XIII
In an athletic generation Phyllis was an anachronism. She was the sortof girl one's great-grandmother was, only better-looking--one'sgreat-grandmother, if there is any truth in oil and canvas, having beenneatly and roundly turned out of a peg of wood. Phyllis played no gamewell, unless gardening is a game. She liked to embroider and to writelong letters in a wonderfully neat hand. She disliked intensely theroaring of firearms and the diabolic flopping of fresh-caught fish. Shewas one of those people who never look at a sunset or a moonrise or aflower without actually seeing them, and yet, withal, her sisters Leeand Gay looked upon her with a certain awe and respect. She was sostrong in the wrists and fingers that she could hold them when they wererambunctious. And she was only afraid of things that aren't in the leastdangerous. "No," they said, "she can't fish and shoot and row and playtennis and dive and swim under water, but she's the best dancer in thefamily--probably in the world--and the best sport."
Phyllis was, in truth, a good sport, or else she was more attracted byMr. Herring's _Salvia-splendens_ hair than she would have cared toadmit. Whatever the cause, she met him at the float the next morning atfive-thirty, prepared to guide him or perish in the attempt. She wore ashort blue skirt and a long white sweater of Shetland wool. It weighedabout an ounce. She wore white tennis shoes and an immense pair ofwell-oiled gardening gloves. At least she would put off blistering herhands as long as possible.
Phyllis, to be exact, was five minutes early for her appointment. Thisgave her time to get a boat into the water without displayingawkwardness to any one but herself--also, to slip the oars over thethole-pins and to accustom herself to the idea of handling them. She hadtaken coaching the night before from Lee and Gay, sitting on a bearskinrug in front of the fire, and swaying rhythmically forward and back.
As Herring was no fisherman, her sisters advised her to row very slowly."Tell him," they said, "that a boat rushing through water alarms fishmore than anything in the world."
She told him when he was seated in the stern of the boat facing her.
"You mustn't mind going very slow," she said. "The fish in this part ofthe Adirondacks are noted for their sensitiveness in general and theiracute sense of hearing in particular. Why, if I were to row as fast as Ican"--there must have been a twinkle in her eyes--"trout miles awaywould be frightened out of their skins," and she added mentally, "and Ishould upset this horribly wabbly boat into the bargain."
They proceeded at a snail's pace, Phyllis dabbing the water gingerlywith her oars, with something of that caution and repulsion with whichone turns over a dead snake with a stick--to see if it is dead.
The grips of guide-boat oars overlap. And your hands follow rather thanaccompany each other from catch to finish, and from finish to catch. Ifyou are careless, or not to the stroke born or trained, you occasionallyknock little chunks of skin and flesh from your knuckles.
Herring watched Phyllis's gentle and restrained efforts with inscrutableeyes.
"I never could understand," he said, "how you fellows manage to row atall with that sort of an outfit. At Harvard they only give you one oarand let you take both hands to it, and then you can't row. At least, Icouldn't. They put me right out of the boat. They said I caught crabs.As a matter of fact, I didn't. All I did was to sit there, and every nowand then the handle of my oar banged me across the solar plexus."
"We're not going far, you know," said Phyllis (and she mastered thedesire to laugh). "Hadn't you--ah--um--better put your rod together?"
"Oh, I can do that!" said Herring. "You begin with the big piece and youstick the next-sized piece into that, and so on. And I know how to putthe reel on, because the man in the store showed me, and I know how torun the line through the rings."
"Well," said Phyllis, "that's more than half the battle."
"And," Herring continued, "he showed me how to tie on thewhat-you-may-call-it and the flies."
"Good!" said Phyllis.
"And, of course," he concluded, "I've forgotten."
Now, Phyllis had been shown how to tie flies to a leader only the nightbefore, and she, also, had forgotten.
"There are," she said, "a great many fetiches among anglers. Among themare knots. Now, in my experience, almost any knot that will stand willdo. The important thing is to choose the right flies."
As to this, she had also received instruction, but with better results,since it was an entirely feminine affair of colored silks and feathers.
"I will tell you which flies to use," she said.
"And," said he, "you will also have to show me how to cast."
"What!" she exclaimed, and stopped rowing, "You don't know how to cast?"
"No," he said, "I don't. I'm a dub. Didn't you know that?"
"But," she protested, "I can't teach you in a morning"--and she addedmentally--"or in a whole lifetime, for that matter."
It was not more than a mile across the mouth of a deep bay to the brookin which they had elected to fish. With no wind to object, the mostdabbily propelled guide boat travels with considerable speed, and beforeHerring had managed to tie the flies which Phyllis had selected to hisleader (with any kind of a knot) they were among the snaggy shallows ofthe brook's mouth.
The brook was known locally as Swamp Brook, its shores for a mile ormore being boggy and treacherous. Fishermen who liked to landoccasionally and cast from terra firma avoided it. Phyllis had selectedit solely because it was the nearest brook to the camp which containedtrout. If she had remembered how full it was of snags, and how easilyguide boats are turned turtle, she would have selected some other brook,even, if necessary, at the "Back of beyond." It had been easy enough topropel the boat across the open waters of the lake, but to guide itclear of snags and around right-angle bends, especially when the geniusof rowing demands that eyes look astern rather than ahead, was beyondher powers. The boat ran into snags, poked its nose into boggy banks,turned half over, righted, rushed on, and stopped again with rude bumps.
Herring, that fatalistic young Bostonian, began to take an interest inhis fate. His flies trailed in the water behind him. His eyes never leftPhyllis's face. His handsome mouth was as near to smiling as it evergot.
"Do you," he said presently, "swim as well as you row?"
She stopped rowing; she laughed right out.
"Just about," she said.
"Good," he said seriously, "because I'm a dub at it, and in case of anupset, I look to you."
"The truth," said Phyllis, "is that there's no place to swim to. It'sall swamp in here."
"True," said Herring; "we would have to cling to the boat and call uponHeaven to aid us."
One of Herring's flies, trailing in the water, proved, at this moment,overwhelmingly attractive to a young and unsophisticated trout.
Herring shouted with the triumph of a schoolboy, "I've got one," andsprang to his feet.
"Please sit down!" said Phyllis. "We almost went that time."
"So we did," said Herring.
He sat down, and they almost "went" again.
"Now," said Phyllis, "play him."
"Play him?" said Herring. "Watch me." And he began to pull strongly uponthe fish.
The fish was young and weak. Herring's tackle was new and strong. Thefish dangled in mid-air over the middle of the boat.
"Sorry," said Herring, "I can't reach him. Take him off, please."
It has been said that Phyllis was a good sport. If there was one thingshe hated and feared more than another, it was a live fish. She reachedforward; her gloved hand almost closed upon it; it gave a convulsiveflop; Phyllis squeaked like a mouse, threw her weight to one side, andthe boat quietly upset.
The sportsmen came to the surface streaming.
"I can touch bottom," said Herring politely; "can you?"
"Yes," she said, "but my feet are sinking into it--" She tore them looseand swam. Herring did likewise. And they clung to the boat.
"I hope you'll forgive me," said Phyllis. "I never rowed a boat beforeand I never could stand liv
e fish."
"It was my fault," said Herring. "Something told me to lean the oppositefrom the way you leaned. But it told me too late. The truth is I don'tknow how to behave in a boat. Well, you are still guide. It's up toyou."
"What is up to me?"
"A plan of some sort," said he, "to get us out of this."
"Oh, no," she said, "it's up to you."
"My plan," he said, "would be to get back into the boat and row home. Itseems feasible, and even easy. But appearances are deceptive. I thinkI'd rather walk. What has happened here might happen out on the middleof the lake."
"What you don't realize," said Phyllis, "is that we're in the midst ofan impassable swamp."
"Impassable?"
"Well, no one's ever crossed it except in winter."
"What--no one!"
He was immensely interested.
"Do you know," he went on confidentially, "the only things that I'm goodat are things for which there are no precedents--things that nobody hasever done before. That's why I'm so fond of doing unusual things. Now,you say that this swamp has never been crossed? Enough said. You and Iwill cross it. We _will_ do it. Are you game?"
"It seems," said Phyllis, "merely a question of when and where we drown.So I'm game. Your teeth are chattering."
"Thank you," said Herring. "But no harm will come to them. They are verystrong."
"I hope," said Phyllis, "that when I come out of the water you won'tlook at me. I shall be a sight."
"A comrade in trouble," said Herring, "is never a sight."
"I am so ashamed," said Phyllis.
"What of?"
"Of being such a fool."
"You're a good sport," said Herring. "That's what you are."
By dint of violent kicking and paddling with their free hands theymanaged to propel the guide boat from the centre of the brook to afirm-looking clump of reeds and alder roots which formed a tinypeninsula from that shore which was toward The Camp. Covered with slimeand mud they dragged themselves out of the water and stood balancingupon the alder roots to recover their breath.
"We must each take an oar," said Herring. "We can make little bridgeswith them. And we must keep working hard so as to get warm. We shalllive to write a brochure about this: 'From Clump to Clump, or Mudfootsin the Adirondacks.'"
Between that clump on which they had found a footing and the next wasten feet of water.
Herring crossed seven feet of it with one heavy jump, fell on his face,caught two handfuls of viburnum stems, and once more dragged himself outof water.
"Now then," he called, "float the oars over to me." And when Phyllis haddone this: "Now you come. The main thing in crossing swamps is to keepflat instead of up and down. Jump for it--fall forward--and I'll getyour hands!"
Once more they stood side by side precariously balancing.
"The moment," said Herring, "that you begin to feel bored, tell me."
"Why?"
"So that I can encourage you. I will tell you that you are doingsomething that has never been done before. And that will make you feelfine and dandy. What we are doing is just as hard as finding the NorthPole, only there isn't going to be so much of it. Now then, innegotiating this next sheet of water----"
And so they proceeded until the sun was high in the heavens and until itwas low.