“Now, Curtis, bring on your moose.”

“Don’t be in a hurry. You don’t want to crowd all your sport into the first day, do you?”

“By no means. I expect to get a moose every day.”

“You mustn’t do it. It’s unlawful for one person to kill more than one moose, two caribou, and three deer in one season.”

“I wouldn’t live in such a stingy State.”

“You may have to some day. Wait until Mississippi has been overrun with greedy hunters, calling themselves sportsmen, from every part of the Union, as Maine has, and see if your lawmakers do not wake up to the necessity of protecting the little game they will leave you. If those pot-hunters were let alone, there wouldn’t be anything for a fellow to shoot after a while. Our laws are strict.”

“Are they always obeyed?”

“Of course not. Last winter a party of Indians camped on the headwaters of the Brokenstraw, and killed nearly a hundred moose. When the game-constables got after them, they ran over to Canada. But the worst destroyers of game are the city sportsmen. They shoot at everything that comes within range of their guns, throw away the trout they can’t eat, and the money they pay for food and guides doesn’t begin to cover the damage they do.”

It was a pleasant scene that was spread out before the gaze of Don Gordon and Walter Curtis on that bright September morning. They stood upon the brink of a high bluff jutting out into one of the Seven Ponds, which, at that day, were not as widely known among the class of men whom Walter had just been denouncing as they are at the present time. There was a hotel at the lower pond, but it was patronized only by adventurous sportsmen who, as a rule, lived up to the law, and took no more fish and game than they could dispose of. The men who are willing to endure almost any hardship, who brave all sorts of weather and the miseries of “buck-board” traveling over corduroy roads, for the sake of spending a quiet month in the woods, are not the ones who boast of the number of fish they catch or the amount of game they kill. A hard fight with a three-pound trout, or a single deer brought down after a week’s arduous hunting, affords them more gratification than they would find in a whole creelful of “finger-lings,” or a cart-load of venison killed on the runways.

The boys were in the midst of an almost unbroken wilderness. On their right a noble forest, known only to the hardy lumberman and a few hunters and trappers, stretched away to the confines of Canada. In front was the pond (it was larger than Diamond Lake, whose sluggish waters had once floated a fleet of Union gunboats), and from the glade below them on their left arose the smoke of the fire over which some of their companions were cooking a late breakfast. A deep silence brooded over the woods, broken only by an occasional splash made by a trout as he arose to the surface of the pond to seize some unwary insect, and snatches of a plantation melody from Hopkins, who sang as he superintended the frying of the bacon:

The Southern boys had spent just three days in Dalton, enjoying as much sport as could be crowded into that short space of time. Everybody showed them much attention, and the fathers and mothers of the other members of the club vied with Mr. and Mrs. Curtis in their offers of hospitality. The guests were elected honorary members of the club, and hunting and fishing parties were the order of the day. Don caught his first brook-trout with the little rod whose strength he so much doubted. Bert knocked over a brace or two of ruffed grouse, and one of the club, having heard the visitors say that they didn’t know what a corn-husking was, found a farmer who had some of last year’s crop on hand, and got up one for their especial benefit. There was a large party of people, young and old, assembled in the barn in which the husking was done, and the Southerners, who were not at all bashful or afraid of pretty girls, had any amount of fun over the red ears of which there seemed to be an abundant supply. On Saturday there was glass-ball shooting on the grounds of the club in the presence of invited guests, and although Don Gordon did not succeed in beating the champion, he did some shooting with the rifle that made the club open their eyes. Using Curtis’s Stevens he broke all the spots out of the eight of clubs in eight consecutive shots, shooting off-hand at the distance of fifty feet and using the open sights. This was a feat that no one on the grounds had ever seen accomplished before. Even Curtis, who was the best marksman in the club, couldn’t do it, but he declared he would before he went back to the academy again.

“I tell you plainly that you’ve got a task before you,” said Don. “The best published record is five spots in five shots, using peep sights. This is the best use that can be made of playing cards. I always keep a pack of them on hand, for they are the best kind of targets.”

And that is all they are good for. If every pack of cards in the world could be shot to pieces as Don’s were, there would be less swindling going on, and we should not see so much misery around us.

Don and his friends made so many agreeable acquaintances in Dalton and so thoroughly enjoyed themselves among them, that they would have been content to pass the whole of their month there; but Curtis would not hear of it. There were only ten days more in September, he said; it would take three of them to reach their camping grounds, and if they desired to see any of the hunting and fishing that were to be found in Maine, they must start at once, for their fine fly-rods would be useless to them after the first of October. The day which closed the time for trout-fishing, opened the season for moose-hunting. If Don had revealed all that was passing in his mind, he would have said that he didn’t care a snap for hunting or fishing either. He had seen a pair of blue eyes and some golden ringlets whose fair owner gazed admiringly at the shoulder-straps he had so worthily won, and who interested him more than all the trout that ever swam or any lordly moose that ever roamed the forests. But he started for the camping-ground when the others did, submitted as patiently as he could to the jolting he was subjected to on the corduroy roads, and wondered what the girl he left behind him would think if she could see him now, dressed in a hunting suit that was decidedly the worse for the hard service it had seen, and wearing a pair of heavy boots, thickly coated with grease, and a slouch hat that had once been gray, but which had been turned to a dingy yellow by the smoke and heat of innumerable camp fires.

Their party had been increased by the addition of five of the members of the rod and gun club, but the lodge which Curtis and some of his friends had erected on the shore of one of the Seven Ponds, and which was modeled after Don Gordon’s shooting-box, was large enough to accommodate them all. It took four wagons to transport them and their luggage to the lodge, at which they arrived on the evening of the third day after leaving Dalton. They were too tired to do much that night, but they were up at the first peep of day, and after their luggage had been transferred from the wagons to the lodge, the beds made up in the bunks, the guns and fishing-rods hung upon the hooks that had been fastened to the walls on purpose to receive them, the canoes put into the water (they had brought three of these handy little crafts with them), a blaze started in the fire-place, the chest that contained their folding-table and camp-chairs unpacked—when these things had been done, the little rustic house, which was a marvel in its way, being constructed of poles instead of boards, began to assume an air of domesticity. The teamsters who brought them to the pond took a hasty bite and departed, leaving the club to themselves. There was no patient, painstaking old cuff with them to cook their meals and act as camp-keeper, and so the young hunters had to do their own work. The first morning the lot fell upon Hopkins and two of the Dalton boys who straightway began preparations for breakfast, while the rest strolled out to look about them, Don and Curtis bringing up on the edge of the bluff where we found them at the beginning of this chapter.

sang Hopkins, as he stood in the door of the lodge; and when he shouted out the last line he shook his head at Don in a way that made the latter’s face turn as red as a beet. Hopkins evidently knew where Don’s thoughts were.

“Come down from there, you two,” he exclaimed. “The bacon is done cooked.”

The cool, invigorating morning air, laden as it was with the health-giving odors of the balsam and the pine, had bestowed upon the boys an appetite that would not permit them to disregard this invitation. They hastened down the bluff, and when they entered the lodge, they found the cooks putting breakfast on the table. They sat down with the rest, and while they ate, Curtis, who was the acknowledged leader of the party, laid out a programme for the day. There were three canoes which would accommodate two boys each (they could be made to carry four, but with so many in them there would not be much elbow-room for those who wanted to fish) and two Falstaffs to be provided for. One of them was Hopkins and the other was Hutton, the boy who caught the big salmon in Canada. He would have to go, of course, for he knew all the best places in the pond, and he was certain to bring luck to the boy who went with him. Curtis thought he and Bert would look well together, while Hopkins and Farwell—the latter a light-weight Dalton boy and a clever fly-fisher—would make another good team. Don and Egan could have the other canoe to themselves.

“But we don’t know where to go or what to do,” said Egan. “You go in my place, and let me stay behind as one of the camp-keepers.”

“I am laying out this programme,” replied Curtis, speaking in the pompous tone that Professor Odenheimer always assumed when he wanted to say something impressive.

“I know it, but I can’t be of any use to them,” continued Egan. “Some rioter, on the evening of the 23d of last July, put it out of my power to handle a paddle or a rod for some time to come.”

As Egan said this he held up his bandaged hand. His injuries were by no means so serious as everybody thought they were going to be, but still the wounded member was not of much use to him. When he found that he was to be one of Mack’s squad, he frankly told the young officer that he could not help him; but Mack would have taken him if he had no hands at all, for he was fond of his company. He was afterward glad that he did take him, for no one could have handled the Idlewild during the pursuit with greater skill than Egan did. If they had had much walking to do Hopkins’ weak ankle would have given out; but he did full duty as a foremast hand, and proved to be of as much use as anybody.

“We don’t expect you to do any work,” said Curtis. “Let Don work, and you sit by and see the fun. Either one of the other boats will lead you to a good fishing-ground. Then all Don will have to do will be to watch Hutton or Farwell and do just as he does, and he’ll be sure to get a rise; but whether or not he will catch a trout I can’t say.”

Breakfast being over the boys paired off as Curtis had instructed, launched the canoes and paddled away, Bert and his fat mentor, Hutton, going toward the lower end of the pond, and the others turning toward the upper end. The fish were breaking water on all sides of them, but Farwell did not stop until he and Hopkins had run their canoe into a little cove at the further end of the pond, which was fed by clear cold streams that came down from the hills.

“In warm weather this is the best fishing-ground I know of,” said he, as he beckoned Don to come alongside, “and I don’t think it is too late in the season to have a little fun here now. You see, trout like cold water, and they find plenty of it here. Now, Gordon, if you will let me see your fly-book, I will make a selection for you while you are putting your rod together.”

Don handed over the book which contained about three dozen flies that Curtis had picked out for him in Boston. He did not know the name of a single one of them, but Farwell did, and after running his eye over them he said that Don had a very good assortment.

“As it is broad daylight we want small flies,” Farwell remarked. “The sun doesn’t shine very brightly, and neither is it entirely obscured by the clouds—the weather is rather betwixt and between; so we will take a gaudy fly, like this scarlet ibis, for a stretcher, and a white miller for the other. Then the trout can take their choice. Now, where’s your leader—a cream-colored one. Bright and glistening ones are apt to scare the fish, and they generally fail when the pinch comes. It’s very provoking to have your leader break just about the time you are ready to slip your dip-net under a trout you have worked hard for. I hold that two flies on one line are enough. They are sometimes more than a novice wants to manage, especially when he catches a weed or a root with one hook and a trout with the other, or when two heavy fish take his flies at the same instant and run off in different directions. Three hooks on a line are allowable only when you are out of grub, and the trout don’t run over fifty to the pound. But then we don’t catch such fish in these ponds.”

The Southerners listened with all their ears and closely watched Farwell, who, while he was talking, deftly fastened the flies he had selected upon the leader, bent the leader on to the line, and was about to pass the fully equipped rod back to its owner, when a large trout shot out of the water about fifty feet away, giving them a momentary glimpse of his gleaming sides before he fell back into his native element. Don withdrew the hand he had extended for the rod and looked at Farwell.

“Shall I take him for you and show you how it is done?” asked the latter.

“Yes,” answered all the boys, at once.

“Well, in order to do it, I shall have to throw the flies right over that swirl. What are you going to do with that paddle, Hopkins?”

“I was going to pull the canoe up nearer,” replied the latter.

“I don’t care to go any nearer.”

“Why, you can’t reach him from here,” said Egan.

“And if you hook him he will break the rod into a thousand pieces,” chimed in Don. “I know I made a mistake when I bought that flimsy little thing.”

Farwell smiled but said nothing. Grasping the rod in his right hand above the reel he drew off as much line as he thought he needed, and then threw the flexible tip smartly upward and backward, causing the flies to describe a circle around his head. One would have thought from his actions that he was going to strike the water with the rod, but he didn’t. When the rod reached a horizontal position it stopped there, but the flies had received an impetus that carried them onward almost to the edge of the weeds, and landed them on the water as lightly as a feather and right in the center of the swirl. It was neatly and gracefully done; but before Don and his companions could express their delight and admiration, the scarlet ibis suddenly disappeared, the line was drawn as tight as a bow-string and the pliant rod was bent almost half double. Farwell had hooked his fish, and now the fun began.

The trout fought hard but he did not break the rod as Don had predicted, and neither did the boy with whom he was battling show half as much excitement as did the others who sat by and watched the contest. They had never dreamed that there was so much sport in fishing, and there wasn’t in the way they generally fished, with a heavy pole and a line strong enough to jerk their prize from the water the moment he was hooked. Don, as we have said, had caught a few trout in the brooks about Dalton, but he had not done it in any such scientific way as this. Being distrustful of his rod he had seized the line and lifted the fish out by main strength—a most unsportsmanlike thing to do. He closely observed all Farwell’s movements, and when at last the exhausted trout was dipped out of the water with the landing-net and deposited in the bottom of the canoe, he thought he had made himself master of the art of fly-fishing. But when he came to try casting he found he was mistaken. His flies went almost everywhere except in the direction he desired to throw them, and annoyed him by catching in his coat-tail when he tried to throw them over his head; but after patient and careful practice in making short casts he finally “got the hang of the thing,” as he expressed it, and after that he did better. The string of fish he took back to the lodge with him at noon was not a very large one, but the few he caught afforded him an abundance of sport, and that was just what he wanted.