"Keep the line a-stretchin'!" exclaimed Uncle Pius, "or he's a gonnar."

He had scarcely uttered these words when the fish leaped into the air, shook the hook from its mouth, and disappeared into the water.

"Jes' as I'se sayin'," remarked the old negro. "Now, Ma.s.sar Martin, you've larned how to ketch perks, and you must larn how to lan' 'em."

"Is there anything to be learned about landing a perch?" inquired Martin, with surprise. "When you catch a catfish there is no danger of its getting off; in fact, you remember that we cut the heads off of several to get out the hooks."

"Dar's an awful 'stonishin' dif'erens 'tween a catfish and a perk,"

interposed Uncle Pius. "It's hard to keep a perk on, an' it's hard to get a catfish off. If ebbar you let de line slack de perk'll shake de hook from his mouth in free shakes of a sheep's tail."

"Here it goes again," said Martin. "I'll not only catch the first perch that bites, but will land it in a tip-top way."

From his position among the overhanging branches Owen watched Martin's next attempt with interest, while Uncle Pius, conscious of the dignity of his position, gravely directed the movements of his young disciple.

"Nebbar stop," said he. "Jest keep a-pullin' when you got him. Keep a-pullin' slow, an' you'll fetch him, sure's de rain helps young corn."

Martin followed directions carefully, and succeeded in landing the next perch.

"Hurrah!" he yelled in triumph, "that's a fine one, and here goes for another."

Before Owen had time to climb down the tree and bait his hook Martin had secured perch number two.

The two boys went to work in earnest, and, although many a perch escaped from them, in less than an hour they had fully a dozen fish on their string. Uncle Pius watched their progress with evident satisfaction, now yelling to Martin "to keep de line a-pullin'," and to Owen "not to be a-rushin'."

"Ma.s.sar Martin and Ma.s.sar Owen," he said to the boys when it was time to go, "you know how to fish for perks, but don't forget dat dis ole n.i.g.g.ar larned you."

The first lesson of Uncle Pius was given some two years before our story commenced. On the morning to which we referred in this chapter our two young friends started out, not as tyros, but as experienced fishers.

On reaching the river the boys selected a spot near a fallen sycamore, where the water was about four feet deep, and the bank around was rocky and clear from all underbrush. This would enable them to land the perch without fear of tangling their lines.

On the way to the river, however, they did not notice that a man was following them for more than a mile through the forest, at times close enough to overhear their conversation without any risk of being discovered by them. It was Walter Stayford. He was evidently d.o.g.g.i.ng their footsteps with a purpose. The ground over which he pa.s.sed was certainly known to him, for even when he lost sight of the boys he followed them as a hound follows a fresh trail.

When the boys came to the river he ensconced himself behind a fallen log, where he could hear every word they uttered. What could be his object in watching them so closely? He certainly did not seek their lives, for he had many a chance to kill them in the depth of the forest.

Besides, was not he the man who befriended them during that eventful night in the cave? Had they not shown their grat.i.tude by keeping the secret which they had promised so faithfully to keep? That the cave had been discovered was not their fault. Tom the Tinker and he alone was answerable for this! And at the very thought of the old miser Stayford's face flushed with anger. With difficulty he stifled the curse he was about to utter, as he lay there listening to the boys.

"Now for good luck," said Martin, as he threw his minnow near the branches of the fallen tree.

"And here goes for a three-pounder," chimed in Owen, dropping his minnow on the opposite side of the sycamore.

Five minutes pa.s.sed. The boys played their minnows up and down the stream, threw them out and pulled them in, vainly hoping to attract a fish.

"No three-pounder yet," said Owen, who, as the reader has seen, had not the patience of his companion.

"No, not yet," replied Martin, still manoeuvering with his line. "Not yet, but they'll come soon. We can't expect the perch to be waiting at the exact spot where we chance to stop."

"And they can't expect us to wait all day for them," rejoined Owen, with a laugh.

"Give them a fair trial--say fifteen minutes more."

"All right," and Owen took out his father's watch, which he had borrowed for the day.

"Look at your bobber!" cried Martin before two minutes had pa.s.sed.

"Where?"

"It's gone! Pull!"

Owen did pull, but it was too late, for he had lost his minnow.

"That wasn't a perch," said he. "Surely it wasn't a turtle, for they don't bite until warm weather."

"Surely it was a turtle," said Martin. "There it is."

As he spoke a large mossback came to the surface, and calmly surveyed the surroundings, as if to say: "Well, my little boy, that's all you know about turtles biting before warm weather."

"There's a target for us," said Martin. "Let him have a bullet."

As quick as a flash both boys grasped their pistols, which they took pride in wearing whenever they went into the woods or along the river, and fired at the same instant. One ball pierced the turtle's head. It gave several clumsy strokes, then gradually sunk, leaving a b.l.o.o.d.y streak behind.

From his place of concealment Stayford watched this exhibition of skill.

"It is well for me that I am not here to meet those boys in a fair fight with pistols," he thought to himself. "How quick it was done, too. Of course it was that young Owen. He seems to handle a pistol as well as he does a rifle, and the very pistol he won at the shooting-match. How I would like to have one of that make," and Walter Stayford examined the rusty cap and ball revolver which hung at his side.

"Your bullet hit him," said Owen, who thought that in his eagerness to fire rapidly he had shot above the turtle.

"I reckon it's hard to judge," replied Martin.

"I reckon not!" muttered Stayford to himself, for in his opinion only the youthful victor of the shooting-match could have performed such a feat.

"No; I aimed too high," said Owen in response to Martin's doubt.

"That's bad luck, at any rate," Martin grumbled, "we've lost the turtle and frightened away the perch."

"I am willing to give them the full fifteen minutes; they have--have eight minutes left," replied Owen.

"In goes the minnow--and under goes the bobber--and out comes the first--first--first perch!" cried Martin, with excitement, at the same time landing a perch weighing about a pound.

"That must be a straggler," said Owen, "let us see whether he brought a companion along."

He threw in his line at the same place, and almost the same moment, as his float moved slowly off, began to repeat, "I--I--I--have--have--have--ve--a fine one," and when he finished the last word he pulled in a perch twice the size of Martin's.

"Good!" shouted Martin; "I wonder what brought him around."

"Don't know; but now for the fun if we have struck a school of them."

For four hours the boys did not move from the spot. Fish after fish was landed, until a string of forty perch was the reward of their day's effort.

"Only six minnows left," at last said Owen, feeling in the bucket for another bait.

"Wait a moment," interposed Martin, "let us try the new way. An old fisherman told me the other day that he always baited the shiners through the back, because in this position they appeared more natural."