Nov. i, 1913. 
FOREST AND STREAM 
547 
At this point Beachcraft, assisted by J. P., 
announced dinner. The former’s face looked 
like a ‘‘before taking,” and between gasps, 
caused by inhaling smoke from the fire, he 
fidgeted with the coffee can. Hartley and I 
solemnly proceeded to the table. My seat was 
at the head and at another occasion than this I 
would have felt proud in the honor accorded me. 
The first number on the program was a large 
pickerel split through and fried in sections. We 
crossed knives and forks, and in a minute the 
fish was no more. The next thing on the menu 
was some adamantine biscuits, just fresh from 
the kiln. I hefted one and was surprised to see 
the muscles of my arm swell. Hartley suggested 
that we make a pair of dumbbells out of them, 
and I was enthusiastic. I was in hopes that 
the coffee would prove a redeeming feature on 
the bill of fare, and had the remarkable nerve 
to try a cup. After I had fished out two ante¬ 
diluvian creatures of horrible visage and menac¬ 
ing mien, and followed them with the spawn of 
a brook frog, I decided that I wasn’t as thirsty 
as I thought I was. We rose from the table, 
feeling wretched and downhearted. I regarded 
Beachcraft coldly. 
‘‘If that brazen-faced old he-cook and gen¬ 
eral jack of all trades don’t come by nightfall,” 
I said, with withering emphasis, ‘1, for one, will 
not be responsible for what happens.” 
‘‘If we have been exaggerating things,” said 
Hungerford, with a hurt feeling sweeping tumul¬ 
tuously across his fat countenance, “it certainly 
is not far from the truth. We simply have got 
to draw lots on who is going to roll down to 
the village in the automobile and get that creat¬ 
ure you have the nerve to call a cook. And 
they tell me he is the best cook in the State.” 
“Well, it’s lots then,” said Beachcraft, with 
an air of complete resignation. ‘‘Since the time 
we came here I haven’t slept peaceable. Cook¬ 
ing? Don’t blame me. I didn’t profess to have 
been shanghied out of the cook room of the 
Waldorf-Astoria, did I?” 
We had it out then and there, and 1 told 
him if he did not cool down, I would knock him 
unconscious with one of his biscuits. Hartley 
came between us then and said he wouldn’t see 
murder done. However, Hartley averred that 
it was on account of the bad cooking that we 
caught no fish. However true this was, I do 
not know, but it opened a new field for con¬ 
jecture. It was decided that no time should be 
lost. The pleasures of our camping trip could 
not be spoiled by such an insignificant thing as 
the lack of a cook, and the fact the four of us 
could not realize the enjoyments of an outing 
every week made the thought horrible, to say 
the least. We had the automobile standing near¬ 
by, covered with canvas, and not working. The 
village and hope lay beyond, and here we had 
been dawdling with hopes that would, not bear 
fruit. It was easy to be seen that we must use 
strenuous measures. Four matches were cut at 
various lengths and were placed in ITungerford’s, 
sorry to relate, fat and freckled hand. The 
manager of the threshing machine company drew 
first; that was Hartley. Next the real estate 
man; that was Beachcraft. Next the insurance 
man; that was me. Next and last, the cloth¬ 
ing store man; that was Hungerford. The lot 
fell to Hartley. The suspense was over, and 
all except Hartley were glad in the turn of 
events. 
That afternoon while Hartley was away to 
the village, Hungerford, Beachcraft and the 
scribe went out on the lake fishing. As his¬ 
torian of that expedition and all other events 
I was accorded with deep respect, and as an 
honor was allowed to row the boat. We were 
rigged out with fishing implements fore and aft, 
and we resembled an expedition leaving for the 
Newfoundland Banks. Beachcraft insisted upon 
standing up in the boat to show his superior 
nerve, and with viking-like hauteur was monarch 
of all he surveyed. One time when the boat 
ground up against a rock he made an elaborate 
bow with some other frills that he didn’t know 
he was capable of. The words that he said were 
not very uplifting to humanity, so the less said 
the better. I have never seen such a tireless 
caster as Beachcraft. He seemed to be an auto¬ 
matic machine, and cast from morning till night, 
and barely had time for his meals. He had one 
failing. He cast while he was sleeping. I once 
slept next to him when he imagined he was 
tournament casting, and got a blow on the side 
of my cranium that transplanted me to Mars 
and neighboring planets. Then I cast around 
for another place to sleep. He actually cut 
streaks in the air, and .several times , he wrote 
(ContiHired on page 569.) ■'/ 
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