# Captain Chub/Chapter 13
### CHAPTER XIII CHUB TRIES A NEW BAIT

I COULD write in detail of the next three days, but the narrative would only bore you, for nothing of special interest happened. In brief, then, they made an early start the morning after the escape from Mr. Ewing and the arm of the law, and were soon rounding the bend in the river opposite Peekskill. By one o’clock they were in sight of West Point and so kept on until they found a mooring at the steamboat pier. There they ate dinner and afterward spent two hours “doing” the Military Academy. Dick declared that if they didn’t see another thing, that alone was worth the whole trip, and the rest agreed with him. At twilight, they sidled the Slow Poke across to shore almost under the frowning face of Storm King. There was deep water there, and when the mooring ropes were made fast they could step from the deck of the house-boat right onto the bank. The map showed dozens of ​streams and several small ponds, and it was decided that they would remain there for a while and try the fishing. They slept on board that night, but the next afternoon they rigged the little shelter tent which they had brought between the trees at a little distance from shore, and made camp. Dick and Roy fashioned a fireplace of stones and when the weather was fair the meals were prepared over a wood fire. Chub declared that he preferred the flavor of wood smoke to kerosine. For two days they tramped around the neighboring country and fished to their hearts’ content, finding several good trout pools. It was on the second day that Chub caught his “two-pounder.” To be sure, Dick and Roy declared that it didn’t weigh over a pound and a quarter, but Chub retorted that that was only their jealousy and that if there was a scales on board he would soon prove his estimate correct. But there wasn’t a scales to be found and so Chub’s claim was never disproved. He held the trout out at arm’s-length while Roy photographed it, and when the picture developed the fish looked like a salmon rather than a trout.
“You might as well call it a ten-pounder as ​a two,” said Dick. “Anyone would believe you. Why, that fish is half as big as you—in the picture!”
Chub viewed him sorrowfully and shook his head.
“That,” he replied, “would not be the truth, Dickums. When you know me better you’ll find that not even a fish can tempt me from the path of honesty. Perhaps, however, there wouldn’t be any harm in calling it a three-pounder; what do you think?”
Roy and Dick had good luck, too, although their trout were smaller than Chub’s “two-pounder,” and during their stay at Camp Storm King, as they called it, they had all the fresh fish they could eat.
The day after Chub’s famous catch he informed the others that he was going back to the scene of his victory for another try.
“We’ll all go,” said Roy, pleasantly, with a wink at Dick. “It must be a dandy place.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” replied Chub, shortly. “That pool is my discovery.”
“Pshaw,” said Roy, “if I found a good place like that I’d want you to try it.”
​“Me, too,” said Dick. Chub viewed them scornfully.
“Of course you would,” he replied with deep sarcasm.
“Well, I would,” insisted Roy. “I’d be generous. Now—”
“I guess you’re like the Irishman,” said Chub. “His name was Pat.”
“It always is in a story,” murmured Dick.
“One day his friend Mike met him and said: ‘Pat, they tell me you’re a Socialist.’ ‘I am,’ says Pat. ‘Well, now, tell me, Pat, what is a Socialist?’ ‘A Socialist,’ says Pat, ‘is a feller that divides his property equally. ’Tis like this, do you see: if I had two million dollars I’d give you one million and I’d keep one million myself.’ ‘’Tis a grand idea,’ says Mike. ‘And if you had two farms would you give me one, Pat?’ ‘Sure would I,’ says Pat. ‘’Tis an elegant thing, this Socialism,’ says Mike. ‘But, tell me, Pat, if you had two pigs would you give me one?’ ‘Go ’long, now!’ says Pat. ‘You know I’ve got two pigs!’”
“It’s a funny story,” said Roy, mournfully, “but I miss the application, Chub.”
​“You do, eh? Well, it just shows how easy it is to be generous with something you haven’t got.” Whereupon Chub picked up his rod and stepped ashore.
“You won’t get a bite!” called Dick.
Haughty silence from Chub as he walked away.
“You won’t bring home a thing!” This shot told.
“If I don’t bring home something as big as I did yesterday,” announced Chub, grandly “I’ll—I’ll wash up the dishes!”
“That’s a go,” cried Dick. “Bad luck to you!”
They watched him disappear between the trees. Then Roy turned to Dick with a grin. “Let’s follow him,” he said.
An instant later, carrying their rods, they were on Chub’s trail. They went quickly and quietly, and soon had their quarry in sight. Chub was ambling along very leisurely, whistling as he went. Presently they were out of the woods and on a narrow road that was scarcely more than a path. It wound along the bottom of the mountain for a half a mile or so, running very straight and rendering it necessary for the pursuers to keep ​in among the trees lest Chub should glance back. But it was apparent that he had no suspicion. The road ran over or through several small streams which came gurgling down the hill and at each of them Roy and Dick expected to see Chub leave the road. But he kept on and presently Dick gave signs of discouragement.
“Thunder,” he said, “I don’t believe he’s ever going to stop. This isn’t much fun, Roy. Let’s quit. I’m all scratched up with these branches.”
“Stop nothing!” answered Roy. “He can’t be going much further. Anyway, the road curves pretty soon and then we can take it easy.”
Presently the road did curve, Chub was out of sight, and they left the underbrush with sighs of relief.
“Have you any idea where this pool of his is?” asked Dick.
“Not the slightest. He and I started out together but he left me about three o’clock and went down toward the river. We were fishing that stream that comes down near the fork of the roads, you know; where we were the first day. That’s about half a mile further, but I don’t see why Chub has to go that far unless he can’t find his old pool ​any other way. Here’s the turn. Careful, or he may see us.”
It was an abrupt curve and they went very slowly and softly until they could see the stretch of road ahead. It was quite deserted!
“Shucks!” said Roy. “He’s got away from us, after all. Come on!”
They broke into a trot and hurried along, looking sharply to left and to right as they ran. A moment or two later there was a rustling in the woods near the turn of the road and Chub came cautiously out, a broad smile on his face. Remaining in concealment, he watched his pursuers until another turn of the road hid them. Then he cut a branch from a small tree, sharpened one end of it, slit the other, and stuck it in the middle of the road. Searching his pockets he, at length, brought forth a crumpled piece of paper. Smoothing it out, he traced a single word on it and stuck it in the cleft of the stick. Then, chuckling aloud, he crossed the road and disappeared into the woods on the lower side.
Some two hours later Roy and Dick came trudging back. They had five trout between them, but they were all small ones. They were very hun​hungry and somewhat tired, and Roy almost walked into the stick in the road before he saw the piece of paper. When he had read it he laughed and handed it to Dick.
“‘Stung!’” read Dick. He grinned, crumpled it up, and tossed it aside, and they went on for a moment without a word. Then,
“You have to get up pretty early to get ahead of Chub,” said Roy, admiringly.
“Get up early!” quoth Dick. “You have to stay up all night!”
They trudged on home to the camp and dinner.
Meanwhile Chub was having hard luck. Fully a mile away, where a stream rushed down a hill and paused for a while in a broad black pool lined with rocks and alders, he had been fishing diligently for over an hour with no success. He had tried almost every one of his brand-new assortment of flies, but, to use his own expression, he hadn’t even got a bid. It was getting along toward dinner-time, as his hunger emphatically informed him, and he recollected his agreement with regret. It wasn’t that he so much disliked to wash the dishes for once—although as a matter of principle he always schemed to avoid that ​task—but he hated to have Roy and Dick crow over him. And after the way in which he had fooled them that morning, he had no doubt but that they would crow long and loud!
He sat down on a convenient flat-topped stone and spread his fly-book open beside him. It was a sunny day, but the pool was well shadowed and perhaps, after all, a real brilliant fly wouldn’t be out of the way. So he selected a handsome arrangement of vermilion and yellow and gray—a most gaudy little fly it was—and substituted it for the more somber one on his line. Then he cast again to the farther side of the pool. For a while there was no reply to his appeal, and then the fly disappeared and a moment later a gleaming trout was flapping about under the bushes. It wasn’t such a bad little trout; Chub guessed three quarters of a pound as its weight; and more hopefully now, he flicked the pool here and there. But nothing else happened. At last, discouraged, he reeled in his line and looked at his watch. The time was a quarter past twelve. Even if he started back to the boat now, he would arrive very late for dinner. Besides, he couldn’t face Roy and Dick with only ​that insignificant trophy to show. If only he had brought a luncheon with him! His eyes fell again on the trout and his face lighted. Dropping his fly-book into his pocket and picking up rod and fish, he turned his back on the pool and followed the stream as best he could, winding in and out of the thickets and clambering over the rocks that strewed the little vale.
Presently he was out of the thicket and before him lay a small clearing in which waist-high bushes and trailing briars ran riot. The brook spread itself out into a shallow stream and meandered off toward the river, its course marked by small willows, alders, and rushes. Chub found a clear spot in the shade of a viburnum and built a fire of dry grass and twigs, adding dead branches as the flames grew. Fuel wasn’t very easy to find, but by prospecting around he eventually had a good-sized blaze. Then, warm and panting, he sat down out of the range of the heat and prepared his trout. By the time it was ready the fire had subsided to a bed of glowing coals. Wrapping the fish in leaves he laid it on the embers and watched it carefully, turning it over and over and raking the hot coals about it. After ​fifteen minutes of cooking he took it off and laid it on a stone which he had meanwhile washed in the brook. Then, with a couple of sharpened sticks he scraped away the ashes and coals, and began his luncheon. Trout without any other seasoning than wood smoke isn’t awfully appetizing, as Chub speedily discovered, and he would have given a whole lot for a pinch or two of salt. But it partly satisfied his hunger, and after he had taken a drink of cold water from the brook he felt good for another two or three hours’ fishing. He was determined not to go home until he had something to show. He stretched himself out in the shade for a while and rested. Then, picking up his rod once more, he returned to the stream and sought a likely spot.
His search led him across the clearing and into a dense woods beyond. Here the stream narrowed again and deepened, and he put another fly on and tried his luck, wandering along from place to place. Twice, inquiring fish nibbled at his fly, and once he hooked a small trout only to lose it from the hook in landing. Then a full hour passed without any results. It was almost three o’clock. The woods were very warm and ​very still, only the ripple and plash of the brook breaking the mid-afternoon silence. Even the birds were hushed. But the mosquitoes, at least, were active, and Chub, hot and discouraged, brushed them away and sighed for a breeze. Finally he sat down on the ground and for the twentieth time viewed the contents of his fly-book in perplexity. It seemed as though it contained every sort of fly that the heart of trout could desire.
“Finicky things,” muttered Chub. “I’d just like to know what they do want.” He picked out a pretty brown and gray fly tentatively. “That ought to please any one. Maybe, though, they don’t like the taste of them. I suppose, when you come to think of it, steel and feathers and silk thread aren’t very appetizing—except to look at. If I was a trout I’d much rather have a good worm or a nice, juicy grasshopper.”
He paused and stared thoughtfully at the flies. Then,
“Plagued if I don’t try it!” he murmured.
He got up and retraced his steps to the clearing. Ordinarily it’s the easiest thing in the world to catch a grasshopper. All you have to ​do is to stand still and the silly things will jump onto you; especially if you happen to have on something white. But to-day Chub found the grasshopper the most illusive of game, almost as illusive as trout! With cap in hand, he crouched and jumped and ran and waited, missing his prey time after time, and getting hotter and hotter and madder and madder, until the perspiration streamed down his face and he was mentally calling the grasshoppers all the mean names he could think of. But perseverance is bound to win in the long run—and Chub had plenty of long runs! And so, finally, he was trudging back, tired but triumphant, with two hoppers firmly clasped in his hand. But it seemed as though he was having more than his share of trouble to-day, for although he had left rod and fly-book not more than fifty or sixty yards from the edge of the clearing, he couldn’t find them for a long while, and when he did he was so tuckered out that he had to lie on his back for ten minutes before he could command sufficient energy to go on with his experiment.
But Mister Trout didn't want to come
“Huh!” gasped Chub, his thumb on the reel. “That pleased you, didn’t it? Come on, now.”
But Mister Trout didn’t want to come on. Instead, he had hidden himself amongst the submerged roots of the trees. Chub wound in a foot or two of line very gingerly, trying to coax the trout into deep water, and the ruse succeeded. With a rush the fish darted from concealment and sped upstream. But Chub brought him up with a turn that made the line sing. Then he began to reel in. The trout fought valiantly and ​made a good deal of trouble considering his size, and there were one or two anxious moments for Chub. But in the end the victory was his, and back among the stones lay the speckled beauty. It was a good ten inches long and Chub beamed with delight. Now he could go home!
When he had secured his prize on a forked branch he released the other grasshopper from the pocket of his fly-book.
“You’ve had a narrow escape,” he said, as the hopper flounced bewildered away, “and considering the chase you led me I ought to feed you to the fishes, too. But I won’t. Go on home, and don’t bat your silly brains out against the rocks like that.”
At five o’clock Roy and Dick, who were beginning to get anxious about Chub, beheld that young gentleman approaching camp. He had his rod in hand, but no fish were in sight.
“Thunder!” said Dick. “I’ll wager he’s mad!”
“Had any dinner?” shouted Roy.
“Sure.”
“Where’d you get it?”
​“Caught it and cooked it, of course. Say, he was a dandy! He was as long—”
“Never mind about that,” laughed Roy. “You wash the dishes just the same. You were to bring the fish home, you know.”
“Well, but I had to have something to eat, didn’t I?” asked Chub, with a grin.
“That wasn’t in the bargain,” answered Dick. “You’re dish-washer to-night.” Chub stepped aboard, reached under his coat, and laid his trout on the railing.
“Is that so, Dickums?” he asked quickly. The others stared a moment. Then,
“Great Scott!” murmured Dick.
“You win,” sighed Roy.