Chapter VIII The City Man
It was a midsummer evening soon after Jean’s first experience as mail-carrier, when he drove up to the house with a passenger, the first of a long procession of summer tourists that were to be the beginnings of prosperity to St. Placide.
“Dieu merci!” said the City Man, as the spring cart stopped at the Giroux door. “God be thanked that we are here at last! Let us descend. Ah, but I have cramps in my legs. What a drive! Four hours over those infernal roads, up and down those everlasting hills. But in the end we arrive; as the evening shadows fall we come to our destination. Behold a house in the wilderness. Regard the light in the window. See, the door opens and Madame the hostess appears on the threshold. Are we invited to enter?”
“Certainly,” said Jean. “Come in, Monsieur. Let me present you to my mother, Monsieur, who will take care of you while I put my horse in the stable. My mother, this is Monsieur Trudel, a gentleman from Quebec who wishes to have a day’s fishing in the St. Ange.”
“Come in, Monsieur,” said Madame Giroux, with a smile of welcome. “It is but a poor house, but we will give you of our best. See, you were expected, and the supper is on the table. Take a place, Monsieur; we will serve you immediately.”
“With great pleasure, Madame. Ah, how good it is to have arrived somewhere! This is not the Hotel St. Louis, to be sure, nor even the Chien d’Or, but it is a comfortable habitant home, very proper in every way, as one sees. What a fine, solid old table! How cosy those rag carpets! How gay the blue china on the dresser—genuine willow pattern, too! How cheery that bright fire! It was getting cold outside. Ah, Madame, you bring me soup—purée of green peas. This is soup indeed. What flavour! What genial warmth! Madame, it goes to my heart. Never have I tasted anything so appetising, so nourishing, so consoling. Believe me, it is not in Quebec that one eats such soup.”
“Monsieur,” said Madame Giroux, beaming upon the stranger. “I am pleased to know that you like the soup. Now try a little of the ragout, if you please. You will find it tasty, I hope.”
“Madame, you will not need to ask me twice, I assure you. Such a ragout after such a soup! I have no words. I am silenced. I can only ask for more of that ragout, and then a little more. Madame Giroux, this is the place I have been dreaming about all the year, all through the long winter, and now for two days I escape from the heat and dust of the city, and here I am—in Paradise. Here I would stay for the rest of my life. Ah, how I love the peace, the solitude of this place, where one has such an appetite and where one is regaled with such delicacies! Some more ragout? Ah, no, Madame, it is enough. Never do I eat to the point of surfeit. Wild strawberries and cream, you say? Yes, I accept willingly. And a cup of hot tea? Certainly. And after that my pipe, with your permission. Truly, I am content. It is a good world, is it not?”
“But yes, Monsieur, it is the world of the good God.”
“Ah! I had not thought of that. On the contrary, I have often thought it the world of the devil. Back there in the city it is surely so, but in these mountains it may be that the good God still resides. Who can tell? At least, there are good people here. That son of yours, Madame—he is a brave lad, and quite intelligent. He is no stupid habitant, not he. Quite different from the others—one sees that. He has studied, even, has he not, Madame?”
“But yes, Monsieur, he has studied, very much. We were going to make a priest of him, but he would not. It was a pity, was it not?”
“A pity? Yes, a pity that you ever thought of it. To make a priest of Hector! To put a soutane on Achilles! To make him sit in a little box while young ladies come to confess their sins, their most grievous sins! Ha! Ha! No, that is not for him. For others, perhaps, but for him work and war and love. That is his vocation. But there he comes. Look at him. Have you ever seen a more perfect model of a man; a true Greek of the heroic age?”
“Well, my friend, you are coming to supper at last, and you have an appetite like a wolf. I also had an appetite, but it is gone, because of a certain soup of green peas and a certain ragout, besides other dainties. But do not fear, I have left something for you. Fall to, my brave one. Enjoy the good things of life. Meanwhile I will show you my tackle, the apparatus with which I shall catch your trout. Look, my brave habitant, have you ever seen a collection like this?”
The City Man thereupon unrolled his kit, and displayed before the astonished eyes of Madame Giroux and Jean the most complete assemblage of fishing tackle ever seen in St. Placide. There were lance-wood rods of the finest stock, with delicate tips so slender that one would think they could not hold a minnow, and yet so tough that, in the hands of a skilful angler, they might draw in a salmon, though not without a long struggle. There were reels of gun-metal and oxidized silver, thin lines of the finest silk, casting-lines of gut and horse-hair, and a book of choice flies of every kind, from the modest March Brown and the plain Grey Hackle to the handsome Silver Doctor and the gaudy Jock Scott.
“Mon Dieu, Monsieur,” said Jean, “you have all that is necessary, certainly. There is not a trout in the St. Ange that will be able to resist you.”
“That is what I think,” said the City Man, with a confident smile. “We shall catch fish to-morrow, you may be sure. And here is a little steelyard for weighing the big ones. It goes up to five pounds. We shall not take a trout bigger than that in this stream.”
“I think not,” said Jean. “It is very seldom that so large a fish is caught. If we get one of two pounds we shall do well. In former times there were plenty of big trout, and there are some left, but it is not easy to catch them. It demands skill and patience.”
“If that is all,” said the City Man, “we shall get them. You will see, my brave Jean. Look, for example, at this little book, a record of my achievements for the past four years. See! Stoneham, June 17th, 1895, 54 trout; June 18th, 55; June 19th, 68, of which the smallest was 8 inches in length and the largest, 16 inches. Again, Metabetchouan, Lac St. Jean, June 10th, 1896, 33 ouananiche, running from 1 to 5 pounds. Once more, Restigouche, July 5th, 1897, two salmon of 15 pounds each, one of 19 pounds, and one of 25 pounds. I could go on, but that is enough to show you that I have caught fish in my day, thousands of trout, hundreds of salmon, besides black bass innumerable, pike, too, and maskinonge, that tiger of the Canadian rivers. Yes, I claim to be an angler, a faithful disciple of the good Sir Isaac.
“You smile, my rural friend? Well, to-morrow I will show you. You will take your bamboo pole, your clothes line and your fat worms, while I will take one of my light rods, a thin silk line, a delicate cast, and those flies, as many as may be necessary, and at the end of the day we shall see. Yes, we shall see, my little demigod, my Ajax of the parish. If I do not take two trout for every one of yours, and the biggest fish of the day, I will give you my best rod and my book of flies, and I will eat my boots by way of penance. What do you say? Shall we have a contest for the championship of the St. Ange?”
“Willingly,” said Jean, “but with your permission I will not use the bamboo pole of which you speak, nor the fat worms. I also have a liking for fly-fishing, and I should like to enter the contest on equal terms. If you win, Monsieur, which is more than likely, I shall be glad to have you take as the spoils of war the arms of the vanquished. But as for eating boots, you will excuse me, Monsieur, if I have no appetite for that.”
“Mon Dieu, Monsieur Jean de St. Placide de St. Ange, but you have the true spirit of the olden time. And he fishes with a fly; the little habitant of the mountains uses the weapons of chivalry. Good! We shall have a tourney for trout, for glory, for the love of ladies. And I will overthrow you, so to speak, carry away your sword, your spear, your coat of mail, and put your name in my little book. Ha! ha! It will be sport indeed, and war—yes, war to the death.
“But meanwhile, my good Jean, we are the best of friends, are we not? You do not mind my innocent persiflage, I am sure. It is but the effervescence of spirits too long confined in the narrow conventions of city life, a little bubbling over of froth on the top of good liquor. Were it not for that I should burst, I think, at the heart. Ah, the blessed country! What relief, what freedom, what recreation! But it occurs to me that a good sleep would be the best preparation for the struggle of the coming day. Is it not so, Jean? Madame, with your permission I will take my candle. Madame, I retire. I bid you good-night. Until four o’clock, Jean, my dear enemy.”
At four o’clock Jean aroused the City Man from a dreamless sleep; at half-past four they had breakfast; and an hour later they were setting up their rods by the St. Ange, at a place where the river was broad and a strong man could ford the stream.
“This is where I usually begin,” said Jean, “for it is a good place to cross. If you will take the other side you will find good fishing.”
“No doubt,” said the City Man, “the fishing must be good over there since few men could cross that current. But I will take no advantage, my friend. You shall cross and I will fish on this side.”
“But no, Monsieur, you do not know the stream, as I do. Pass over, if you please.”
“Not at all, Jean, I will not. But wait. Let us toss a coin. Heads, you go across, tails, I go.”
“Tails,” said Jean.
“It is tails, Jean, so you have your way, after all. Well, here goes, my brave one. I will take the other side according to the hazard, and meet you somewhere above, later in the day. Au revoir, Jean.”
“Au revoir, Monsieur, and good luck to you.”
The City Man waded into the stream, and when he reached the middle, standing in three feet of swift water, he made a dexterous cast and immediately hooked a fine, half-pound trout. After a brief struggle he brought the fish to hand, and held it up with a shout of triumph.
“There, Jean,” he called, above the noise of the water. “First blood! Begin, my brave one, you have no time to lose. Begin, begin.”
Thus the contest began, and all day the rivals fished up the stream, trying their best to outdo each other both in numbers and size. The day was perfect, with alternating sun and shade, and a light breeze that raised a ripple on the pools, and in both pools and rapids the hungry trout rose eagerly to the fly. Jean passed quickly along, contenting himself with taking one or two fish in every good place, while the City Man patiently whipped every foot of the stream. In some pools he took four or five trout, and there was not a likely place where he did not catch at least one fish.
Soon Jean was far ahead, but the City Man paid no attention to him. Enjoying the solitude, the sound of the water, the voice of the breeze, the delicious mountain air, he took keen delight in examining with a practised eye every pool and riffle, every possible lurking-place for the agile, wary trout. In this swift water he would take an eight-inch fish, behind that rock in mid-stream he would hook a ten-inch trout that would fight like a veteran; in that deep pool beneath the shade of an overhanging pine he might hope to take a trout weighing at least a pound, with a chance of capturing a big fish, the prize of the day.
It was glorious sport, the best that the City Man had ever known, and it had for him an added zest in the thought of the contest with his rustic adversary, the triumph that would be his, and the trophy that he was going to win. It was not a very fine rod, that of Jean Baptiste, but it would be an interesting memento of his visit to St. Placide, and a further proof of his claim to the title of champion angler of the Province. So the City Man went on fishing all the day, never once relaxing his efforts, not even stopping to eat the good luncheon that Madame Giroux had provided. The morning passed; the afternoon wore away; while the City Man’s pannier was gradually filled, until there was not room for another trout. Then he noticed that the sun was sinking, and the shadows creeping down the mountainside.
“Mon Dieu,” he said to himself, “I had no idea that it was so late. And we must be at least four miles from the house. How heavy that pannier! A good catch, certainly. But where is my poor Jean Baptiste? I have not seen him since the early morning. Ah, there he is on the other side, sitting on a big rock and smoking his pipe as though at peace with himself and all the world. He has given up the contest, that is clear. Well, the poor devil must have some consolation. But I wonder how long he has been there.”
“Holà, Jean! Holà, there! Can one cross at this place?”
“Yes, Monsieur,” called Jean. “This is the best ford on the river. Come right over. The water is not at all deep.”
“Well, my brave one,” said the City Man, as he stepped out of the water. “Well, my noble angler, and did you catch some fish? Did they take worms to-day?”
“You forget, Monsieur, that we were to fish with flies.”
“Oh, yes, very true. And you have done it? It was hard work, was it not? It demands skill, as you have discovered. But do not be discouraged. Cheer up. You will learn in the course of time. A young man of your intelligence can learn anything. Come now, how many did you take?”
“I have not counted them, Monsieur,” said Jean, “but I see that you have made a good catch, a very good catch.”
“A good catch? Well, I may say so,” said the City Man, a little nettled. “It is the catch of my life. See! I will pour them out on the pebbles. Yes, a nice pile of trout. Let us count them. One—two—three... seventy-two—seventy-three—seventy-four—all good fish—and this two-pounder makes seventy-five. A good day’s work. Yes, Jean, there are trout in this river, but it takes skill to catch them. It is all in a little turn of the wrist. I will teach you. But show your fish. If you have thirty-eight trout, I lose.”
“Well,” said Jean, with a smile, getting his pannier from the cool shade of the rock, “I think that I have at least thirty-eight. Let us see. One—two—three—four... thirty-seven—thirty-eight—thirty-nine... seventy-four—seventy-five—seventy-six... eighty-eight—eighty-nine—ninety. There, Monsieur, that is not bad—ninety good trout; and this one, the brother of yours; and this other, the grandfather of both. There, that is all.”
The City Man was speechless. He gasped in astonishment, grew pale for a moment, then red in the face; but presently, as he gazed on the wonderful catch, his equanimity returned, and with it a glow of enthusiasm for the angler who had shown a prowess so unexpected, so utterly admirable. Turning to Jean with an air of new and profound respect, he said:
“Monsieur Giroux, I salute you as the most perfect angler of the Province. More than that, I say, I, Gaspard Trudel, that there is not your equal in the whole of Canada. Accept, I beg of you, this rod of mine. It was a trophy, and I have used it with pride, but now it will be in more worthy hands. Monsieur Giroux, once more I salute you.”
Two days later, as Jean was driving Monsieur Trudel back to the city, they talked much of the future industrial development of St. Placide. Monsieur Trudel was a man of vision, and entered with enthusiasm into Jean’s plans and ambitions, declaring that an angler of such eminence could attain the same distinction in other fields of effort and would succeed in anything that he might undertake. But the sportsman was also an astute lawyer and man of affairs, and wisely counselled Jean to make haste slowly, step by step, overcoming minor obstacles as they were encountered and gaining strength and experience by which he should remove mountains in the course of time. Meanwhile, there was the farm to manage, the mail contract to fulfil, and if bed and board could be provided for sportsmen such as he, it would be easy to find many tired men from the city who would gladly spend their holidays in such a paradise. So it was Monsieur Trudel who, for good or ill, first suggested to Jean the exploitation of the summer tourist.