Boy Scouts of the Air on Lost Island | Page 3

don't want to, I'm going to have the boat to fish
from."
"As if you didn't always have it!" snorted Frank. "The only one who
fishes in one place all day, but he's got to have the boat--and forgets
himself and walks right off it the minute he gets a real bite. Huh!"
Tod paid no attention to this insult. He and Jerry settled in their places
at the oars, with Frank at the stern for ballast, and Dave up ahead to
watch the channel, for Plum Run, unbelievably deep in places, had a
trick of shallowing at unlikely spots. More than once had the Big Four
had her paint scraped off by a jagged shelf of rock or shoal.
They were all in their places, the luggage stowed away, and Frank was
ready to push away from the dock, when he raised his hand and said
instead: "Understand me, boys, I'm the last one in the world to
kick--you know me. But there's one request I have to make of you
before the push of my fingers cuts us off from the last trace of
civilization."
"'Sw'at?" cried the three.
"When we have embarked upon this perilous voyage, let no mournful
note swell out upon the breeze, to frighten beasts and men--and
fish--into believing that Dave Thomas is once more trying to sing!"
Immediately a mournful yowling began in the bow of the boat, growing
louder as they drew away from shore. And then, amid the laughter of
his three companions, Dave ended his wail and instead broke into a
lively boating song, the others joining in at the chorus. For Dave's
singing was a source of pride to his friends.
So, Dave singing lustily and Tod and Jerry tugging at the oars in time
with the music, they swung away from the dock and out in the center
channel of Plum Run, a good hundred yards from shore. Once in the

current, they swung straight ahead down stream. Before long the last
house of Watertown, where people were fast beginning to stir, had
faded from view. They passed safely through the ripples of the shoals
above Barren Island, a great place for channel cat when the water was
lower. Through the West Branch they steered, holding close to the
island shore, for while the current was slower, at least the water was
deeper and safer.
A mile-long stretch of smooth rowing lay ahead of them now, after
which they entered Goose Slough, narrow and twisty, with half-hidden
snags, and sudden whirlpools. More than one fishing party had been
capsized in its treacherous quarter mile of boiling length. Then came a
so-called lake, Old Grass, with the real Grass Lake barely visible
through its circle of trees. A crystal-clear creek was its outlet to Plum
Run, a thousand gleaming sunfish and tiny bass flashing through its
purling rapids or sulking in deep, dark pools. There was good fishing in
Grass Lake, but waist-high marsh grass, saw-edged, barred the way for
nearly half a mile.
But just ahead of them Plum Run had widened out once more to real
river size, its waters penned back by concrete, rock and timber dam,
with Parry's Mill on the east bank.
"Land me on the other side, above the big cottonwood," decided Frank.
"There's a weedy little bight up there where I predict a two- pound bass
in twenty minutes."
"I'll try the stretch just below, working toward the dam, I guess. How
about you, Jerry!" asked Dave.
"I'll stay with the boat awhile, I reckon. Where away, boatman?"
"Dam," grunted Tod.
"Not swearing, I take it?" inquired Jerry.
"No--fishing there."

Dave and Frank were dropped out at the cottonwood, where they were
soon exchanging much sage advice concerning likely spots and proper
bait. Jerry and Tod chuckled as they rowed away. Tod himself was
keen on still fishing with worms or grubs; he liked to sit and dream
while the bait did the work; but his quarreling with Dave and Frank
was mostly make-believe. Jerry, the best fisherman of the four,
believed, as he said, in "making the bait fit the fish's mouth." His
tackle-box held every kind of hook and lure; his steel rod and multiple
reel were the best Timkin's Sporting Goods Store in town could furnish;
they had cost him a whole summer's savings.
Tod rather laughed at Jerry's equipment. His own cheap brass reel and
jointed cane pole, with heavy linen line, was only an excuse.
Throw-lines with a half dozen hooks were his favorites, and a big
catfish his highest aim. As soon as the boat hit the dam he began
getting out his lines. Jerry jumped lightly over the bow.
"Shall I tie you up?" he called over his shoulder.
"Never mind, Jerry. I think I'll work in