Away down at the tail of the pool, dimly visible through the gloom,
the furtive fisherman, Parsons, had anchored his boat. No noise
ever came from that craft. If he wished to change his position, he
did not pull up the anchor and let it down again with a bump. He
simply lengthened or shortened his anchor rope. There was no click
of the reel when he played a fish. He drew in and paid out the line
through the rings by hand, without a sound. What he thought when a
fish got away, no one knew, for he never said it. He concealed his
angling as if it had been a conspiracy. Twice that night they heard
a faint splash in the water near his boat, and twice they saw him
put his arm over the side in the darkness and bring it back again
very quietly.
"That's the second fish for Parsons," whispered Beekman, "what a
secretive old Fortunatus he is! He knows more about fishing than
any man on the pool, and talks less."
Cornelia did not answer. Her thoughts were all on the tip of her
own rod. About eleven o'clock a fine, drizzling rain set in. The
fishing was very slack. All the other boats gave it up in despair;
but Cornelia said she wanted to stay out a little longer, they might
as well finish up the week.
At precisely fifty minutes past eleven, Beekman reeled up his line,
and remarked with firmness that the holy Sabbath day was almost at
hand and they ought to go in.
"Not till I 've landed this trout," said Cornelia.
"What? A trout! Have you got one?"
"Certainly; I 've had him on for at least fifteen minutes. I 'm
playing him Mr. Parsons' way. You might as well light the lantern
and get the net ready; he's coming in towards the boat now."
Beekman broke three matches before he made the lantern burn; and
when he held it up over the gunwale, there was the trout sure
enough, gleaming ghostly pale in the dark water, close to the boat,
and quite tired out. He slipped the net over the fish and drew it
in,--a monster.
"I 'll carry that trout, if you please," said Cornelia, as they
stepped out of the boat; and she walked into the camp, on the last
stroke of midnight, with the fish in her hand, and quietly asked for
the steelyard.
Eight pounds and fourteen ounces,--that was the weight. Everybody
was amazed. It was the "best fish" of the year. Cornelia showed no
sign of exultation, until just as John was carrying the trout to the
ice-house. Then she flashed out:--"Quite a fair imitation, Mr.
McTurk,--is n't it?"
Now McTurk's best record for the last fifteen years was seven pounds
and twelve ounces.
So far as McTurk is concerned, this is the end of the story. But
not for the De Peysters. I wish it were. Beekman went to sleep
that night with a contented spirit. He felt that his experiment in
education had been a success. He had made his wife an angler.
He had indeed, and to an extent which he little suspected. That
Upper Dam trout was to her like the first taste of blood to the
tiger. It seemed to change, at once, not so much her character as
the direction of her vital energy. She yielded to the lunacy of
angling, not by slow degrees, (as first a transient delusion, then a
fixed idea, then a chronic infirmity, finally a mild insanity,) but
by a sudden plunge into the most violent mania. So far from being
ready to die at Upper Dam, her desire now was to live there--and to
live solely for the sake of fishing--as long as the season was open.
There were two hundred and forty hours left to midnight on the
thirtieth of September. At least two hundred of these she spent on
the pool; and when Beekman was too exhausted to manage the boat and
the net and the lantern for her, she engaged a trustworthy guide to
take Beekman's place while he slept. At the end of the last day her
score was twenty-three, with an average of five pounds and a
quarter. His score was nine, with an average of four pounds. He
had succeeded far beyond his wildest hopes.
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