Lonesome Pond was well named. A mile long by perhaps half a mile wide at its widest point, it lay like a turquoise in an emerald setting between two mountains whose upper slopes were dark with a splendid stand of spruce and pine. A magnificent growth of birch, maple and ash with an occasional pine or hemlock scattered among them grew to the water’s edge, save along the southern end where they had entered. Here for some distance a sphagnum swamp, dotted with graceful tamaracks, extended on either side of the narrow outlet, in places forming a natural open meadow.

The pond was shallow at this end, with great masses of lily-pads, both of the white and the yellow or cow-lily. In contrast to this the shore of the upper end was bold and rocky, heavily wooded to the water’s edge. Here on a tiny patch of shingle, the only break in the rocky shore line, the canoe was beached. A trail led up for a hundred yards into a grove of hemlocks where, completely hidden from the lake, was the camp which was Big Jim’s objective point. Two comfortable lean-tos had been built perhaps ten feet apart and facing each other, with a stout windbreak closing one side between the two. The lean-tos were of hemlock bark, peeled from forest giants and flattened to huge sheets. These sheets formed the sides, back and steeply sloping roofs, the entire front of each, after the manner of all lean-tos, being left open. In the middle, between the two, were the charred embers of old fires, while the matted brown needles of small hemlock and balsam twigs in both lean-tos bore mute witness to the spicy, comfortable beds of other campers. A rough board table stood at one side of the fireplace.

“Here we be, pard,” said Big Jim as he swung his basket to the ground. “You take this pail an’ follow thet trail yonder till you find a spring, while I dig out th’ grub. Reckon you must be hungry. We’ll hev a bit o’ bacon now and a good square meal to-night.”

It was long past noon, and now that the excitement of the journey was over Walter realized how empty his stomach was. He found the spring easily, and when he returned Big Jim already had his basket unpacked and was just starting the fire. He had cut two bed logs about six feet long and eight or ten inches in diameter. These he had flattened on top and one side and had placed side by side, flat sides opposite and some three inches apart at one end, spreading to ten inches at the other. Between these he had built a fire of hemlock bark started with birch bark, which, by the way, is as good as kerosene for starting a fire. In a few minutes he had a bed of glowing coals over which the frying-pan was soon sizzling, and that most delicious of all odors, frying bacon, mingled with pungent wood smoke, assailed the boy’s eager nostrils.

By making the fireplace and fire in this way, Big Jim explained, the frying-pan rested on an even surface, with a steady even heat beneath it, and one could squat beside it in comfort without becoming unduly heated. At the same time the bacon was cooked thoroughly without scorching.

A kettle of water was set over the coals to wash the tin plates, knives and forks when the meal was over. How good that bacon, bread and butter did taste, washed down by clear cold water! It seemed to the hungry boy that he never had eaten such a meal, its one fault being that there wasn’t enough of it. But Big Jim laughed at him, telling him that that was only a lunch, but that he should have a real dinner at sundown.

When the dishes were cleared away Big Jim took his axe and went back into the woods returning presently with half a dozen forked sticks of green wood. Two of these about four feet long were driven into the ground, one at each end of the fireplace. Across them, supported in the forks, was laid a straight young sapling which the guide called a lug-pole. Then he took one of the other sticks and cut it off about three inches above the fork or crotch, leaving a good hand grasp. One branch was cut off some four inches from the fork, the other branch being left long enough so that when a small nail was driven in the end on the opposite side from the short part of the fork and the fork inverted over the lug-stick a pail hung from the nail would swing just over the coals. Other sticks were made in the same way, but of varying lengths. The camp range was then complete.

The long sticks (they are called pot-hooks) were for bringing a kettle close to the fire, while the shorter ones would allow of keeping things simmering without boiling or danger of burning. Moreover, by simply taking up a pot-hook by the hand grasp a kettle could be moved anywhere along the lug-stick away from the hottest part of the fire without burning the hands. It was simple, quickly made, yet for all top cooking as effective as the gas range at home, and Walter felt that he had learned an important lesson in woodcraft.

After the dishes were cleared away Big Jim led the way to a balsam thicket, taking with him two straight sticks about four feet long, hooked at the lower end. With his axe he rapidly lopped over a mass of balsam twigs, showing Walter how to slip them on to the long sticks so that when he had finished they had two big green spicy cylindrical piles of balsam with a hand grasp at the top to carry them by. Returning to camp Jim rapidly made up two beds. Small boughs were laid first, overlapping so that the butts were hidden. A deep layer of the small twigs were then laid on in the same way and behold! a bed a king might covet!

About four o’clock the guide told Walter to rig his rod and they would go in quest of their dinner. Paddling over to a cove where several springs fed the lake they drifted idly while the guide studied the various insects on and above the water. Finally he told Walter to rig two flies, a brown hackle for the tail and a professor for the dropper. The boy had already become fairly proficient in getting his line out cleanly and dropping his flies with that lightness which so closely simulates the falling of the living insects on the water. As yet he had seen no indications of fish, but he was impatient to try his luck. Big Jim, however, was lazily smoking, and Walter was forced to be content with admiring the wonderful panorama of lake and mountain spread before him as they idly drifted. Presently there was a splash on the edge of the shadows inshore, and then Walter caught a gleam of silver as another fish broke the mirror-like surface. The fish had begun to rise. With the same noiseless stroke that Walter had so much admired in the morning Big Jim worked the canoe shoreward toward the widening circle where the last fish had broken. At his signal Walter cast, ten feet—twenty feet—thirty feet. The flies dropped lightly almost directly above the spot where they had seen the fish. Hardly had the tackle touched the water when there was a swift flash of silver and with a deft twist of the wrist Walter struck.

With a rush the fish started for deep water, while the reel sang merrily. Gently but steadily Walter applied the pressure of the rod, when the first rush was checked, reeling in every inch of slack, until five minutes later he led the tired captive within reach of Big Jim’s eager fingers, which closed in his gills and the prize was theirs, a shining half-pound spotted beauty, which the guide promptly and mercifully killed by slipping a thumb into the mouth and bending the head back till the spine broke at the neck.

So they drifted alongshore, Walter taking two more of about the size of the first one, and several smaller ones. As they approached a lone rock some fifty feet offshore he made a long careful cast just to the edge of the deepest shadow of the rock. The strike which followed was so fierce and the strain on the rod so great that but for the screaming of the reel Walter would have been sure that he had caught a snag. But there was no mistaking the active form at the other end of the line. Big Jim had waked to the battle royal now in progress and was bringing to bear all his skill in the handling of the canoe.

Straight out into the lake shot the fish. “Give him th’ butt, boy, give him th’ butt, but be careful!” shouted the guide. This Walter did, elevating the tip of the rod until the springing little bamboo was bent almost double, the fish pulling against the full spring of the rod, clear from the butt. This served to check the rush. A period of sulking in deep water followed. Then the line slackened until it hung limply from the end of the straightened rod.

“He’s off,” thought Walter, his heart sinking. But the guide was not so easily fooled.

“Reel, boy, reel!” he shouted, deftly turning the canoe as on a pivot. Then Walter waked to the fact that the fish had started a rush straight toward the canoe, hence the slack line. Madly he reeled until a sharp tug that pulled the tip of his rod under water told him that he was still fast. With a sigh of relief he gently increased the pressure.

“Must be a four pounder, sartin,” said the guide, skilfully keeping the canoe bow on. “Funny he don’t break water. He ought t’ hev been in th’ air half a dozen times ’fore this.”

Thus far they had not had so much as a glimpse of the finny warrior. Thrice he had come almost to the surface, but instead of the silver flash arching through the air, which is the joy of the fisherman, there had been no more than a sudden swirl of the placid surface, and the fish had again sought the depths.

Walter’s wrist was feeling the strain. Despite the excitement he was becoming tired. His heart was pounding with conflicting emotions, alternate hope of landing a record prize and fear of losing it. Another fit of sulking gave him a few minutes’ respite. When the next rush started he felt that it was weaker, nor was it as long. Inch by inch he was recovering his line, not for one instant relaxing the steady strain on the fish.

The rushes were short now and quickly checked. Inch by inch, foot by foot the reel took up the line. At last in the clear depths he got a glimpse of a shadowy form as it started another rush. Big Jim had seen too. Indeed, he had seen more than Walter had.

“Two o’ em, by gum!” he shouted. “Steady now, pard! ’Twon’t be safe t’ try t’ land ’em in th’ canoe without a landin’ net. I’m goin’ t’ work in t’ thet bit o’ shingle over yonder. Jes’ yer keep ’em comin’ an’ don’t let up on ’em fer a minute.”

The guide was right. Both flies had been seized at once. By this time Walter could occasionally see the two fish, and the sight brought his heart into his throat. Could he save both? What a chance to score for the Delawares! And what a record to send home to father! He understood now why there had been no leaping; the fish had checkmated each other.

As the canoe grated on the pebbles the guide leaped over, knee-deep in the water. Walter stood up and gently led the fish toward the waiting guide. So tired were they that they were almost passive, their broad tails feebly winnowing as, getting the line in his left hand, Big Jim drew them slowly to him. Gently he sank his right arm in the water that no sudden move should startle the fish into a last frantic struggle. Would he save them? Walter sat down weakly, trembling with the strain and anxiety.

Slowly the guide’s big hand slipped up the length of the fish on the dropper. The stout fingers locked in the gills, there was a deft throw—Walter could never tell just how it was done—and both fish were flapping on the shore. Jim threw himself upon them a second after, for his quick eye had seen that the tail fly had torn out. When he stood up he held out a fish in each hand, such fish! The young angler could hardly believe the evidence of his own eyes.

“Smallest’ll weigh ’bout two an’ a half pounds, an’ t’other ’bout a pound heftier,” said Jim, eyeing them critically. “Pard, thet’s goin’ some fer a beginner. Reckon yer must carry a rabbit’s foot in yer pocket fer luck.”

Walter disclaimed any witch charms whatsoever as he produced the neat little spring scales which had been a parting gift from his father. These proved the accuracy of Jim’s guess, one being an ounce less and the other an ounce and a half more than the weights he had named. They were the true broad tails or speckled trout, commonly called brook trout (Salvilinus fontinalis) than which no more beautiful fish swims.

As he admired their exquisitely painted sides something very like regret for a moment subdued the boy’s elation and pride, for he was one of the true nature lovers, to whom the destruction of life must ever bring a feeling of sadness.

As the guide shoved off Walter started to bend on a change of flies, but to this Big Jim quickly put a stop.

“Pard,” said he, “no true sportsman will ever kill more’n he needs. We’ve got enough—all we can use. The man who kills jes’ fer th’ fun o’ killin’ ain’t nothin’ more’n a butcher. He’d better get a job in one o’ them big slaughter-houses. When I find I’m guidin’ fer one o’ thet breed he most gen’rally don’t hev no luck.”

Walter felt the rebuke, but he was fair minded enough to appreciate and not resent it. Nor did he ever forget it.

Back at camp Big Jim at once started preparations for dinner. Going into the woods he cut a small log of hard wood about two feet long, out of which he split a slab about three inches thick. One side of this he rapidly smoothed. Under his direction Walter had, in the meantime, built a fire of small pieces of hard wood. This was soon a bed of glowing coals which would retain their heat for a long time, a property which soft woods do not possess, as the guide took pains to impress upon him. For this reason hardwood coals are always preferable for cooking.

When the slab was smoothed to Jim’s satisfaction he propped it up in front of the coals. Splitting the largest fish down the back its entire length, taking care not to cut through the belly, he cleaned it and wiped it dry. When the slab was hot he tacked the fish to it, skin side down, and spread full width. Then the slab was once more propped in front of the fire and three strips of bacon were hung across the top so that the fat would try out and drip on the fish. When it became necessary to reverse the ends of the slab so that the fish would cook evenly the bacon was taken off and impaled on the pointed end of a small stick, it becoming Walter’s duty to hold this so that the drip would continue to baste the fish.

While Walter tended the fish the guide made a reflector according to an idea Walter had given him. Lashing together two sticks in the form of a T, one two and a half feet long and the other a foot long, he tacked a piece of birch about two feet wide to the ends of the T, thus forming a segment of a circle. The white side of the bark was turned in. A flat piece of hemlock bark was fitted across the sticks and a rough handle was lashed to the whole. The result was a crude but effective reflector to concentrate the light from a flash in a given direction.

By the time this was finished the fish was done to a turn. A dash of salt and pepper was added, and it was ready to serve on the slab on which it was cooked. Have you ever sat under the sweet smelling hemlocks, careless of all else in the world save securing your full share of the flaky pink flesh of a trout cooked in this way? If you have then your mouth is watering this very minute. If you have not—ah, why try to describe it? My advice to you is simply this: Follow Walter’s example at the earliest opportunity.

Bread with butter and hot cocoa (Dr. Merriam tabooed coffee or tea for growing boys) completed the menu. When the dinner was finished, to the last shred of pink flesh clinging to crisp brown skin, Walter felt that never before in all his life had he eaten half so delicious a meal.

With dinner out of the way and camp made ready for the night they prepared to put into execution the plan which was the real object of the trip. There was no moon, for the sky was overcast, and the night promised to be very dark. This was much to Jim’s liking, for the blacker the night the less likelihood that the deer would see ought but the baleful, fascinating glare of the jack-light. It was nine o’clock when they left camp, Walter in the bow as usual, but this time with nothing to occupy his attention but his camera and the jack-light strapped on his hat. The reflector was within easy reach of the guide, to whom Walter had given careful instructions in its use. A flash, consisting of two No. 2 cartridges, had been prepared and wires connected from a couple of electric batteries. Jim had merely to press a button to fire the flash.

It was agreed that Walter should set his focus for one hundred feet and that, should they be lucky enough to find the deer, the judging of the distance and setting off of the flash should be left to the guide.

It was weird, uncanny, that paddle down the lake, the black water beneath them and a black formless void around and above them. A dozen strokes from shore Walter felt as utterly lost so far as sense of direction was concerned as if blindfolded. But not so Big Jim. He sent the canoe forward as confidently as if in broad daylight. The jack was lighted but not uncovered.

Walter became aware presently that the canoe was moving very much more slowly and he suspected that they were approaching the lower end of the pond. At a whispered word he turned on the jack. The narrow beam of light cutting athwart the darkness made the night seem blacker by contrast. Very, very slowly they were moving, and there was not so much as the sound of a ripple against their light craft.

The boy sat motionless, but listen as he would he could detect no smallest sound to denote the presence of his companion, much less to indicate that he was paddling. But paddling he was, and the canoe steadily crept forward. A mighty chorus of frog voices in many keys evidenced the close proximity of the meadows surrounding the outlet. As the canoe’s course was altered to parallel the shore the boy cautiously turned in his seat so that the rays from the jack were directed shoreward. At that distance, even in the very center of the beam of light, the shore was but a ghostly outline, and Walter wondered how it could be possible that they could see the eyes of a deer.

Once the heavy plunge of a muskrat made him jump inwardly, for his nerves were keyed to a high pitch. He was beginning to feel cramped from so long maintaining one position. One foot and leg had gone to sleep. But he grimly ground his teeth and resolved that, come what might, he would not move.

A slight tremor on the port side of the canoe attracted his attention and he realized that Big Jim was shaking it, the signal agreed upon should the guide see the deer first. Walter forgot his discomfort. Eagerly he stared at the shore. For a few minutes he saw nothing unusual. Suddenly he became conscious of two luminous points—the eyes of a deer gazing in fixed fascinated stare at the light. He could discern no faintest outline of the animal, but the eyes glowed steadily, unwinking.

Inch by inch the canoe drifted in. Suddenly the two glowing points disappeared. Walter’s heart sank. Had the animal taken fright? No, there they were again! The deer had merely lowered its head for a moment. A shake of the canoe warned the boy that there was something more. Turning his own eyes from the two burning there in the blackness he presently became aware of two more, smaller and lower down. A second later he saw a third pair.

What could it mean? Could it be that the deer had enemies stalking it? What if it should be a lynx or even a panther! His excited imagination conjured up a thrilling scene. What if he could photograph it! He longed to ask the guide what it all meant, but that was impossible.

Slowly, slowly they drifted in toward the three pairs of eyes. Walter kept his camera pointed directly at them, the shutter open, not knowing what instant the flash might go off. Still they drifted in, Walter as fascinated by the six glowing points as were the deer by the jack. Inch by inch, inch by inch they drew nearer. Would the flash never go? Walter felt that he must turn and see what Big Jim was doing. Could it be that Jim had disconnected the wires and was unable to fire the flash?

Even as this dread possibility entered his mind the water and shore directly in front of him were lit by a blinding glare. He had an instantaneous impression of a doe and two fawns staring in curious alarm from near the shore of a wild meadow flanked by ghostly tamaracks. Quite automatically he squeezed the bulb that closed the shutter. Then for a few minutes he could see nothing. But he could hear the plunging of the frightened animals as they fled for the shelter of the forest, and his heart leaped at thought of what that negative in his camera must hold.

“Git ’em, pard?” drawled the voice of the guide.

“I guess so. I don’t see how I could help it. Anyway, I held the camera pointed right at them,” replied Walter.

“Guess thet’ll do fer to-night, son,” said Jim, swinging the canoe about. “Shut off th’ jack an’ git out yer paddle. It’s us fer th’ blankets now!”