The Morris County chronicle. [volume] (Morristown, N.J.) 1877-1915, 1904-04-12
JESS
BY Martha
McCuIfocb- HG1i1IiamS
49,. Copyright, 1908. bB z. q. McClure.....


the while. Her pink calico frock was
turned up high in front, so high her
feet were plainly visible-pretty feet
enough, in spite of the scuffed shoes,
smallish, well arched and light step
ping, to say nothing of the slender
ankles above them. The ankles match
ed taper wrists but gave no hint OF
the dimple swelling arms revealed by
sleeves rolled halfway to the shoulder.
Big, soft, new LEAKAGE flung down
variable shadows on her bare head.
She kept the dasher moving merrily,
now and again patting one foot in
time to it. Her voice. if unframed, was
clear and not too altogether, the
man coming down the creekside in
high wading boots, with rod in his
hand, creel slung from his shoulder,
would have been justified in finding
himself glad of her presence.
He was distinctly not glad : cur
mudgeonly fellow! He had been whip
ping the stream for trout since sunrise
with no luck at all. All his hope was
centered upon the cool, deep hole just
below the spring house. He knew the
stream of cid, and that particular
reach of it had never yet failed to give
him good sport. Why must this crea-
ture go spoil his chances with her idiot
ic trilling? Fish had sensitive ears
he was certain of it. Nothing would
rise to the most tempting lure after
such affronting of the auricular sense.
George, l wish she was in-HalifaXV
he said to himself as he prepared, rath-
er hopelessly, for q cast. He had hard
1y looked toward the singer-besides
Robin Adiar, with an accompaniment
OF whishing, buttermilk rather got on
his nerves. AS the song kept up he
called over his shoulder, in anything
but an amiable voice:
Madam, 1 will pay you double price
for the butter you are churninS if you
will go away until afternoon and let
me fish in peace
Indeed you won'tr Jess retorted,
with the least toss of the head. ""Tend
to your own business, Mr.. Fisherman.
| promise you I'll tend strictly to
mine. Buy my butter, indeed! Sup
pose | don't want to sell it? And l
don't It's going into cake for the pic
mic tomorrow"
The fisherman, Allan Beckley by
name, scowled at his image in the wa
ter and swore-under his breath. He
knew landmarks and land lines there
about-this noisy girl must belong to
the people who had bought his uncle's
place. Vaguely he recalled the name
Wilmot. Wilmot possessions came
right down to the waters edge, albeit
the stream proper belonged to old
Squire Bass, from whom he had leased
exclusive fishing privilege. The churn-
err was clearly upon her own ground,
therefore unassailable. In high bad
humor he splashed across the pool
head and sent his fly spinning out in a
tremendous east from the opposite
bank, although by all rules of angling
the place was hopeless.
1t must have been day for the
traversing of art and rule. The fly
was hardly settled before, with a Wig
orous upswirling rush, a monster trout
took it. For the next ten minutes AL
Ian Beckley was conscious of nothing
but his quarry. The quarry was game
and wary as ever rose to a fly Up,
down, athwart stream he darted, div
ing, plunging, now and again leaping
clear of the water, coming with such a
rush backward the singing reel could
not take up the slack, wheeling to bore
headfirst against the rocky bottom 50
strongly the plant rod tip bent almost
double The fisherman stood just be-
low high shelving bank He would
have plunged in the water but that
there was no good foothold. Cautious
~ with nice judgment and sportsman
skill, he played his catch. 1t was one
to rejoice in-the giant of all trout in
Clear creek. Five pounds at the very
least. Idly he began to speculate if it
might not be the same willy fellow who
had so often outwitted him when he
was a native STRIPPING His i'll humor
evaporated magically. He was at
peace with himself and the world
The trout was weakening Though
he still fought gamely, the rushes were
less electric. In five minutes more-in
three-in one-with a long steady
pressure he drew the fighting creature
to the bank, shifted his rod deftly and
made to slip the landing net under
Meath And then-and then! Some
thing gave way under and behind
him. With huge splash he went
down into four feet of water, with
ton of loosened rock at his back. He,
flung out his arms to save himself.
The trout as the line Stacked, dashed
madly away and went to the bottom
upon the farther side But he could
not break loose the hook nor instantly
chafe the line in two against the bot
tom. There was still bare chance
of him. Beckley, bruised and shaken
though he was, tried to turn about,
snatch his rod and fight the battle to
the bitter end
He could not do it. Somehow the
falling rocks had damned his feet
into a crevice of the bottom, beyond
his power to pull them out. He tug
ged and strained and swore, this time
audibly, for some minutes. He was
not in the least hurt His feet had
room a-plenty in their rocky channel,
but he could not get them out until
the stone was moved from over 1t.
He had forgotten the girl, singing and
churning at the spring house, but re-
membered her now noting both