CHAPTER XVIII.

AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.

MR. SWAN and his young friends at once went ashore and set out for the hotel, the former to tell “the boys” that he had struck the trail of the man they most wanted to see, and Joe and his companions to examine the rods the landlord had in his possession, and to engage some one who was handy with tools to repair the skiff. They left me lying in my usual place on the stern locker, with Jim and the two bait-rods for company.

I had heard so much about Indian Lake and its hotels that I had pictured them out to myself, and thought I could tell pretty near how they looked; but nevertheless I was greatly surprised by what I saw around me. I told myself that the boy who could not find there what he wanted in the way of recreation, must be hard to suit. If he was fond of gay company and liked such places as Saratoga and Long Branch, he would probably stop at the “American” on the further side of the lake; but if he were an angler and a lover of nature, or if he desired to get away somewhere and rest, he would choose the “Sportsman’s Home” every time.

The house itself looked like a hunter’s camp on a grand scale, or like the cabins of the loggers I afterward saw in the wilds of Maine, only it had two stories instead of one. It was built entirely of logs, which had been painted with some substance that I don’t know the name of, but it sparkled in the bright sunlight like a covering of ice. In the groves that surrounded the hotel on all sides, were log houses, tents and shanties without number. Noisy children were running in and out among the trees, the clashing of croquet balls was almost incessant, sportsmen in dogskin jackets, leather helmets and leggings, and guides in blue shirts and cowhide boots were constantly going and coming, and every one that I saw seemed to be enjoying himself. This was one of the happy parties that Matt Coyle was determined to break up because the landlords refused to trust their guests to his care! It was no wonder Mr. Swan and his brother guides were anxious to rid the country of the presence of such a villain. While I was thinking about it I heard myself addressed in a faint voice; and upon looking in the direction from which it came, I discovered a seedy breech-loader resting against the thwart of the neighboring canoe.

“You don’t seem to remember me,” said he, reproachfully.

“I can’t say that I do,” was my reply. “I think you have made a mistake in the fly-rod.”

“No, I haven’t,” said he, confidently. “I knew you before you left Mr. Brown’s store. Don’t you remember the English fowling-piece that had the dispute with that conceited bamboo?”

So this was my old acquaintance, the “Brummagem shooting-iron,” was it? It was right on the point of my tongue to remind him that the bamboo had not showed himself to be any more conceited than he was; but I didn’t say it. I judged by his appearance that he had seen pretty hard times since he left Mr. Brown’s protecting care. He had sneeringly told me that I was not worth the modest price that had been set upon me, but, here I was, as bright as ever, while he looked as though he had been through half a dozen wars.

“I remember you now,” said I, “but you have changed so much that I did not recognize you at first. Where have you been, and what have you done since that countryman of yours ordered you to be sent up to the Lambert House?”

“He was no countryman of mine,” replied the double barrel, sadly. “He was a full-fledged Yankee who tried to pass himself off for something better than he really was. But he’s got all over that; the guides laughed him out of it.”

“Did they laugh you into your present condition?” I asked, remembering that the double barrel had also tried to pass himself off for something better than he really was.

“Eh? No,” he replied, indignantly. “It’s the result of abuse and hardship. Last year I was stolen out of camp—”

“By whom?” I interrupted, excitedly.

“By a vagabond who calls himself Matt Coyle,” was the reply. “His old shanty leaked like a sieve, and I got wet and rusty. That’s what makes me look so bad.”

“How did your master get you back?”

“I heard the story about in this way: In less than an hour after I was stolen, a dirty, unkempt boy made his appearance in my master’s camp, and told him that he had been fishing on the pond all the afternoon, that he knew the man who took me, and for a reward of ten dollars he would follow me up and steal me back again.”

“Of course your master wasn’t deceived by any such shallow trick as that!” I exclaimed.

“Well, he was. You see, he and the two young fellows who come up here with him every summer, never hire a guide. As they seldom venture more than twenty or thirty miles away from the lake, and never leave the water courses, there’s really no need of a guide; but if they had had one when that boy came into camp, he would have saved my master from imposition. As it was, he promised to give him the ten dollars, and before sunset I was brought back. But it had rained buckets during my absence, I was wet inside and out, my master did not know enough to take care of me, and that’s how I came to be in this fix. They’re coming now, and we are off again, I suppose.”

I looked toward the hotel, and there was the young man with the gold eye-glasses, peaked shoes and downy upper lip—the same knowing fellow, who had been foolish enough to take a cheap gun that wasn’t warranted, with the expectation that it would do as good work as a Greener.

“We’re going up to the pond, and I shall be called upon to fire heavier charges than I can stand at every thing in the shape of a partridge or squirrel that comes in my way,” added the double barrel.

“You ought not to be required to shoot those birds at this time of year,” said I. “It’s against the law.”

“Oh, I don’t hurt them any. I only shoot at them. I never killed any thing.”

“That’s just what Mr. Brown said when he sold you,” thought I. “Have you a dog to guard your camp? Well, you ought to have. Matt Coyle lives up there, and night before last he made a daring attempt to steal this skiff, and then he tried to sink her. Don’t you see the hole in her side?”

I was going on to tell the double barrel that if his master did not keep his eyes open he might expect another visit from the squatter, but just then I saw Joe Wayring and his friends coming down the bank; and as I was more interested in them and the rods they carried on their shoulders, than I was in the fortunes of the seedy-looking fowling piece, I had nothing more to say to him. I saw him once afterward, and then he was a perfect wreck of a gun. There wasn’t enough of him left to sell for old iron.

“Haw! haw!” said Roy, as he jumped into the skiff. “We’ve got them back again, and only one of them is the worse for being stolen by that squatter.”

I wondered which one that was, and found out when Arthur Hastings began taking his rod from its case. It was a beautiful rod, and looked strong enough to handle any fish that was likely to be encountered in that country; but the second joint was broken close to the ferrule. I looked pityingly at him, little dreaming that I was destined to go home in the same crippled condition.

“I don’t believe that any bass that ever wiggled a fin could break that rod,” said Arthur, dolefully. “Matt or some of his vagabond band must have caught the hook into a log or the stem of a lily-pad. Well, it isn’t as bad as it might be, but I hate to think that that squatter has made some money out of me.”

While the boys were waiting for the guide who had promised to come down and look at the skiff, they talked of their interview with the landlord of the Sportsman’s Home, and in that way I came to know just what happened when they went up to see the rods he had purchased of Jake Coyle. Of course they recognized them at once, and promptly handed over the money that Mr. Hanson had paid for their property, but said nothing about paying for the rods that belonged to Tom Bigden and his cousins.

“Hadn’t you better take them all?” asked the landlord. “You say that the boys from whom these rods were stolen live in Mount Airy, and perhaps they would be grateful to you for returning them.”

“I think we’d better not have any thing to do with them,” said Arthur. “But we’ll forward them a dispatch and let them send or come after the rods. They’ve nothing else to do.”

There was telegraphic communication between Indian Lake and Mount Airy, by the way of New London, and Arthur wrote and sent off the dispatch before he left the hotel. If he and his chums had been able to look far enough into the future to see every thing that was to result from this simple act, they would have been greatly astonished. I know I was when I heard the full particulars.

In a few minutes the expected guide came down to the beach and gave the skiff a careful examination. After he had stripped off the canvas and bark, so that he could see the full extent of her injuries, he remarked that Matt’s scow must have hit her a middling heavy crack.

“I should say she did,” replied Joe, with a laugh. “When three strong fellows do their level best with paddles, they can make a small boat get through the water with considerable speed. They hit us hard enough to knock Arthur overboard. Who are those men, and where are they going in such haste?” he continued, directing the guide’s attention to a company of guests and boatmen who were walking rapidly toward the beach.

“Two of them are the gentlemen whose camps were robbed the other day,” replied the guide, after he had taken a glance at the party. “They’ve got some friends to help them, and are going out to see if they can track down them varmints who have been kicking up so much fuss about here of late. There comes Swan. He’s going with them, but they might as well stay at home, the whole of them. That Matt Coyle can cover up his trail like an Injun. It took every guide in the country to hunt him down the last time we drove him away from here.”

“You missed it by not putting him in jail,” said Roy.

“That’s just what we wanted to do,” answered the guide. “But when we come to talk to some of the guests about it—there was lawyers among them, you know—we found that we didn’t have any evidence that would convict him. We suspected him, but we could not prove any thing.”

“You’ll not be troubled in that way this time,” Arthur remarked. “You’ll have the guns for evidence.”

“Don’t fool yourself,” said the guide. “Do you suppose that they will find that three hundred dollar scatter-gun and that fifty dollar rifle when they find Matt Coyle—that is, if they do find him? Not by a great sight. Them things is safe hid in the woods. Matt’ll sw’ar that he didn’t hook ’em, and there ain’t a living man that can sw’ar that he