Dab Kinzer: A Story of a Growing Boy by William O. Stoddard (reading books for 6 year olds .TXT) 📖

the vicinity of Green Pond sooner than they had expected, and with much less fatigue. The same farmer, in response to anxious questioning by Dab, informed him,—

"Fish? Wall, ye-es. Nobody don't ketch 'em much nowadays. Time was when they was pretty much all fished out, but I heerd there was some fellers turned in a heap of seedlin' fish three or four year ago. Right away arter that, my boys went over, and put in three days a hand runnin', but they didn't get nothin' but pumpkin-seeds. Plenty of them yit, I s'pose."

That was encouraging; but Ford at once remarked,—

"Pumpkin-seeds? A fine-looking fish, are they not? I know them. Somewhat depressed, and extended laterally?"

"Guesso. You're 'tendin' school at the 'cadummy, ain't ye?"

"Yes, we're there."

"Thought so. Ye-es. We-ell, it's a good thing for the 'cadummy. Hope you'll ketch some o' them seedlin' fish. Ef ye do, you kin jest stuff 'em with big words, and bake 'em. They do say as how fish is good for the brains."

"Don't we turn off somewhere along here?" asked Dabney.

"Ye-es. Green Pond's right down there, through the woods. Not more'n a mile. See't ye don't lose yer way. What bait have ye got?"

"Bait? Angle-worms. Are they the right thing?"

"Worms? Ye-es. They'll do. Somebody told ye, did they? 'Twon't take ye long to larn how to put 'em on."

There was not a great deal to be made out of that old New-England farmer; and his good-natured contempt for a lot of ignorant young "city fellers," in good clothes, did not require any further expression.

They left him with a wide grin on his wrinkled face, and followed his directions over the nearest fence; but with ideas concerning their probable string of fish, that were rather "depressed" than "extended."

It was a long mile, but it did not contain any danger of getting lost; and at the end of it they had quite enough of a surprise to pay them for their trouble.

"Why, Ford, it's a beauty!"

"Dab, do you s'pose as nice a pond as that hasn't any thing in it but pumpkin-seeds?"

"No boat that I can see," remarked Frank.

"We'll fish from the shore," said Dab. "There's a log that runs away out in. Rocks too."

Rocks and trees and natural ruggedness all around, and some ten or a dozen acres of clear, cold, beautiful water, with little brooks and springs running into it, and a brook running out on the opposite shore that would have to grow considerably before it would be fit for mill-turning.

"Boys," said Dabney, "we've missed it!"

"How's that?" asked Ford.

"Put on the smallest hooks you've got, right away, and try for minnows.
There must be pickerel and bass here."

"Bass? Of course! Didn't he say something about seed-fish? That's what they put in; and they weren't as big as pins when his boys came for 'em."

"Minnow-poles," as they called them, could be cut from the bushes at the margin, and little fish could be taken at the same time that they were trying for large ones. They found too, before long, that sometimes a very respectable perch or bass would stoop to nibble at one of the "elegant worms" with which Dick Lee had provided them.

"No turn of the tide to wait for here, Dab," said Ford, "and no crabs to steal your bait off. Hey! There comes one. Perch! First game for my hook."

"We'll stay till dark, but we'll get a good string. Frank, your cork's under."

"Never fished with one before," said Frank. "I'll soon get the hang of it."

That was a capital school for it, at all events; and they learned that it might be a good thing for a little lake like that to have a bad reputation.

"Fished out years ago. I understand now," said Dab.

"Understand what?"

"Why, those fellows in the village that sent me out here were playing a joke on us,—a good deal like one of Joe and Fuz Hart's."

"Best kind of a joke. But if we tell about it when we get home, the whole village'll be over here next week."

"Then we won't tell. Hurrah! I'll get him in. Steady, now. If he isn't a two-pounder! see him run? Boys, this is going to be fun."

They did not neglect their minnow-catching; and before a great while they were varying their bait, very much to their advantage. How they did wish for a boat, so they could try the deeper water! They worked their way along, from point to point, looking for the best spot, if such there were; and Dabney at last found himself quite a distance ahead of his companions.

"Boys! Ford! Frank! A boat! Come on!"

Lying behind the trunk of a tree that had fallen into the water,—not much of a boat, to be sure, and without any oars or even rowlocks; but when the water was tipped out of it, and it was shoved in again, it actually floated.

"Careful, Ford," said Dab. "Remember Dick Lee. The old thing may come to pieces. It wasn't made yesterday."

"Look's as if Christopher Columbus owned it, and forgot just where he left it. We can paddle with pieces of bark, as far out as we need go."

Now the fun was doubled; and some of the pickerel they pulled in reminded Dabney of small blue-fish, while the bass and perch were every way as respectable as ordinary porgies and black-fish, except for size. He had even to confess that the sea itself contained a great many small fish, and that he had often had much poorer luck in his own beloved bay.

The boat was a great acquisition; but when they were paddling ashore for the fourth time, "to turn her over and let the water out," Dabney remarked,—

"It's after dinner-time, boys. Could either of you fellows eat any thing?"

"Eat?" said Frank. "I'd forgotten that. Yes, let's have lunch. But there's more cold johnny-cake than any thing else in the basket."

"There's plenty of salt and pepper though; and it won't take any time at all to make a fire, and broil some fish. Didn't you ever go on a chowder-party, and do your own cooking?"

"No, I never did."

"Nor I," said Ford very reluctantly. "Can we do it?"

"Do it? I'll show you. No kettle. We'll have to broil. You fellows make a fire, while I clean some of these fish."

It was every bit as good fun as catching those fish, to cook them there on the shore of that lovely little lake. Dabney did know all about it, as became a "'longshore boy;" and he took a particular pride in showing Ford and Frank how many different ways there were of cooking a fish without an oven or a kettle or a gridiron.

It was another fine point to discover, after they had eaten all they could, including the cold johnny-cake, that they did not seem to have made their strings of fish look perceptibly smaller.

"Tell you what, boys," said Dabney: "next time we come out we'll bring a hammer and nails, and some oakum, and I'll calk up that old punt so she'll float well enough. Only it won't do to dance in her."

"Then," said Ford, "I move we don't try her again to-day. If we've got to carry all these fish, it'll be a long pull home. We're not half sure of catching another ride."

"We can pole our fish, though, and make it easy carrying."

"How's that?"

"I'll show you. Cut two poles, hang your strings half way, shoulder the poles, and take turns carrying. One boy getting rested, all the while, and no cords cutting your hands."

That was as sensible as if his own mother had told him; and it was a good thing he thought of it, for they did not "catch a ride" till they were half way home. All the wagons were coming the other way, of course, on Saturday afternoon; but the one chat then caught up with them had been carrying a new stove home, and was returning empty.

"Fine strings of fish," remarked the stove-man as they clambered in.
"Where'd you catch 'em?"

"Over in one of the lakes."

"Did ye though? You don't say! Guess I know the place. You must have had an all-killin' walk, though. I declare! I'm goin' to try that pond first day I get away."

"Want some of these?"

"Wouldn't rob ye,—but you've got a-plenty—that pickerel? Thank ye, now. Oh!—and the bass tew? You're good fellers."

He seemed to be another; and Dab warned him at parting, that, "when he wanted to get a string of fish, if he'd come to him he'd tell him just where to go."

"All right. Glad I had the luck to ketch up with ye."

"Dab," said Ford as they reached the outskirts of Grantley, "I know it's late; but we must walk through the village with these fish, if it's only to have the whole town ask us where we caught them."

"That's so. I'm rested now too. Let's get right out."

They were nearly at the southerly end of the village, and there was quite a walk before them.

"Dab," said Frank, "we've more fish than we'll need at our house, if we have 'em for breakfast and dinner both."

"I've been thinking of that. Let's vote on it now. What do you say? One string for the minister?"

"Yes," said Ford, "a bass for Mr. Fallow, a small pickerel for Mrs.
Fallow, and a perch or a pumpkin-seed for each of the six little
Fallows."

"All right; and that big pickerel I caught, for Dr. Brandegee, and the biggest bass in the lot to keep it company. Let's make him up a prime good mess."

"One that'll stand an examination," said Ford.

CHAPTER XXXI. FIGHT, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.

Dick Lee was an unwise boy that afternoon.

He knew how to turn his hand to a great many things, thanks to his home-training; and a woodpile was one of the matters he had learned how to deal with, but he had not taken hold of that of Mrs. Myers with any heart for his work.

It was simply impossible for him to imagine that he was pulling in fish, or having any other kind of fun, while he was sawing wood, or even while splitting it.

There was, however, something almost vicious in the way he came down with his axe upon some of the more obstinate pieces.

"He will be a very useful boy," remarked Mrs. Myers, as she watched him from the window; "but I fear I shall have some difficulty with the others. They are very much inclined to be uppish."

Dick toiled faithfully; and he felt it as a kind of relief, late in the day, to be sent to the grocery-store, at the lower end of the village, with a basket that was to bring home the usual Saturday assortment for Mrs. Myers.

He did well enough in going; but on his way home, if the truth must be told, Dick Lee loitered dreadfully. It was so nice a day, and he had been so long at his woodpile, and he had had so little time to call his own that week.

Over on the green, the boys of the village were playing a sort of "match-game" of base-ball, with a picked nine from the academy; and there seemed no reason why Dick and his basket should not stroll along inside the barrier-fence of the green, and see them play it.

That was where his unwisdom showed itself; for among the boys who were not playing were Joe and Fuz Hart and all their "crowd," and this was the first time they had seen Dick on the green "all alone."

That would have been quite enough of itself, considering how black he was, and that he was a "new boy" at the academy; but the additional fact that he had his basket on his arm opened the way to trouble for him all the sooner.

He was standing still, on the walk near the fence, gazing at the batting and catching with so deep an interest that his mouth would stay open, when he suddenly found himself "surrounded."

"Hullo, Dick, what you got in your basket?"

"Groceries! Groceries! Fresh from Afriky."

"Let's see 'em."

"Jes' you keep off, now."

"Give us that basket."

"Don't you tech a thing!"

"What you got, Midnight?"

"None ob youah business. I's 'tendin' to