When Mr. Lyndsay reached home, Rose had gone, and he had no chance to take a look at the new bowman: he hoped he was competent. The man in the bow especially has to judge with decision as to the watery way before him, to avoid shallows, to look out for rocks, and instantly to obey every order from the stern.

When Polycarp’s birch, for the Indians always use the bark canoe, ran close to the beach, the bowman stepped out, as the way is, into the water and drew the bark to the shore. Polycarp, silent as a monk of La Trappe, went up the steps. The boys were absent, Miss Anne was off with big-voiced Tom, and Mr. Lyndsay had not returned. Carington began to be curious. “Great Scott!” he exclaimed, for here was a young woman coming gaily down the steps. She wore a boy’s cap and carried a basket. Behind her came Polycarp with her rods.

It is the business of the bowman to use his eyes and not his tongue. The former were now discreetly busy. I scarcely ever knew a talkative bowman. Talk is the privilege of the man at the stern, who rarely hesitates to advise as to the handling of a fish, or to converse with easy freedom.

“I scarcely bargained for this,” said Fred to himself. “It’s high comedy, rather. I am in for it. Here goes!” And he drew the side of the birch close to the shore, readjusted a stone or two of those placed for landing and then steadied the canoe. Miss Lyndsay put a hand on his shoulder, stepped lightly in, and sat down. As usual in this watery travel the low seat for the fisherman is set to face in the direction in which the boat moves, so as to give the view ahead. When about to fish the canoe is run ashore,—beached, they say,—and the seat is turned so as to look to the stern.

“We are to fish the upper—the rock pool, Polycarp; above the Island Camp—a mile or so, I believe.”

“Me know.”

“And you are to be careful not to go beyond a certain dead pine, or to get onto the water of the Island Camp. We don’t know those people, and I wish to be careful.”to be careful.”

“Me know. Last drop best. Have to cast a little over. No help it.”

“No, not a foot! These are a couple of Boston gentlemen, and very likely to be disagreeable as to boundaries.” Rose was thinking aloud.

Thereupon the bowman was tempted—“I did hear tell they was awful nice men.“

“Indeed!” said Rose, not fancying this reply.

“There won’t nobody know,” muttered Polycarp, with a chuckle.

“You bad old poacher,” she returned, laughing. “Here is some tobacco for you; you may smoke, but I can’t have you chewing. As to poaching, I hope it won’t be necessary.”

As she spoke, the poles clinked as one on the rocks and pebbles, and, keeping close to shore, they gradually forged up-stream, Rose lying back at lazy ease, and hardly hearing the rare words of order or warning from stern to bow. By and by, being, as I have said, an observant young person, she fell to noticing the symmetry and strong lines of her bowman’s figure, and then the thick, brown half-curl of hair under the felt hat. The action, as it repeated itself over and over, struck her fancy. She took at last to analyzing the movement, which beautifully brings out the curves of the tense muscles. She saw that poling on the right side begins with the left hand above, the right below; and that, in the recover and forward lift for a new hold on the bottom, the right hand is shifted above the left, and the pole is carried forward through the relaxed grip of the left hand, and the push begins again. At last she took out her sketch-book, and pretty soon caught a neat likeness of the man in the last moment of the forward shove, when the balancing power of the man in these unsteady vessels is the most severely tried. Her unconscious model, now warming to the work, had half forgotten the awkwardness of the position in the pleasure of this manly use of well-trained muscles. A little later and he saw Ellett, as they sat down to take their paddles to cross the quieter water before the camp, in order to win the farther shore. “Confound his impudence!” said Carington to himself, as he became aware of his friend coolly inspecting them with a field-glass from a bank on the margin.

“Who is that man?” said Miss Lyndsay, turning toward Polycarp.

“Not know name.”

“Aren’t there two gentlemen fishing this reach? How much water have they?”

An Indian usually answers the last question, taking no notice of the first. “They got Mr. George—his water. From bogan up to big tree.”

“Bogan? What is that?”

“Just bogan,” said Polycarp. His descriptive powers, as well as his English, were limited. The word which puzzled her is probably an old English term. Still unsatisfied, Rose addressed the tall bowman. “What is your name, bowman?”

“Frederick, ma’am.”

“But your whole name?”

“Fairfield.” In fact, it was his middle name.

“What is a bogan, Fairfield?”

“A kind of a little bay like.” He was about to say a cul-de-sac, but stayed his tongue in time.

“And what is that yellow stuff all along the shore? It looks like sulphur.”

“It’s the pollen of the alders.”

“Pollen!” said Rose.

“Yes; that’s what the gentlemen calls it. Drops off them bushes, ma’am. Pullen or pollen—I don’t rightly mind.”

“Where is our pool, Polycarp?”

“’Most to it now.”

“Oh, there are the burnt lands,” said Rose. “What a dreadfully sad-looking place!” This was a mere personal reflection, unaddressed; but the bowman was now in the spirit of his part, and made a shy cast for a rise of interest in his human freight.

“It’s right mournsome-like.”

The fish rose. “What a beautiful word! Mournsome! Fearsome is another good word up here.”

“Hadn’t we best anchor?” said Carington. “I say, Polycarp, how is it? I don’t know this upper water.”

Rose took a look at the back of this curly head. The voice had not the intonations of GaspÉ, but rang out clear over the noise of the rapids. Also the “a’s” were broad, and there was a decided south-land note in it, with which Rose was too unfamiliar to cause suspicion. Polycarp silently turned the canoe, and in a moment beached it. Rose stood; the chair was shifted, and now in a few moments they were at the top of the pool, a swift flow of dark water all around them.

“Anchor—drop,” said Polycarp, as they swung to the current. “Keepee hold short.”

The stream was a hundred yards wide. The hills rose high to right, and already a favoring shadow was on the pool. Rose had lost much time by reason of this trouble about the bowman. It was well on toward evening. A fish leaped below and then another. It was of a truth most beautiful, and the man in the bow, who was now behind Rose, was longing to say as much, but Rose was intent on other matters. A moderate-sized Jock Scott was adjusted, and she began to cast,—still awkwardly enough.

“I must stand,” said Rose. Then she cast better, but still in vain. An hour went by. Two people were beginning to consider it a little dull. At last once more Polycarp said, “Drop!” Rose laid her rod on the thwarts, as they slid down some thirty feet, the fly and leader hanging in the water, and the butt behind her. Of a sudden there was a mad splash, the reel ran out, and the bowman, catching the butt, raised the rod, and, leaning over her, put it in her hands. “Take care!” he said, “he’s off,” and away he went across the water.

“How splendid!” cried Rose, as she lowered the tip, when the fish made a mighty leap, eighty feet away, and his silvery arched form fell amidst foam onto the dark waves.

“Look out! More jump!” cried the Indian; and again the reel clicked busily.

“Reel! Reel!” said the bowman. “Well done, miss! Reel! Logs coming, Polycarp!” It was true. A half-dozen dark logs were coming down on them.

“Darn logs!” said the Indian, much excited. “You hold hard now. Tip up!”

“Yes. Tip up! tip up!” cried Carington. “There, can you hold him? If you can’t, he will get the line among the logs.” They were now out of the current in a side eddy. “So—so! Hold there, Polycarp! If he waits a half-minute before he runs, we shall have him. Good! He’s coming! Now lift him, miss! Well done! Reel! Reel! These running fish don’t last.”

“See belly,—much dead. Yah,” said the Indian; and the gaff was in, and, amidst laughter and wild splashing, which covered her with water, a fine salmon was in the boat.

“Admirably done, miss!” said Carington. “That was well handled.” Then he added, “Them fresh-run fish is tough uns.”

Rose began, even amid her tire and excitement, to be a little puzzled. However, they went back to the same drop, and the casting went on as before. A half-hour passed. It was now long after six o’clock.

“See him rise, ma’am?” said Polycarp. “Best fish—heap late, heap best fish.”

She cast again, and this time saw the swirl in the water and a glance of white.

“Much hungry!”

After a little while the fly was changed, and then again, until at last the first fly was tried anew.

“No good! He no come!”

“Hold on a moment,” said Carington. “Try this”; and he took from his head his soft felt hat and threw it over to Polycarp. “There’s a fly in the band: try that. It is a white miller.”

“No good!” said Polycarp; but he put it on. The next moment Rose saw a fish dart sideways through the water, and with open mouth take the fly. Then the anchor was up, and the fish away for a wild run down-stream, the reel whizzing, pausing, and whizzing again. For a half-hour of running and reeling this went on. At length the fish hung out steadily in the strong water, his head to the current, while Rose with all her power held him.

“These runs down-stream are rare,” said Carington; “How strong he is!”

For an hour the sky had been overcast, and the river-bed in the nest of hills was fast growing dim.

“Are you tired?” said the bowman. “Shall I take the rod? It might spell you.”

“Oh, no! Thank you! No.”

“Give him a little line—so, slowly; but be careful. Drop the tip a little. It may tempt him to run again. No! How he holds on! Might I suggest, Miss Lyndsay,”—he had quite forgotten his part in the excitement of the contest,—“may I suggest that we drop below him?”

This was tried. The fish came duly down-stream. The canoe was again brought to the bank, and again there was the salmon out in the heavy water. Each motion of his tail revealed itself by a single “click, click” of the reel. It was now dusk.

“It is that limp rod: it has no power,” said Carington, and, reaching over, he caught a few small stones from the bank, and threw them at the point where at the end of a perilously tense line the fish still held his place.

“No much good!”

At last she got in a little line. The salmon was now not over twenty feet from her rod-tip; but she could no longer see, and it was near to eight o’clock, and, by reason of the coming storm, far more dark than usual at that hour.

“I shall be eaten by the sand-flies,” said Rose. “How they bite!” It was now too dark to see line or rod-tip.

“Hold her, Polycarp,” said the bowman. “I will make a smudge.” And in a moment a thick smoke was whirling from the beach, and cast around her by the rising wind. Then, of a sudden, the smudge, blown into ruddy flame, sent a long flare of light across the water. In an instant the line came home.

“He is gone!” cried Rose, in accents of despair.

“No! no!” cried Carington, from the beach: “reel!”

The fish, caught by the light, had rushed wildly toward it, and run his nose onto the shore. The bowman, catching first a handful of gravel, seized it by the tail, and threw it high up onto the shore, the rod-tip snapping as Rose threw it back of her.

“Did any one ever see the like?” said Carington.

“Me see—twice—two time,” said the Indian, as he took the spring balance from the fishing-basket.

“Oh, this is fishing!” cried Rose. “It must be quite two hours! I know what papa will say. He will say, ‘Bad fishing!’”

“But I assure you,” said Carington, from the darkened shore, eight or ten feet away, “I can assure you no one could have handled that fish better!”

At this Rose was struck silent, and now she wanted to get a good look at this eccentric bowman.

“No see,” said Polycarp; “’bout twenty-nine pound; got match?”

“Ah!” she exclaimed, for now in an instant there fell a fury of driving rain, which struck her on the face and hands like spent shot.

“Let me help you,” said Carington. “Here. How dark it is! Take my hand. This spruce will hold off the rain a while.” Rose leaped out in haste.

“It won’t last,” added the bowman.

“But what does my fish weigh? Couldn’t you strike a match and see? I want to know.”

“Certainly, ma’am!” he said, urgently sensible of the need to get back into character. “Best get it weighed soon. Them fish drops weight a lot.” So saying, he took out a silver match-box, and, taking three matches together, struck them on his corduroys, and hastily covered them with the cavern every smoker knows how to make with his hands. The wind put them out at once.

“No good!” said Polycarp.

“But I must know what my fish weighs,” urged this persistent young woman.

“Of course, ma’am!” said the much-amused Carington.

It had become suddenly still darker. Above them the storm roared, as it tossed the plumes of the unseen tree-tops, and the spruce was no longer a cover. Miss Lyndsay squirmed, and gave a little laugh, as more and more insolent drops crawled down her back.

“Do hurry,” she said, “my good man.”

Meanwhile, Carington again lit a match, this time in the shelter of his hat, and kindled the resinous tips of a pine-branch he had torn away.

“Thirty-one pounds and over—say thirty-two.” As he spoke he held up the fiercely blazing branch, so that its red-and-orange light flared over the water, and, seen in a million drops, cast for a moment dancing shadows through the dense woodlands back of them. In this wild light the Indian’s visage stood out like some antique bronze, and she saw for the first time clearly a smiling brown face, clean shaven except for a slight mustache. The bowman threw the branch on the water, where it sparkled a moment, and said, cheerfully, “Will the canoe live in this wind, Polycarp?”

“Not know! Big much blow!”

“Confound it!” said the bowman. “I think we had better wait a bit, ma’am. Kind of rains like them clouds was buckets turned upside down. It can’t last. Are you gettin’ wet, ma’am?”

“No, I am wet,” said Rose. “Mama will be so uneasy. Couldn’t we go? We must go! How long will it last?”

Polycarp was silent, and the deluge went on pattering on the maples, humming softly on the water when the wind ceased, and the intervals of quiet let into the ear the myriad noises of the falling drops. Rose set her soul to be patient. She was now too cold for comfort, and very hopelessly soaked. But it was like her to say, “It is nobody’s fault, and, after all, it is great fun.” Then Carington, liking the courage and good sense of the woman, forgot himself again.

“Don’t you think it is a little difficult sometimes to say just where amusement ends, and—the other thing begins?”

“What other thing?” said Rose, too wet and shivering to be acutely critical.

“Oh—discomfort!”

“But I think one may be both amused and uncomfortable.”

“Guess that’s so, miss,” said the actor. “It is holding up a little. The clouds are breaking. By George! we have a moon—a bit of one!”

“Go now,” said the sternman, as he tilted the canoe to rid it of water.

“Can we risk it? Are you sure?” said Rose.

Carington smiled. He was about to add, gaily, “Miss Lyndsay’s carriage stops the way.” He did say, “All right, ma’am. It rains a mawsel, but the wind’s nigh done. We’d have risked it alone. All ready?”

In a moment they were away, in the power of the great river’s night march to the sea. Never had Rose felt as full a sense of this vast energy of resistless water. Again, as once before, she realized the feeling of being walled in by darkness. Then there came the fierce rush through white water, and things like gray hands tossed up to right and left.

“Look sharp for salmon pillow,” said the Indian.

“Yes, yes!” cried Carington, intent on the stream before him, silent, a little anxious. “Left! left!” he cried. And Rose saw close by, as they fled on, a huge lift of waves, and then again they were away in a more quiet current, and the moon was out and the torn clouds were racing across its steady silver.

“Here’s a paddle, ma’am,” said the bowman. “Try to use it; it will keep you warm.”

“Thanks,” she returned. “What a good idea, Fairfield!” And now in a few moments she was more and more comfortable, and in proportion inclined to talk and reflect. She concluded that the bowman must have been thrown much with gentlemen in the fishing-season. She wondered if, on the whole, it was good for a man in his position to see the easy comfort of camps, the free use of money, and then to fall back into the hardships and exposures of the winter lumbering. The man puzzled her a little as she tried to reconcile him as he at times had appeared with what she knew must be his common existence.

“Is lumbering hard work, Fairfield?” She was now seated so as again to face his back.

“The woods, ma’am, is it, or the drive?” He was safe here. No man knew better this wood-life.

“Oh!—both.”

“The spring drive is pretty stiff work; beats a circus, ma’am, jumpin’ from log to log in quick water. Ever see a circus?” he added, with ingenuous innocence.

“Of course, often.”

“I’d like to see a circus. I did hear tell of one once. There’s the lights. Best let them know”—and he smote the waters with the flat of his paddle. “Guess they’ll hear that.”

The next moment they ran on to the beach, where Mr. Lyndsay was standing. He had been somewhat anxious, but had laughed at the women’s fears.

“All right, Rosy?” he said. “Go up at once and change your clothes. You must be wet through.”

“I am all right, papa, and two such salmon; one took nearly two hours!”

“Up with you.”

“Yes, Pardy. Don’t forget to pay the man. He has been most capable and very thoughtful. I should like to keep him always.”

“What fun!” thought the bowman.

“Needn’t mind, sir. I can come down for it ’most any time.”

“I have no change, Rose,” said her father. “How much is it? Oh, a dollar, I think I said. Come down to-morrow, and ask the cook now to give you some tobacco.”

“Thank you, sir, I doesn’t smoke—at present,” he added to himself.

“Stop, papa!” cried Rose. “It is absurd to bring this poor fellow all the way back for a dollar. I have my portemonnaie.” So saying, she searched it in the dark.

“Have you got it? Hurry, Rose. You will take cold. Bother the child. How persistent you are!”

Her fingers encountered only a bundle of notes of amounts not to be known in the gloom, and then, in a pocket apart, a little gold dollar—a luck-penny, kept for its rarity. She hesitated, but, being chilly and in haste, said, “Here is a dollar, my man. It is one of our old-fashioned gold dollars; but it is all right. I am very much obliged to you. If I want you again, can you come?”

“Maybe, ma’am. Depends on the lumber-boss.”

“Well, good night.”

“Good night, ma’am.”

“Do come, Rose.”

“That’s an odd sort of a man, Pardy,” said the young woman, while the canoe sped away, and the odd sort of a man said:

“Set me ashore at the ox-path; no, at the brow above. I’ll walk up. I am soaked. I shall take Colkett’s dugout and cross at my camp. Here’s another dollar, you old saint, and if ever you tell, I will scalp you!”

“All right, Mr. Carington.”

“Well,” exclaimed that gentleman, as he strode away, “if that wasn’t fun, there isn’t decent cause left for a laugh in the universe.” Then he lit a pipe, inspected by its dim light the gold dollar, and, smiling, carefully put it away in a safe pocket.