Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1911-12-24
Continued from page II

parel was rough, not to say scrubby. An old
SLOUGH hat was drawn down over his fore
head, and staring blue glasses sheltered his
eyes against the sun, which was sufficiently
obscured-for most tastes-by blanket of
gray cloud, promising rain. Under arching
willow, and by promising rock, his brown
hackle f1ickered temptingly, placed by an
expert hand. But, except for one sunfsh
that had exhibited suicidal curiosity, there
was none to admire his proficiency. One in
dividual, indeed, had witnessed it; but with
out admiration urchin angling under a
bridge for bullheads.
swat yer gittin' with that rig?" he had in
quired with the Cynicism of the professional
ooh, some snags, and an occasional
branch, and now and then a milkweed, re-
turned the angler amiably.
well you can't fish below the mex BEND
the urchin informed him. "Them folks that
bought Hogg's Haven has wire-fenced off the
creeak."
a had just as lief get tangled in wire
fence as any other kind, replied the angler
with CHEEKY pessimisn, whipping his fly into
shaded spot where a trout would surely
have been lurking if the entire Salmon family
hadn't departed for the Happy Fishing
Grounds several generations back, in con-
sequence of the pernicious activities dis
played by an acquisitive sportsman with an
outfit of dynamite in sticks
"Suit yerself," retorted the boy. "You
won't get nothin', anyhow"
The rumble of a vehicle distracted his at
tention, and he looked up to observe with
curiosity a carriage full of strangers pass
across the bridge. The strangers were all in
black. The angler had looked up too; but
Immediately looked away again, and turned
to continue his hopeful progress toward the
bend. Not until he had rounded the curve
did he pause for rest. Beyond sight of the
youthful Izaak Walton, he waded out upon
the bank, produced glass, and applied it to
his eye, turning it upon the willow grove on
the borders of the Blair estate. The briefest
of surveys satisfied him. and he resumed his
fishing and his waiting. He was waiting for
the funeral service of Wilfrid Blair
NOTICES in the Boston and New York
~ papers had formally designated the
burial as "Private." That invaluable aid,
Lawyer Adam Balm, who seemed to have his
fingers on the pulse of all the countv's &C
Invites, had informed Kent that Geographic
summons had gone out to few near relatives,
and that the relatives, together with clergy
man, were expected that morning. That is
why Chester Kent, a famous master of the art
of fly fishing, was whipping dead stream.
For patient hour longer his questing flies
explored un1cSpO1lS1Vc hooks ana corners.
AT the end of that time he sighted figure
coming from Hedgerow House, and lodged
into a covert of sumach. The glass brought
out clearly the features of Alexander Blair,
set, stern, and pale. Blair walked swiftly to
the willow thicket where lay Captain Hogg
and his unnamed victims, looked down into
the raw, fresh excavation, and turned away.
Another man, issuing from the house, joined
him. From his gestures Alexander Blair
seemed to be explaining and directing. Fl
nally both returned to the house.
Handling the whole business himself"
commented Kent. II like his courage any
way"
Half an hour afterward the little funeral
procession moved from the house. There
was no hearse. Six men carried the coffin.
They were all strangers to Kent, and their
clothes gave obvious testimony of city orr
gin. Half dozen other men, and three
women, heavily yelled, followed Kent
thrust his glass into his pocket and lifted
his rod again. By the time the clergyman
had begun the service Kent was close to the
obstructing fence. He could hear the faint,
solemn murmur of the words. Then came
the lowering of the casket. The onlooker
marked the black and silver sumptuousness
of it, and thought of the rough hemlock box