ONE FROM THE SHOULDER.

Spluttering, choking, snarling, the astonished recipient of this summary treatment scrambled to his feet, dripping and as enraged as a mad bull. Brushing the water from his eyes with a sweep of his hand, he beheld Grant, hands on his hips, standing as if waiting, wholly unconcerned.

With a roar, Simpson splashed out of the water, his boot-legs full and sloshing, and charged at Rodney.

“Oh,” said Springer, recovering two of the trout from the water and tossing them back into the basket, “the performance is just beginning in the big tut-tent; the circus has started.”

The performance, however, terminated quite as suddenly as it had commenced. Stepping deftly aside as the fellow rushed, Grant swung hard and accurately, planting his fist against Simpson’s jaw. Down with a crash went the pugnacious rustic, dazed and wondering at a tremendous display of fireworks, which seemed to be celebrating a belated Fourth, in his upper story. Indeed, for the time being the fellow had not the slightest idea of what had happened to him.

It was a good thing for Jim Simpson that all the fight had thus quickly been knocked out of him, for Springer saw the old wild light of ungovernable rage blaze in Grant’s eyes, and beheld on the face of the Texan an expression which seemed to threaten utter annihilation for his antagonist. And, as Rod took a stride in the direction of the chap who was weakly trying to lift himself upon one elbow, Phil cried sharply:

“That’s enough, Rod! Dud-don’t hit him again, or you will knock his bub-bub-block off.”

The Texan checked himself sharply, and the fighting flare faded from his eyes, while his face resumed its normal expression.

“You’ve whipped him a’ready,” asserted Phil, still apprehensive. “You took the fuf-fight out of him with the fuf-first wallop. If he’s got any sense at all, he won’t want any more.”

Three times Simpson attempted to lift himself before he was able to sit up, and when he succeeded he was forced to hold his swimming head in his hands. His appearance was so pitiful that neither of the boys felt in the least inclined to laugh.

“Why, he can’t fight at all,” said Grant. “I wonder how he ever got the notion that he could?”

“Knocking the block off such chaps as Carl Duckelstein, I calculate,” said Phil.

“I reckon that’s right. Heaps of these self-judged fighters get false notions of their scrapping abilities through whipping fellows no way their equals; and when that happens they’re pretty sure to go prancing round in search of other worlds to conquer, until somebody hands them what’s coming to them.”

Slowly and weakly Simpson lifted his head and stared around like one just beginning to comprehend. There was still a ringing in his brain, but the lights had ceased to flash, and he perceived his own position and observed the fellow he had sought to attack standing near at hand, untouched, steady and now calm as ever. For the first time he began to understand that this calmness did not indicate timidity, and, understanding, he was filled with awe bordering on fear.

“I reckon, stranger,” said Grant, “that you’re not hurt much; but I hope you’ve tumbled to the fact that you can’t fight any more than a gopher with the croup. If this brook belongs to your governor, and you’d been half decent about asking us not to fish in it, I reckon we’d found plenty of other places to enjoy the sport. But you chose to come at us with spurs on, and you got bucked a plenty when you tried your broncho busting.”

This caused Springer to laugh at last. “The idiom of the West is certainly expressive,” he observed. “And one time we thought you a fake because you didn’t say ‘galoot’ and ‘varmint’ and such bub-book lingo of supposed-to-be Westerners.”

Simpson made no retort, and, as he continued to sit there, the boys gathered up their tackle and the basket containing the trout and prepared to depart.

“If, on further consideration,” said Grant, turning to him, “you should hold to the notion that you still have a grievance, you’ll find us over at Pleasant Point.”

“So long, Simpy,” called Phil, unable to repress a parting fling. “Hope your headache don’t lul-last long.”

They were some distance away when they heard him, his courage revived, shouting after them:

“You better git! Come round this brook again, and see what happens to you!”

“Well,” chuckled Springer, as they pushed their way through the thickets, “this has been a real lul-lively morning. We’ve had sport enough for one day.”

“I’m glad you called to me just when you did, Phil,” said Rodney. “I was getting a touch of that old blazing rage that always makes me lose my head complete.”

“A tut-touch of it! Great Caesar! I wish you could have seen your own face. I thought you were going to obliterate Mr. Simpson then and there.”

At the camp Stone and Crane were waiting, and the smoke of the brisk fire rose into the still air. The sight of the white tent, the dancing blaze and their waiting friends was good indeed to the returning anglers, who gave a hail as they approached. Sile answered the call with a question:

“Did you fellers ketch anything? I’ll bate yeou ain’t had a bit of fun.”

“Oh, is that sus-so!” scoffed Phil hurrying forward with the basket. “Fun! We’ve had more than you could sus-shake a stick at.”

“But have you ketched anything?” persisted Crane.

Springer waited until he could place the basket before them and lift the cover. When this was done they broke into exclamations of admiration and delight.

“Jiminy cripes!” sputtered Sile. “Here’s a breakfast fit for a king. Yeou must have had fun, sure enough.”

“All sorts,” said Phil; and then he proceeded in his whimsical faltering way, to tell of the encounter with Jim Simpson.

“Just one cuc-crack, that’s all Rod had to hand him,” he finished. “It cooked his goose quicker than you could say Juj-Juj-Juj-Jack Rob-bib-bib-binson.”

“It sartain wasn’t so very quick,” returned Sile, “unless it was done quicker than yeou can say Jack Robinson. I’ll clean the fish. Ben, yeou get ready to fry ’em.”

“Where’s Sleuth?” asked Grant.

“Oh, he isn’t up yet,” said Stone.

“Not up?” whooped Springer. “Then I’ll pup-pull him out in a hurry.”

But Piper had heard them and was dressing. Presently he came forth, looking grouchy enough, and had no word of applause for the success of the anglers.

Nevertheless, when the fish were cooked he ate his share.