The Greatest Works of Arthur Cheney Train (Illustrated Edition). Arthur Cheney Train
old toes. Gad! It was cold! The cook had fallen a quarter mile behind. At ten o’clock, when they stopped to “bile,” Angus had already got the fire going, long before he overtook them. It was clear that he was in a recalcitrant mood. Grudgingly he dug out the bacon and eggs, and squatted down without speaking, with the frying pan in his hand.
“How much farther are you guys goin’?” he growled at length. “I didn’t sign up for no polar expedition!”
“To the Schoolhouse.”
“That’s forty miles! There won’t be time to make camp before dark. Besides, it’s goin’ to snow. We better stay here,” he rasped.
“I shall decide where to fish,” replied Mr. Tutt curtly.
They paddled on under a leaden sky. Presently it began to snow. The great flakes came floating down like feathers, melting in the black water, but accumulating in a heavy blanket upon the canoes and dunnage. It was four o’clock when the Schoolhouse—a wrecked shanty without doors or windows, reeling drunkenly at the edge of what had once been a clearing—came into view. The cook was nowhere to be seen. Angus carried their paraphernalia up the bank and piled it inside, while Mr. Tutt, standing half-congealed amid broken glass and the filth left behind by porcupines, set up his rod and rigged it, putting on a huge flamingo fly he had seen in a window in Durban. Then they pushed off into the blinding snow.
“They’ll be in midstream,” said Angus. “The best place is on the other side of the bend.”
He dropped the killick and steadied the canoe with his paddle blade while Mr. Tutt, with numb fingers and the wet flakes stinging his cheeks, made a short cast preliminary to getting out a full line. The fly had no sooner touched the water than two black shiny backs rose on either side of it and, with a tug that nearly tore the rod from his hands, the reel began to scream. Mr. Tutt braced the rod against his old belly and held on for dear life.
“We can’t see to follow!” warned Angus. “Give him all you’ve got!”
Mr. Tutt lifted the rod with all his strength. Unexpectedly, the big fish broke behind them. The old man dropped his tip, swung about in what he thought the right direction and reeled in the slack as fast as he could. Again the salmon broke—this time downstream. There was no way to tell, in that white dizziness, where it was. This time, when he reeled in his line, the salmon even more unexpectedly came with it, towing straight for the canoe.
“Look out! He’ll break your rod!” yelled Angus. “He’s ducked under the bow!”
Mr. Tutt was nearly hysterical. It was exciting enough to hook a salmon in a driving snowstorm—he had never heard of its being done before—but what should one do when a fish you couldn’t see decided to rush into a clinch, overrunning your line? Where was the brute? With the line slack, Mr. Tutt reeled and reeled. The salmon must be somewhere! Suddenly the canoe swerved and tipped. The line, tangled around the bow, had brought the salmon up short, midway between bow and stern. Fortunately, the leader held, and Angus leaned over, gaffed it and heaved it in.
“Twenty pounds,” he estimated. “Would weigh thirty-four in summer.”
It was a silver fish with only a suspicion of black along its dorsal, lean as a race horse, hard and clean. The fly was unharmed; Mr. Tutt cast again, and once more it was seized as soon as it reached the surface. For an hour he forgot cold, snow, wind and wet in the greatest fishing of his life. Only when he could no longer see the shore did he reel in. Black salmon? What of it! They could fight all right! All the same, a warm tent and a hot supper would seem pretty good!
They rounded the point, but no welcoming beam came from the direction of the Schoolhouse. There was no sign of a canoe anywhere. The cook should have been there an hour ago.
“The so-and-so must ha’ quit on us!” Angus spat wrathfully as they grounded.
“You mean he’s gone back?” asked Mr. Tutt incredulously.
“Just that! Wait until I meet him in Durban! I’ll knock the lights out of the hairy ape!”
Ripping a couple of boards off the shanty, they scraped clear a spot for the tent, pegged it down and unrolled their blankets. Their stove had gone back with the cook, but they tore up part of the floor, built a fire in the opening and heated some beans and bacon.
The old man awoke at daylight with a sore throat and a bad cold in the head. It was still snowing. Angus had patched the windward side of the cabin with planks and they managed to eat breakfast in a fair degree of comfort.
The black salmon were as insatiable as ever, but after a couple of hours on the river, Mr. Tutt, who had developed a splitting headache, decided that he had had enough.
“How far is it to the nearest settlement?” he asked when they stopped to “bile.”
“Ste. Marie des Isles—sixty-five miles. If we move right along, we ought to make it by tomorrow night.”
“And if we turn back?”
“It will take us even longer and we might miss the Whooper at the bridge.”
“Let’s go on,” said Mr. Tutt weakly.
They camped at Burnt Hill, about forty miles above Ste. Marie des Isles, where there was a cooking shack used by summer sportsmen. Mr. Tutt ached all over, he had a sharp pain in his chest and was running a temperature. Next morning Angus bundled him in blankets, propped him against the tent and, realizing that he had a sick man on his hands, paddled so furiously that they reached the settlement in time to catch the evening train back to Durban. It was after midnight when they arrived at the George. Martha and Angus, after sending for the doctor, managed between them to get the old man to bed.
“Pneumonia,” said Blake shortly, finding the patient’s temperature to be 105 degrees. “You’ll stay right here until you get well. You’ll need a good nurse too. Shall I send for a girl from the hospital or—” He looked at Martha.
“Please, doctor. Let me take care of him.”
“Well, which shall it be?” asked Blake. “No doubt I can arrange with the proprietor——”
Mr. Tutt’s head was whirling. Through his blurred vision he saw the kindly face of the old nurse. Next to Minerva Wiggin, she was the one woman that he wanted near him.
“I—want—Martha,” he whispered.
He lay there cursing himself for an old fool. Why had he attempted any such expedition at his age? Why reverse the order of nature? Salmon were intended to be caught in June, not April! Was he going to die, he wondered. Martha had turned down the night light and stolen away to her cubbyhole under the stairs. He tossed from side to side, fighting the fever, bells ringing in his ears, voices.
The sounds grew louder and more distinct. They seemed to be coming through the partition of the wall from the next room. Was he merely imagining that clink of glass, that coarse laughter, those curses? He raised himself on his elbow and listened.
“It’ll be a cinch,” said a rasping familiar voice. “The old bird’s nearly cuckoo, anyway. He’ll do anything we ask.”
“I can swear he’s competent,” commented another. “But you’ll need two other witnesses.”
“What’s the matter with Doctor Kelly and Ed here?”
“They’re all right!” There was a gurgling sound, as from a bottle. “Well, boys! Here’s luck!”
Mack! Mr. Tutt relapsed upon the pillow. What deviltry could he be up to now? He tried to concentrate, but without avail. Who was the old bird? Tomorrow he’d find out—do something about it! But when tomorrow came, Mr. Tutt had become delirious.
For a week Mr. Tutt hung between life and death. Then, largely owing to Martha’s expert nursing, the fever broke and he passed into a profound slumber from which he did not awake for thirty-six hours. When he opened his eyes, Minerva Wiggin was bending over him.
“Minerva! How