CARL DUCKELSTEIN FISHES.

That breakfast was, in truth, one not to be soon forgotten. Such appetites as those boys had, whetted and sharpened by bounding health and the tonic of the great, clean, unpolluted outdoor world! It was the tempting sight and delightful odor of trout frying in a pan of deep fat that really put the feather edge on their hunger. Fortunately, they had bread enough, and, even though Carl Duckelstein had not appeared with milk for their coffee, never in the memory of one there had food tasted so delicious.

“Um-mum!” mumbled Crane, his mouth full. “I cal’lated I’d et fish before, but, by Jinks! I was mistook; this is the fust time. Stoney, either yeou’re a rip tearin’ cook, or them’s the sweetest trout that ever swum.”

“I opine Ben is sure some cook,” said Grant; “but, likewise, I reckon these trout must be pretty good.”

“They ought to be,” grinned Springer, forking another fish on to his tin plate. “We had to fuf-fight for ’em. That is, Rod did.”

“It wasn’t really a fight,” said the Texan. “I wonder if we’ll hear anything more from James Simpson.”

“Don’t believe so,” said Phil. “It’s my opinion he got enough to satisfy him. What’s the matter, Sleuthy? You’re yawning. Didn’t you sus-sleep well last night?”

“Bah!” mocked Piper. “You know I didn’t sus-sus-sleep well. I feel like a fool this morning.”

“Sort of a natteral feelin’, hey?” laughed Crane unsympathetically.

“Go to the ant, thou sluggard,” put in Stone, by way of a thrust. “I really don’t wonder that you shot a hole in that old sleeping bag, Pipe, for it certainly was alive.”

“Is it possible,” said Grant, “that you failed to acquire wisdom from the owl last night? If you had listened attentively to its ‘frightful voice’ I’m sure the creature would have told you who’s who around here.”

“Yah! I s’pose you think you’re funny, the whole of you!” rasped Piper, whose sense of humor, if he had any, was doubly dulled by the fact that the joke was on him. “I s’pose you’ve got to have somebody to pick on, but don’t rub it in too hard. That’s all I’ve got to say: don’t rub it in too hard. Many a man, driven desperate by similar treatment, has risen in his wrath and given his torturers just cause to rue their rashness.”

“Look aout for Sleuthy,” warned Crane. “Don’t forget that we’re in the land of the bloodthirsty Wampanoags, and if we drive him to desperation mebbe he’ll turn renegade and betray us into the hands of murderous redskins.”

“That,” observed the Texan soberly, “would be right bad for us. I know,” he added reminiscently, “for didn’t I have an experience with painted Indians shortly after coming to Oakdale? Why, they even tried to burn me to the stake.”

“And by sus-so doing,” declared Springer, “they made a mistake, as they afterwards found out. I ought to know, for I was one of those redskins.”

Crane breathed a sigh, rubbed his hand over his stomach and gazed regretfully at the remnants of the fried fish.

“I declare,” he confessed, “I didn’t cal’late when Stoney was cookin’ them that there’d be half enough for us, but now I’m chock full, and I’ll be switched if there ain’t goin’ to be some scraps left.”

“Mighty small scraps,” laughed Grant. “I think we’ve cleaned things up pretty well. But if Phil and I hadn’t made this catch we’d fared rather slim, with Duckelstein failing to bring the provisions he promised to have here bright and early.”

“I don’t sus-suppose that sleepyhead is awake yet,” said Phil, moving back in a manner which indicated that he had finished. “We’ll be lucky if he gets our canoe over from Pemstock today.”

“With plenty of fish in these pellucid waters,” said Piper, whose spirits seemed to be reviving, “there’s no reason why we should perish of hunger, even though the pack train of provisions is delayed.”

“I guess that’s right,” chuckled Crane. “We mustn’t forgit that we have in aour midst an angler we can rely on when all others fail. Sleuthy ain’t had a chance yet to demonstrate his ability in that line.”

“I think I’ll do so right away,” said Piper. “I’ll get out my tackle and try the fish without delay.”

“You’ve gug-got another guess coming,” said Springer. “There’s dishes to wash and other work to do around this camp, and we’re not going to let you sus-sneak off to fish while the rest of us do the work. You can’t pup-play that game on us.”

Baffled, Piper, who abhorred work, reluctantly abandoned his design, and again it became his duty to wash the dishes, a task at which his soul revolted.

There was still enough to do around the camp, and when the breakfast dishes were cleared away, the blankets brought forth and hung up for an airing and the tent tidied, they decided to build a dining table. This was located beneath a tree that would afford cool shade in the middle of the day. There four stakes were driven into the ground for legs, to the tops of which, running lengthwise, were nailed long, straight poles, hewn flat on two sides with the axe. Then, taking one of the larger boxes carefully to pieces by drawing the nails, they obtained boards sufficient to form the table top. Following this, a bench on the same principle was made on each side of the table.

“There,” said Stone in satisfaction, as he stood back and surveyed the completed work, “that looks pretty good to me. Now we can dine in comfort, like civilized human beings.”

By this time the forenoon was advancing and the sun blazing hotly from an unclouded sky. However, a slight breeze had risen to ripple the lake, and its tempering breath blew gratefully across the point, proving that, considering the season, the camping spot had been well chosen for comfort.

“I wonder where that sleepy Dutchman can be?” speculated Rodney.

As if in answer, the sound of wagon wheels were heard, and in a few moments the old white horse came into view, drawing a farm wagon on which the canoe rested, bottom upward. Sitting on the wagon, a dumpy figure held the reins and nodded with every swaying movement, eyes tightly closed. Even when the old horse came to a full stop a short distance from the camp, Carl Duckelstein slept on.

“What do you think of that, fellows?” laughed Grant.

Awkwardly tiptoeing forward, Crane reached the wagon, bent forward, placed his lips within a foot of Carl’s head and gave utterance to an ear-splitting yell. If he had expected to see the Dutch boy awaken in a terrified manner, Sile was much disappointed, for Carl slowly lifted one hand, brushed at his ear, and thickly mumbled:

“Got avay, mosquito.”

The laughter that followed caused Carl to pry his eyes open with considerable effort, following which he surveyed the laughing lads with a dumb, comical expression of perplexity.

“Vot it vas?” he yawned. “Vhere iss it I am yet?”

“Why don’t you do yeour sleepin’ nights?” snapped Crane disgustedly.

“Some of my sleeping does do me nights,” returned the fat boy; “but enough of it couldt not get me. Goot morning. Your canoes I haf brought—undt der milks undt der eggs undt der putter.”

“You certain took your time about it,” said Grant. “You agreed to bring the milk and eggs and butter early, and pack the canoe in to us later on.”

“Yah,” acknowledged Carl complacently; “but I out figured it dot I couldt vurk save by doing him all at vunce. It iss now did; I haf with me brought eferything, undt I vill not haf to dood him twice.”

“Carl,” said Stone, “you’ve got a long head.”

“Yah,” returned the boy, with a touch of pride, “I peliefe a long head hass got me.”

“But if we hadn’t cuc-caught plenty of fish,” said Springer, “we might have starved for all of you.”

“Nefer mind dot. Didt you some fish catch already yet? Vhere didt dese fish get you?”

“Out of the brook over yonder, and I tell you they were bub-beauties; handsomest trout you ever saw. We run across a fuf-friend of yours over there, a fellow by the name of Jim Simpson.”

“Chim Skimpson didn’t peen no friendship uf mine,” cried Carl, with a surprising display of spirit. “Efery time he sees me it iss a fight he vants to up pick. Dot Chim Skimpson didt not like me. Sometimes, ven der chance gets me, I vill hit him mit a club.”

“It was right evident to us,” said Grant, “that Mr. Simpson thought himself quite a scrapper, but I opine he’s changed his mind some.”

“I gug-guess he has,” laughed Springer. “Say, Dutchy, you should have seen this Texas longhorn polish off Jim Simpson in double-quick time. Simpson tut-tried to drive us away from the brook, claiming it belonged to his old man; but Grant pitched him into the water, and then, when he came tearing out, frothing for a scrap, Rod whipped him with a sus-single wallop on the jaw.”

“Vot?” squawked Carl, in still greater excitement, scrambling off the wagon. “Vot iss it you didt told me? Iss it dot you didt vhip Chim Skimpson? I couldt not peliefe it possibility.”

“It’s a fact,” declared Phil, “and it only took one wallop from Grant’s fuf-fist to settle his hash.”

Spluttering his delight over this piece of intelligence, the Dutch boy rushed at Rodney and clasped him in his arms.

“Mine gootness! I vill hug you for dot. Mine cracious! I couldt kiss you for dot.”

“Don’t!” entreated Rod, pushing his overjoyed admirer away with some difficulty. “I did it on my own account, although I will confess it afforded me additional satisfaction because of his boast that he had thrashed you. Is that brook on Simpson’s land?”

“His land didt begin der prook at.”

“And he doesn’t own any territory on this side of the brook?”

“Nefer a foot uf territories owns him this side uf der prook on.”

“Then anybody can fish the brook without trespassing by following along the nearest bank?”

“Yah,” nodded Carl. “Uf you fish along der nearest side avay from us, you vill not trespass. Undt you didt vallop Chim Skimpson! Dot inflamation almost makes me cry for choy.”

“Come, fellers,” invited Crane, “let’s unload the canoe and launch her. Git holt.”

Lifting the light craft, they bore it to the water’s edge in the sandy cove, Sile expressing his eagerness to try it out. The paddles were produced, and soon Crane and Springer were afloat in the canoe, propelling it with considerable skill, the others watching them from the point.

“Dot vas too much like vurk,” murmured the Dutch boy, shaking his head. “It vould not like me at all.”

“Still fishing would be the sport for you, I judge,” said Grant.

“Yah, undt der stiller it vas der petter. I vould like to try him now uf I had the outfits.”

“Where would you fish?”

“Der vater in, uf course. I vould like to haf a goot mess uf fish to take me home for dinner.”

“We can provide you with tackle, but no bait for still fishing. We have nothing but flies for casting.”

“Dot kind uf bait didt not use me,” said Carl solemnly; “but uf you vill let me haf the tackles, I vill der bait get. Yah.”

Rodney brought forth a stout steel rod, which he quickly put together and to which he attached a line-wound reel. The line being run through the eyelets, he bent on a leader and hook and nipped some split shot into place, to serve as sinkers.

“There you are,” he said, handing the outfit over to Duckelstein. “Now go ahead and fish as much as you like.”

“I vas much opliged,” grinned the Dutch boy. “I vill get some bait undt fish der rocks off, undt see what vill catch me. I hope it vas not an eels. An eels iss a pad fish und I didt not like him. An eels I vould not touch uf you vould a hundred tollars gif me.”

“I don’t think you’re likely to catch an eel off those rocks,” said Rod.

A short distance from the point was a bit of wet shore, where Carl proceeded to search for his bait, turning over a number of flat rocks and capturing some wiggling creatures, which he calmly put into his pocket. When he had secured enough of these, he proceeded to the rocks, sat down on one of them and baited his hook.

“He’ll never catch anything there,” declared Piper. “If he does, it won’t amount to anything.”

“Never mind,” said Stone; “it will make him happy to fish.”

In the meantime Springer and Crane had paddled well out upon the lake, and presently they turned back toward Pleasant Point. Approaching the camp, they stared at the Dutch boy, who had dropped his baited hook into the water and then serenely fallen sound asleep. There he sat, the rod drooping, his fat chin on his breast, snoring distinctly.

“Look at that!” said Phil, as they silently swept near. “He must sus-sleep pretty near all the time.”

“By Jinks!” chuckled Sile. “He’d wake up pretty sudden if he was to fall in.”

They landed in the sandy cove and hastened to call the attention of the others to the snoozing fisherman.

“We know it,” laughed Grant. “I rather wish he’d get an eel on now. He’s right scared of eels.”

“Oh, is he, hey?” snickered Crane. “Well, mebbe I can pervide an eel for him. Jest wait, fellers.”

Over to the marshy shore he hastened, where, after some searching, he got hold of the end of a root and tore it out of the muddy ground. With this pliable, slimy root, which was nearly five feet in length, Crane hastened to get into the canoe and push off. Expectantly the others watched Sile paddle round the point and get close to Duckelstein’s dangling line. Without awakening Carl, the joker drew up the line and tied it fast to one end of the root, which he then let down into the water. In a few moments he was back on shore with his chuckling, expectant companions.

“Naow,” he said, “jest yeou watch me wake him up.”

Silently he sneaked up behind the sleeper, reached over, got the line in his fingers, and made a loop, which he slipped over the reel-handle so that it would not run out. Then he grabbed Carl by the shoulder and yelled into his ear:

“Wake up! Yeou’ve got a bite! Yank him in!”

Carl awoke and gave a mighty yank with the rod, which, fortunately, did not break beneath the strain. Out of the water sprang the old root, seeming to writhe and squirm in a most lifelike manner. Straight at the angler the thing came, striking him in the face and whipping its cold, clammy folds around his neck.