison, a good swimmer, struckout into midstream toward a reef that protruded a few feet above water.
Crawling on hands and knees, Tim quickly gained the shelter of the logwhere the other had thrown his clothes, with the fish dropped justalongside. Tim made sure of his fish, first. He pulled it hastily fromthe stick, leaving the one that Benny Ellison had shot, afterwards,unmolested for the moment.
Then he dragged Benny Ellison's cotton shirt down behind the log.Seizing the sleeves, he proceeded to tie the thin garment into hardknots. It was the old schoolboy trick. He had had it played on him manya time in swimming--and done the same by others; but he had neverentered into the prank with half the zest as now. He tugged at the knotsand drew them hard.
"That shirt's a bird," he said softly, eying the shapeless bundle, witha grin. Then he served the trousers and the "galluses" the same way;likewise Benny Ellison's socks. Finally, having it all dona to suit him,he stood erect upon the log and called out to the swimmer.
"Say, Benny," he cried, "here's your bird." And, stooping and picking upBenny Ellison's pickerel, he hurled the dead fish far out into thestream. The fish struck the water with a splash, as Benny Ellison,turning in dismay and wrath, started back with vigorous strokes.
"There's another bird on the log for you, Benny," called Tim. Then,picking up his own fish, he scampered. Benny Ellison's slower stepscould not have equalled the pace set by those bare feet, had he beenashore. By the time he was on land again, Little Tim, his pole andstring of fish regained, was half-way to the Ellison dam.
A voice stopped him as he was emerging on to the main road, just belowWitham's Half Way House. He turned and saw Bess Thornton.
"Hello, Tim," she called, "what's the matter? Anybody after you? My, butI guess you've been running fast."
Tim Reardon, wiping his face with his sleeves, told her what hadhappened. The girl danced with glee, while her bright eyes sparkled.
"Oh, goody!" she exclaimed. "Wouldn't I just like to have seen that fatold Benny Ellison try to catch you. My, but you always have the luck,don't you? That's a grand string of fish."
Tim Reardon, unstringing two of the pickerel from the rope, transferredthem to a twig of alder that he cut from a near by bush, and handed themto her.
"I've got more'n I want," he said.
"Thanks," said the girl, and added, "Say, Tim, I'll tell you something.I saw four trout in the brook this morning, and one of them was thatlong."
She measured with her hands, held a little more than a foot apart.
"Where was it--about a mile above your house?" queried Tim.
The girl nodded.
"In the pool where the big tree's fallen across," she said.
"I guess he's the big one I've tried to get, a lot of times," said Tim."But I haven't seen him lately. I thought he'd gone down into Ellison'spool. I'd like to see him."
He was a fisherman by nature, was Little Tim, and the very mention ofthe big trout made his eyes twinkle.
"Come on up," said Bess Thornton.
Tim hesitated. "It's most too late," he replied. "I'll be late to suppernow, if I don't run."
"Oh, never mind," she urged. "I'll show you just where I saw him. I justas lieve you'd catch him."
The invitation was too much for Tim, and he started off across thefields with Bess Thornton.
"That fish'll never bite," he said, as they went along; "I've tried himwith worms and grasshoppers and wasps and crickets, and that fly made offeathers that Jack gave me. He knows a whole lot, that old trout. Guesshe's a school-teacher, he knows so much."
"I'm going to catch him, anyway, if you don't," said the girl. "I knowwhat I'm going to do."
"What's that?" asked Tim, in a tone that indicated he had no great faithin her success.
"I'm going to bait up two hooks with a whole lot of worms, and I'm notgoing to put 'em into the pool till after it gets dark," replied BessThornton. "And I'm going to let 'em stay there all night. He's such asly old thing you can't get near the bank without he knows it. Then whenit gets morning, and he's hungry, perhaps he'll see all those worms andjust go and catch himself."
"Yes, and get away again long before you get back," said Ti
m Reardon."He'll just take and tangle that line all up around the rocks and sticksat the bottom, and break it."
"I'm going to try, anyway," she insisted. They turned in at the pathleading to the girl's home presently, and she went in with the pickerel.
"I'll dig some bait for you while you're gone," called Tim.
"I can do it," she said.
"Oh, you're all dressed up," said Tim, who had noted her unusualappearance, clad as she was in her new bright sailor-suit.
"Going to change it," she said, "Had to put it on to go to Benton in."
She went into the house, and Tim Reardon, seizing a spade that he foundleaning against the shed, made his way to a corner of the house, wherean old water-spout came down, from the gutter that caught the rain onthe roof. He was turning up the soil there when the girl reappeared.
"Oh, that isn't the place to dig," she said. "I never dig for wormsthere."
"Well, here's the place to find 'em," asserted Tim. "I'm getting some.You always find angleworms where the ground's moist. They like it,because the rain comes down off the roof here. There you are, grab thatfat fellow."
The girl made a grab at a bit of the soft earth, where a worm waswriggling back into its hole.
"Ugh! he got away," she said, opening her hand and letting the dirt dropthrough her fingers. The next moment she uttered a little cry ofsurprise.
"I've got something, though," she exclaimed. "Look, Tim, it'smoney--it's a coin. Where do you suppose it came from? Perhaps it's goodyet. If I can spend it, I'll go halves."
The boy took the piece of money from her fingers. It was dull andtarnished; a little larger in size than a ten cent piece, but it was notsilver.
Tim Reardon looked at it intently and rubbed its sides on his trousersleg.
"Say, Bess," he said earnestly, "do you know what I think--I guess it'sgold. Yes, I do. 'Tisn't American money, though. It's got a queer headon it, see, a man with some sort of a thing on his head like a wreath.Oh, my, but that's too bad. Look, Bess, there's a hole been bored in it.P'raps you can't spend it."
Near the edge, there was, in truth, a tiny depression, nearly obscuredby dirt and corrosion, which seemed to indicate that the coin had atsome time been pierced, as though it might have been worn by someone asan ornament.
"Let's scrub it," said the girl. "Perhaps it'll brighten up, so we cansee it better."
They went in with it to the kitchen sink, where Bess Thornton, gettinga basin of warm water and soap, proceeded to polish the coin with asmall brush. It soon brightened sufficiently to reveal the unmistakablegleam of gold, and was a foreign coin of some sort, possibly of Austriancoinage; but the letters which it had borne, and the figures, had beenworn much away; and one side was worn quite smooth, so as to give noclew to what had been stamped there.
"Well, I can wear it, if I can't spend it," said Bess Thornton. "There'sthe hole to hang it by. Isn't it pretty?"
"Isn't what pretty?" said a voice, suddenly interrupting them. OldGranny Thornton was peering over the girl's shoulder. "What are you twodoing? What have you got there?"
"See, gran'," replied the girl. "Look what we found. It's money, gran',and it's gold."
The old woman took the coin in her thin fingers and held it up close toher eyes. Then she started and her hand shook tremulously. A palloroverspread her face. She sank back into a chair, staring at the coin,which she clutched tight as though it had some strange fascination thatheld her gaze.
"Where did you get that?" she cried hoarsely. "Where was it?"
"We dug it up just now, gran', out in the yard. Why, what's the matter?Can't I keep it? What makes you act so queer, gran'?"
The old woman hesitated for a moment and seemed lost for a reply. Thenshe said, hurriedly:
"No, girl--no, not now. You shall have it some day. You can't have ityet. It isn't time. You wore it once when you were little--but it waslost. Oh, how I've hunted for it! You'll get it again. I'll keep itsafe, this time."
She was strangely agitated and spoke in broken tones. Then, to theirsurprise, she arose and hurried from the room, waving the girl back andbidding her go and play. They heard her go stumbling up the stairs tothe floor above.
"Mean old thing!" exclaimed Bess. "Well, I don't care. Let her keep it.I'll find where she hides it, see if I don't. Come on, let's go outdoors."
Granny Thornton, peering out an attic window at the boy and girl, goingup along the brook, turned and felt along a dusty beam until her fingersrested on a key. With this she unlocked a drawer of an old bureau, thatstood in a dark, out-of-the-way corner. There were some odds and ends ofclothing there, and some boxes and papers. From out the stuff, she drew,with trembling fingers, a small gold chain, such as children wear.Fumbling over this, she unclasped a tiny clasp and affixed the goldencoin. Then, holding it up to her eyes, she gazed at it long andearnestly; replaced it in the drawer, locked this, hid the key again andstole down the stairs.
The Rival Campers Ashore; or, The Mystery of the Mill Page 12