John Fitzgerald GB 05 Great Bra (6 page)

I wasn’t about to pass up a chance to make twenty-five cents, so I went with Tom. We got away from the crowd without being noticed. Then we ran home and got a gunnysack, a shovel, and the ax. When we arrived on the bank of the canal, I scooped the dirt away from the stakes with the shovel. Tom used the blunt end of the ax to knock the stakes loose and then put them in the gunnysack. After removing all the stakes, we smoothed out the’ dirt.

“Now jump around on the ground,” Tom said.

“Why?” I asked.

“We’ve got to leave footprints just in case somebody does come snooping around,” he said.

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I understood as I remembered how the Gentile team were dancing around after winning. We made footprints and then went home. Tom mixed the stakes in with the chopped kindling wood in the woodshed. We got back to the courthouse before the loudest, most brilliant, and best of the fireworks were shot into the air. After the display was over. Papa and Mamma and Sweyn and his girl went to the dance in the Mormon tabernacle. Aunt Bertha, Frankie, Tom, and I went home.

Seth Smith and the nine other Mormon kids on the tug of war team came down the alley the next morning, just as Frankie and I were finishing our chores. Tom was sitting on the railing of the corral fence. He jumped to the ground and stared at the shovel Seth was carrying. Then he pulled the notebook from his pocket.

“I was just going to start making the rounds to collect the bets I won,” he said.

“You aren’t going to collect any bets,” Seth said, “until we find out something.”

“Like what?” Tom asked, looking innocent.

“Like how you beat us in the tug of war,” Seth said.
T think you planted rocks and bricks in the ground on your side for your team to brace their feet against.”

“I give you my word of honor,” Tom said, “that we didn’t put any rocks or bricks in the ground to brace our feet against. But if it will make you feel better, we will go take a look.”

Eddie Huddle arrived to play with Frankie. I went with Tom and the Mormon kids to the canal. Seth dug up the ground every place a Gentile kid could have put his feet during the tug of war.

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“Are you satisfied?” Tom asked.

Seth nodded his head.

“Then apologize for what you said,” Tom ordered, “or you and I are going to have a fight right now.”

Seth knew darn well he couldn’t whip Tom. “Well, gee whiz,” he said, “you can’t blame me for being suspicious. You and I are about the only two the same size. All the other kids on my team were bigger and stronger than the kids on your team. We should have won easy.”

“Do you call that an apology?” Tom demanded.

“All right,” Seth said. “I’m sorry for what I said.”

“That’s better,” Tom said. “And now that you’ve apologized, I’ll tell you why your team lost. Every year the Mormon team has been winning the tug of war. This built up a lot of false confidence in your team. They were so sure they would win, some of them didn’t even try. It stands to reason that with a heavier and stronger team you should have won, if every kid did his best. But some of them just lay down on the job, letting the others do the work.” Tom took his notebook from his pocket. “I’ll start collecting bets now and begin with you, Seth.”

But The Great Brain didn’t get to collect any bets right away. That little speech of his started the ten Mor-mon kids arguing with each other. They were accusing each other of lying down on the job. Words soon led to blows and in a few minutes there were five separate fist fights go-ing on at the same time.

Tom stood watching with an amused smile on his face. “Enjoy it, J. D.,” he said. “This makes up for all the times. Mormon kids have dunked Gentile kids in the canal.”

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SWEYN HAD RECEIVED a fly rod and reel with a dozen fly hooks for Christmas. And now that it was fishing season, boy, oh, boy, did he think he was something. He took an old hat and put his fly hooks on it to make him look like a real fisherman. He placed a wooden hoop from a barrel on our front lawn and practiced casting inside the hoop. He went fishing in the river and caught plenty of suckers, but he had to throw them back. Mamma wouldn’t cook them because she said they weren’t fit to eat. Once in a while Sweyn did catch a rainbow or German brown trout in the river. But the only really good fishing around Aden-viile was in the creeks and streams in the mountains.

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I couldn’t blame Sweyn for being proud of his fishing gear. He was the only boy in town who had a fly rod and reel. The rest of us kids had to use just a pole with a line and hook. But I did blame Sweyn for being too darn selfish with his fishing gear. He wouldn’t let Tom or me touch it, let alone practice casting.

Papa told us we would be leaving on our annual fishing and camping trip the week after the Fourth of July, Right away Sweyn began bragging that he would catch twice as many fish as Tom and me put together.

“You know, J. D.,” Tom said to me the day before we were to leave, as We sat on the back porch steps, “when a fellow gets so selfish he won’t let his own brothers touch his rod and reel, it is time to teach him a lesson.”

I knew right then that Tom was going to put his great

brain to work on a plan to stop Sweyn from being so selfish and a braggart.

That evening Tom was studying the pages advertising fishing gear in the Sears Roebuck catalog. Finally, he put it aside.

“Why do people pay so much money for fishing rods and reels?” he asked Papa.

Papa laid aside the. magazine he had been reading. “The answer is obvious,” he said. “To enable them to catch more fish. With a fly rod and reel, you can cast a line several times farther than you can with just a pole. This enables you to fish in waters you can’t reach with a pole-With a fly rod you can also fish in rapids, where it is rather difficult to fish with a pole. And your chances of losing a fish you’ve hooked are slight. With a rod and reel you can let out line and play the fish and keep him hooked.”

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“In other words,” Tom said, “S. D. should catch a lot more fish than I do on our trip.”

“Considerably more,” Papa answered.

“Will he catch a bigger fish?” Tom asked.

“It stands to reason that if he catches five or six times more fish than you do,” Papa said, “he will catch a bigger fish than you do.”

Tom shook his head. “I wouldn’t be surprised if I catch a bigger trout than he does,” he said.

Sweyn grinned. “Wouldn’t want to bet on it, would you?” he asked.

“I just might,” Tom said,

Then Papa said, “You would be very foolish if you did.”

Frankie and I had to go to bed at eight o’clock. I was asleep when Tom and Sweyn came into the room at nine. Tom woke me up.

“Need you as a witness, J. D.,” Tom said. Then he turned to Sweyn. “Now, big brother, put your money where your mouth is. Papa said the odds were five or six to one that you will catch a bigger fish on this trip than I will. Just give me odds of two to one and I’ll make you a bet.”

“You’ve got it,” Sweyn said. “How much do you want to bet?”

“That Bristol steel fly rod of yours cost three dollars and ninety cents in the Sears Roebuck catalog,” Tom said. “The Penell reel costs two dollars and fifty cents and a dozen hooks cost a dollar. That comes to seven dollars and forty cents-I’ll bet three dollars and seventy cents against them that I catch a bigger trout on this trip than you do.”

“That would make up for some of the cash you’ve won

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from me in the past,” Sweyn said. “But^how do I know you won’t borrow Dad’s rod and reel?”

“J. D. is a witness,” Tom said, “that I will use just a pole, line, and hook and worms for bait.”

“Are we betting how long the fish is or by the weight?” Sweyn asked.

“By the weight,” Tom answered. “We will take that old kitchen scale of Mamma’s that she used to use for measuring flour with us.”

“You’ve got yourself a bet,” Sweyn said confidently. “Shake on it,” Tom said. “J. D. is a witness.”

They shook hands to seal the bargain and then Sweyn went to his room.

“Boy, oh, boy,” I said, “this is one time your great brain is going to cost you plenty. Papa said you’d be a fool to bet you would catch a bigger fish.”

Tom grinned. “There is more than one way to hook a big fish,” he said mysteriously.

We left the next morning. Tom and I rode in the buggy with Papa. Sweyn rode his mustang. Dusty. Frankie bawled because he was too young to go with us, but he stopped after Papa promised to take him next year.

The summer before Papa had got us lost on our camping and fishing trip. Mamma had to send Uncle Mark to find us. This year Papa decided to play it safe. We went to Beaver Canyon, where we’d gone fishing several times in the past. Beaver Creek, which ran down the canyon, was just the right size for trout fishing. I( was larger than a stream but not big enough to be called a river. We didn’t stop at the main campground but kept on going two miles up the canyon to a smaller campground.

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After we’d made camp there was still time to get in some fishing before supper. Papa and Sweyn went fishing in the rapids of Beaver Creek. Sweyn caught four rainbow and two German brown trout. Papa, using his jointed bam-boo rod and reel and fly hooks, caught three good-sized rainbow trout-Tom and I, using our poles and fishing from the bank of the creek, didn’t even get a bite. And boy, oh, boy, did Sweyn pour salt in our wounds as we ate the trout for supper.

The next morning Sweyn and Papa again went flyfishing in the rapids. Tom went upstream. I started fishing in a hole just below the rapids. I finally caught a rainbow trout. But it was only five inches long so I threw it back. And just as I did I heard Papa yelling.

“Don’t let him get away, son!” Papa shouted.

I could see Sweyn had a huge trout on his line and it was giving him a heck of a fight.

“Don’t let him get away!” Papa shouted again as he ran into the rapids in his hip boots, holding out his net.

“Don’t help me!” Sweyn yelled.

I guess he didn’t want Tom saying that he didn’t land the big fish himself. But Papa couldn’t have helped anyway. He slipped on a rock and fell into the water.

I grabbed my fishing pole and ran up the creek bank until I was opposite the rapids. Sweyn was still playing that big fish. Papa was on his feet, shouting encouragement. Slowly but surely Sweyn reeled in his line. But he had to battle that trout every inch of the way until he finally landed it in his net. He waded through the rapids to the bank of the creek. Papa sat down on the ground to empty the water out of his hip boots. Then he took the net and the huge, German brown trout from Sweyn.

“This has to be the biggest trout ever caught in Beaver

Creek,” Papa said. as proud as if he had caught the fish himself.

I had to agree with Papa. For my money Tom could kiss his three dollars and seventy cents good-by. We walked to camp and weighed the big trout. A two-pound trout was considered a good-sized fish for a mountain creek or stream. The German brown trout weighed three pounds and two

ounces. Tom didn’t return to camp until Papa started pre-paring our lunch.

“Hail the great fisherman!” Sweyn shouted. “Didn’t even get a bite,” Tom said.

Sweyn showed him his German brown trout and made Tom check the weight.

“You haven’t won yet,” Tom said stubbornly. I went with Tom after lunch. It didn’t take me long to discover why he hadn’t even gotten a bite. He wasn’t fishing. He was exploring upstream. He picked up a long pole he’d cut from an aspen tree, and we walked upstream until we came to a fishing hole. Tom leaned over the bank and stuck his pole into the water.

“What in the heck are you trying to do?” I asked, as curious as all get out.

“I’m trying to find the deepest hole in the creek,” he answered. “The deeper the hole the bigger the fish on the bottom. But I can tell you one thing, J. D. I believe all the deep holes upstream are pretty well fished out because they are closer to the main campground. Tomorrow I’ll try downstream.”

We were greeted with more jeers from Sweyn when we returned to camp for supper without any fish. After eating,

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Tom said he was going to try some night fishing.

“Fish all day,” Sweyn said, “and fish all night. But you’ll never catch a fish as big as my German brown trout.”

Tom was gone two hours-The next morning I went downstream with him. We walked about a mile and found three deep holes. When the sun hit the water just right, we could see some big trout on the bottom of two of those holes. But they sure as heck weren’t biting. All we caught were a couple of little fellows we threw back.

Papa was a man who believed if you caught fish you had to eat them. We had trout again for lunch.

“I’m getting tired of eating trout,” Sweyn said. “I think I’ll go hunting this afternoon.”

“See if you can get some quail or rabbits,” Papa said.

After we had washed the tin plates, tin cups, and knives and forks in the creek, Sweyn went hunting. I went downstream with Tom. He entered an aspen grove and took out hisjackknife.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“Make about six fishing poles and set them over those two deep holes we found,” he said.

“Won’t that be cheating?” I asked.

“I bet Sweyn that I’d catch the biggest fish with a pole, line, and hook and worm bait,” Tom said, smiling. “I didn’t say that I would use just one particular pole.”

I helped him cut and trim six fishing poles and tie lines and hooks to them.

“What if Sweyn or Papa come downstream and see all these poles you’ve set?” I asked.

“I’m only going to set them at night,” he answered. “Right now we’ll hide them in the bushes.”

We hid the poles. Then Tom put his arm around my shoulders.

“It is up to us,” he said solemnly, “to save our brother from becoming a selfish person and a braggart.”

Sweyn had as much luck hunting as he had fishing. He returned with four quail.