Freaks on the Fells: Three Months' Rustication Part 22

Once more the lips were projected, once again the cup was raised, but that salmon seemed to know what was going on, for, just as the cup and the lips met, it went off in an unusually fierce run down the river.

The cup and its contents were knocked into George's face, and George himself was knocked over by his father as he sprang down the bank, and ran along a dry patch of gravel, which extended to the tail of the pool.

Hitherto the battle had been fought within the limits of one large pool, which the fish seemed to have an objection to quit. It now changed its tactics, and began to descend the river tail foremost, slowly, but steadily. The round face of the fisher, which had all this time been blazing red with eager hope, was now beclouded with a shade of anxiety.

"Don't let him go down the rapids, father," said George; "you'll never get past the thick bushes that overhang the bank."

Mr Sudberry stopped, and held on till the rod bent like a giant hoop and the line became rigid; but the fish was not to be checked. Its retrograde movement was slow, but steady and irresistible.

"You'll smash everything!" cried Fred. Mr Sudberry was constrained to follow, step by step. The head of the rapid was gained, and he had to increase the pace to a quick walk; still farther down, and the walk became a smart run. The ground here was more rugged, and the fisher's actions became quite acrobatic. George and Fred kept higher up the bank, and ran along, gazing in unspeakable amazement at the bounds and leaps which their fat little sire made with the agility of a roe deer.

"Hold on! the bushes! let it break off!"

Mr Sudberry scorned the advice. The part of the bank before him was impa.s.sable; not so the river, which rushed past him like a mill-race.

He tried once more to stop the fish; failed, of course, and deliberately walked into the water. It was waist-deep, so he was carried down like a cork with his toes touching the ground so lightly, that, for the first time in his life, he rejoiced in those sensations, which he had hitherto believed belonged exclusively to harlequins and columbines; namely, swift motion without effort! Fifty yards at the rate of ten miles an hour brought him to an eddy, into which the salmon had dashed just before him. Mr Sudberry gave vent to another roar as he beheld the fish almost under his nose. The startled creature at once flashed out of his sight, and swept up, down, and across the stream several times, besides throwing one or two somersaults in the air, before it recovered its equanimity. After this it bolted into a deep, dark pool, and remained there quite motionless.

Mr Sudberry was much puzzled at this point. To let out line when the fish ran up or across stream, to wind in when the fish stopped, and to follow when the fish went down stream--these principles he had been taught by experience in trout-fis.h.i.+ng; but how to act when a fish would not move, and could not be made to move, was a lesson which he had yet to learn.

"What's to be done?" said he, with a look of exasperation, (and no wonder; he had experienced an hour and a quarter of very rough treatment, and was getting f.a.gged).

"Pull him out of that hole," suggested George.

"I can't."

"Try."

Mr Sudberry tried and failed. Having failed he sat down on a stone, still holding the rod very tight, and wiped his heated brow. Then, starting up, he tried for the next ten minutes to pull the fish out of the hole by main force, of course never venturing to pull so hard as to break the line. He went up the stream and pulled, down the stream and pulled, he even waded across the stream at a shallow part and pulled, but all in vain. The fish was in that condition which fishers term "the sulks."

At last Fred recollected to have heard Hector Macdonald say that in such cases a stone thrown into the pool sometimes had the effect of starting the sulky one. Accordingly a stone was thrown in, and the result was that the fish came out at full speed in a horrible fright, and went down stream, not _tail_ but _head_ foremost. Now, when a salmon does this, he knows by instinct that if he does not go down _faster_ than the stream the water will force itself into his gills and drown him; therefore when he goes down head first, (which he seldom does, except when on his way to the sea), he goes at full speed, and the fisher's only chance of saving his fish is to run after him as fast as he can, in the hope that he may pause of his own accord in some opportune eddy.

A fine open s.p.a.ce of bank enabled Mr Sudberry to run like a deer after his fish for nigh a quarter of a mile, but, at the end of this burst, he drew near to "the falls"--a succession of small cataracts and rapids which it seemed impossible for any fisher to go down without breaking his neck and losing his fish. George and Fred roared, "Hold on!" Mr Sudberry glanced at the falls, frowned, and compressed his lips. He felt that he was "in for it;" he resolved not to be beat, so on he went!

The fish went right down the first fall; the fisher leaped over a ledge of rock three feet high, scrambled across some rough ground, and pulled up at an eddy where the fish seemed disposed to rest. He was gratified here by seeing the fish turn up the white of his side--thus showing symptoms of exhaustion. But he recovered, and went over another fall.

Here he stopped again, and George and Fred, feeling convinced that their father had gone mad, threw off their coats and ran to the foot of the fall, ready to plunge into the stream and rescue him from the fate which they thought they saw impending. No such fate awaited the daring man.

He succeeded in drawing the fish close to a gravelly shallow, where it gave an exhausted wallop or two, and lay over on its side. George came up, and leaping into the water tried to kick it out. He missed his kick and fell. Fred dashed in, and also missed. Mr Sudberry rushed forward and gave the salmon such a kick that he sent it high and dry on the bank! But in doing so he fell over George and tripped up Fred, so that all three were instantly soaked to the skin, and returned to the bank without their hats. Mr Sudberry flung himself on the conquered fish and held it fast, while George and Fred cheered and danced round him in triumphant joy.

Thus Mr Sudberry landed his first and last salmon--a ten-pounder--and thus, brilliantly, terminated his three-months' rustication in the Highlands.

But this was not the end of the whole affair--by no means. Mr Sudberry and family returned to London, and they took that salmon with them. A dinner-party of choice friends was hastily got up to do honour to the superb fish, and on that occasion Fred and his father well-nigh quarrelled on the point of, "who caught the salmon!" Mr Sudberry insisting that the man who hooked the fish was the real catcher of it, and Fred scouting the ridiculous notion, and a.s.serting that he who played and landed it was ent.i.tled to all the honour. The point was settled, however, in some incomprehensible way, without the self-denying disputants coming to blows; and everyone agreed that it was, out of sight, the best salmon that had ever been eaten in London. Certainly, it was one of the merriest parties that ever ate a salmon, for Mr Sudberry's choice friends were of an uncommonly genial stamp. Jones, the head clerk, (the man with the red nose and humble aspect), was there, and so brilliant was Mr Sudberry that Jones was observed to smile!--the first instance on record of his having given way to levity of demeanour. Lady Knownothing was there too, and before the evening was over she knew a few things that surprised but did not in the least convince her. Oh, no! she knew everything so thoroughly that there was no possibility on earth of increasing _her_ stock of knowledge! Truly it was a happy party, and Mr Sudberry enjoyed himself so much that he volunteered the Highland fling in the drawing-room--George whistling the music--on which occasion he, (Mr Sudberry), swept nearly half the tea-service off the table with his coat-tails, and Mrs Sudberry was so happy that she didn't care a b.u.t.ton--and said so!

But this was not the end of it yet, by any means. That winter Hector and Flora Macdonald visited London and were received by the Sudberrys with open arms. The result was that Lucy became intensely botanical in her tastes, and routed out the old plants. Of course Hector could not do less than a.s.sist her, and the finale was, that these two scientific individuals were married, and dwelt for many years thereafter in the Highlands. Strange to say, George and Flora fell in love with each--But why say more? We do not mean to write the history of these two families. It is enough to say, that every summer, for many years after that, the Sudberrys spent two or three months in the Highlands with the Macdonalds, and every winter the Macdonalds spent a similar period with the Sudberrys. On the former of these occasions Fred renewed his intercourse with Mr McAllister, and these two became so profoundly, inconceivably, deep and metaphysical, besides theological, in their converse, that they were utterly incomprehensible to everyone except themselves.

Best of all, Jacky became a good boy! Yes; that day on the hills with Peter was the beginning of it--old Moggy, Willie, and Flora, were the continuation of it--and Jacky became good, to the unspeakable joy of his mother.

Old Moggy lived to a fabulous age, and became at last as wrinkled as a red herring. For all we know to the contrary, she may be alive yet.

Willie lived with her, and became a cultivator of the soil. But why go on? Enough has been said to show that no ill befell any individual mentioned in our tale. Even Mrs Brown lived to a good old age, and was a female dragon to the last. Enough has also been said to prove, that, as the old song has it, "we little know what great things from little things may rise."

STORY TWO, CHAPTER 1.

WHY I DID NOT BECOME A SAILOR.

There is mystery connected with the incidents which I am about to relate. Looked at from one point of view, the whole affair is mysterious--eminently so; yet, regarded from another point of view, it is not so mysterious as it seems. Whatever my reader may think about it as he goes along, I entreat him to suspend his judgment until he has reached the conclusion of my narrative. My only reason for bringing this mysterious matter before the public is, that, in addition to filling me with unutterable surprise, it had the effect of quenching one of my strongest desires, and effectually prevented my becoming a sailor.

This, I freely admit, is not in itself a sufficient reason to justify my rus.h.i.+ng into print. But when I regard the matter from what may be termed a negative point of view, I do feel that it is not absolutely presumptuous in me to claim public attention. Suppose that Sir John Franklin had never gone to sea; what a life of adventure and discovery would have been lost to the world! what deeds of heroism undone, and, therefore, untold! I venture to think, that if that great navigator had not gone to sea, it would have been a matter of interest, (knowing what we now know), to have been told that such was the case. In this view of the matter I repeat it, as being of possible future interest, that the incident I am about to relate prevented my becoming a sailor.

I am said to be a soft boy--that is to say, I _was_ said to be soft.

I'm a man now, but, of course, I was a boy once. I merely mention this to prove that I make no pretension whatever to unusual wisdom; quite the reverse. I hate sailing under false colours--not that I ever did sail under any colours, never having become a sailor--and yet I shouldn't say that, either, for that's the very point round which all the mystery hangs. I _did_ go to sea! I'm rather apt to wander, I find, from my point, and to confuse my own mind, (I trust not the reader's). Perhaps the shortest way to let you understand how it was is to tell you all about it.

My name is Robert Smith--not an unusual name, I am given to understand.

It was of little use to me during the period of my boyhood, for I never got any other name than Bob--sometimes _soft_ was added. I had a father. He loved me. As a natural consequence, I loved him. He was old, partially bald, silver-haired, kind, affectionate, good, five feet six, and wore spectacles. I, at the time I write of; was young, stout, well-grown, active, and had a long nose--much too long a nose: it was the only point in regard to which I was sensitive. It was owing to the length of this member, I believe, that I once went by the name of Mozambique. You see, I conceal nothing. The remarkable--the mysterious--the every way astonis.h.i.+ng incidents I am about to relate, require that I should be more than usually careful and particular in stating things precisely as I saw them and understood them at the time.

In this view of the matter I should remark that the softness with which I was charged did not refer to my muscles--they were hard and well developed--but to my intellect. I take this opportunity of stating that I think the charge unjust. But, to conclude my description of myself; I am romantic. One of my dearest companions used to say that my nose was the same, minus the tic! What he meant by that I never could make out.

I doubt if he himself knew.

My chief delight in my leisure hours was to retire to my bedroom and immerse myself in books of travel and adventure. This was my mania. No one can conceive the delight I experienced in following heroes of every name over the pathless deep and through the trackless forests of every clime. My heart swelled within me, and the blood rushed through my veins like liquid fire, as I read of chasing lions, tigers, elephants, in Africa; white bears and walrus in the Polar regions; and deer and bisons on the American prairies. I struggled long to suppress the flame that consumed me, but I could not. It grew hotter and hotter. At last, it burst forth--and this brings me to the point.

I thought--one dark, dismal night in the middle of November--I thought, (mind, I don't say I determined; no, but I thought), of running away from home and going to sea!

I confess it with shame. The image of my dear father rose before me with a kind and sorrowful look. I repented; started to my feet, and seized the book I was reading with the intention of tossing it into the fire. In doing so, I accidentally turned over a leaf. There was an ill.u.s.tration on the page. I looked at it. An African savage firing the whole contents of a six-barrelled revolver down the throat of a Bengal tiger, without, apparently, doing it any harm! I thought not of the incongruous combination. My soul was fired anew. Once again I thought of running away from home and going to sea--not by any means with the intention of remaining at sea, but for the purpose of reaching foreign-- if possible--unknown lands.

Having conceived the thought, I rose calmly, shut the book carefully, but with decision, thrust my hands firmly into my pockets, knitted my brows, and went out in search of my bosom friend John Brown--also a commonplace name, I believe--at least, so it is said.

Jack, as I used to call him, had a mother, but no father--his father died when Jack was an infant. I've often fancied that there was a delicate bond of union between us here. He had a mother, but no father.

I had a father, but no mother. Strange coincidence! I think the fact helped to draw us together. I may be wrong, but I think so. Jack was on a visit to us at the time, so I had only to cross the pa.s.sage to reach his room.

"Come in," he cried, as I knocked.

"Jack, come to my room. It's more comfortable than yours. I want your advice."

He rose, in some surprise, and followed me.

If John Brown's name was commonplace, his person was certainly not so.

He looked like a young lord. He was a n.o.ble fellow, by nature if not by birth. A clear, sunny face, masculine chin and nose, sweet, firm mouth, the eye of an eagle, and the soft, curly, golden hair of a child. Tall, broad-shouldered, elegant, bold as a lion, gentle and kind as a lamb-- such was my best, my dearest friend, Jack.

"Jack," said I, "I'm going to run away!"

My friend fell into a chair, put both legs straight out, and looked at me in speechless amazement for a second; then he burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

"Jack," I repeated, "I'm going to run away."

"You'll do nothing of the sort," said he.

"And," I continued, regardless of his remark, "I mean that you shall run away with me."

"I'll do nothing of the sort," he replied. "But come, Bob, my boy, you're joking. Surely this is not the object for which you called me out of my room."