A
hog-fish flew for shelter under a rock, and below the ripples a
two-pound bass shot like an arrow into deep water.
Above and below him the stream was arched with beech, poplar and
water maple, and the banks were thick with laurel and
rhododendron. His eye had never rested on a lovelier stream, and
on the other side of the town site, which nature had kindly lifted
twenty feet above the water level, the other fork was of equal
clearness, swiftness and beauty.
"Such a drainage," murmured his engineering instinct. "Such a
drainage!" It was Saturday. Even if he had forgotten he would have
known that it must be Saturday when he climbed the bank on the
other side. Many horses were hitched under the trees, and here and
there was a farm-wagon with fragments of paper, bits of food and
an empty bottle or two lying around. It was the hour when the
alcoholic spirits of the day were usually most high. Evidently
they were running quite high that day and something distinctly was
going on "up town." A few yells--the high, clear, penetrating yell
of a fox-hunter--rent the air, a chorus of pistol shots rang out,
and the thunder of horses' hoofs started beyond the little slope
he was climbing.
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