Читать книгу In the Path of La Salle or Boy Scouts on the Mississippi - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 4

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If the small boys had known how little the flying objects troubled Wesley, they would have ceased hurling them. What did trouble him and humiliate him was that his fine, sportsmanlike attempt at restitution had been such a ridiculous failure and left him contemptible in their eyes. That was where the shoe pinched. To be called fresh, even mean, that was not so bad, for such opinions could be very easily dissipated by the liberal distribution of small coin. And it was always Wesley’s silly conceit to dance simply that he might pay the fiddler, like a generous, reckless, devil-may-care sport.

The last missile of the fusillade was a “shedder-crab,” and it caught him in the neck and clung there, amid triumphant yells from the bridge.

“Go on, you cheapskate!” called a voice, derisively.

Wesley loosened the crab and cast it in the water. He was blushing scarlet, for this last epithet burned him like a hot iron. He had wanted to act a fine part,— free, liberal, open-handed, before these admiring kids, and here he was paddling up the river with that unpleasant epithet of “cheapskate” ringing in his ears. If it had been Hallerton, or Carpenter, or Parks, or Arnold, they would have had money in their pockets, he told himself with a disagreeable little sneer, as he plunged his paddle in the water.

“Confound that thing!” he said, kicking an article of clothing which his foot encountered. “The bottom of this canoe’s a regular rummage sale!” Then, noticing the dusty imprint which his foot left upon the garment, he reached forward and lifted it carefully.

It was a light brown mackinaw jacket, belted and plaited, of that sort which had lately come into vogue, and Wesley as he held it up, noticing its trim cut and vivid Indian figures, examined it not without a twinge of envy.

“Gee, but he’s a lucky fellow,” he mused; “he has everything that’s going.”

Whoever the “lucky fellow” was, Wesley liked him well enough to be careful of his property, and folding it properly he was about to lay it on one of the cushions when a jingling sound caught his attention, and a number of coins fell to the bottom of the canoe.

“Well, I’ll be jiggered,” he said, gathering them up with the aid of his paddle. This was not an easy task for the canoe rocked perilously from his movements, but having satisfied himself that he had recovered them all, he replaced them in the pocket from which he thought they had fallen, buttoned down the flap so that they might not escape again, and resumed his paddling.

Beyond the first bend the river narrowed and the abrupt wooded shores formed a somber spot which the canoeists called “Twilight Turn” because it seemed always clothed in the half light of departing day. Here could usually be seen in the summertime some lonely fisherman, sitting in his anchored skiff, or sometimes a lolling canoeist (or more often, a pair of them) idling away a sultry afternoon in cushioned ease, and drifting hither and thither in their frail craft. It was felt to be an imposition that the fishermen should usurp this poetic spot, and as for their calling it “Perch Hole,” there wasn’t a girl in Oakwood who didn’t shudder at the ugly appellation.

At present a cord was drawn taut across this shaded stretch, high enough for any canoeist to pass under by stooping, and a red rag dangled from its center to attract the eye of the voyager.

Wesley did not notice any lines depending from this horizontal cord, nor anything at the ends of it. He supposed that it was set for eels and that it was just another instance of the ruthless way the fishermen were wont to appropriate the river to their own pursuits, to the embarrassment of navigation.

“Well, that’s the limit!” he said, pausing angrily. “I’ll—be—”

Words could not express his indignation. All last summer had he and the rest of the boating fraternity watched with angry disapproval the huge dredge which had settled itself comfortably at Oakwood to clean out the river. He had seen the motor-boats monopolizing the channel. He had seen the fishermen in calm possession of the shadiest spots. And now here was a still more insolent violation of popular right.

“This is a public waterway,” he said, shaking his head, “and can’t be obstructed.” He had seen the phrases, “public waterway” and “cannot be obstructed” in a newspaper editorial which had questioned certain rights of the Water Supply Company, and he used them now because they seemed to have a legal, authoritative sound. These encroachments were coming to be beyond endurance. The river was made to canoe on. The beautiful stream winding between its wooded shores was for his enjoyment and that of other canoeists. He was very certain of that.

So, instead of passing under the cord, he wrenched it loose from both shores and cast it in the water. It was just at that moment that he noticed on the farther shore a pole planted in the ground, from which flew a small blue flag. In its center was a circle of thirteen stars and inside this a triangle with two hammers crossing its face. The design was white. A little way back in the woods Wesley caught a glimpse of what he thought to be a tent, almost entirely concealed by the foliage. Half way down the flag-pole was a printed sign which, if he had not been so consumed with righteous indignation, he might have seen before. It read:

This line is the property of the United States Government. All persons are warned not to remove or interfere with it in any way. Launches will stop 30 feet from line and signal to attendant if line will not permit them to pass.

Wesley did not pause to take issue with any one. On the contrary he paddled just as rapidly and just as quietly as he could up the much-misused “public waterway” until, beyond the second bend, he reached the little wayside rest of Sparrow. Here the champion who would not allow the public waterway to be obstructed was presently to encounter a third obstacle to his pleasure and peace of mind. This was a slender girl of about fifteen, who was leaning against one of the rustic tables and calmly watching him as he brought up alongside the float. To Wesley her quiet observation was very disconcerting. He had an odd feeling that he might not be altogether welcome. But he was a sensitive boy and I dare say this was just his imagination.

“Hello, Honor,” he said, cheerily. “I haven’t seen you since last fall.”

“Do you want to see father?” she asked.

“Why—er, yes—I—that is—I just paddled up to sort of start the season, you know. Somebody’s got to start it. They’d never wake up down in Oakwood unless somebody started things. It’s a case of ‘Let me dream again.’ Most of them don’t know the skating’s over yet, and they won’t know the boating’s started till the skating begins again. They’re dead down there and they don’t know it.”

“So?” said the girl; “how odd!”