Fishin Jimmy | Page 8

he had
heard far below a sound of distress. Looking down over a steep, rocky
ledge, he had seen his friend and fishing comrade, old Dash, in sore
trouble. Poor Dash! He never dreamed of harming his old friend, for he
had a kind heart. But he was a sad coward in some matters, and a very
baby when frightened and away from master and friends. So I fear he
may have assumed the role of wounded sufferer when in reality he was
but scared and lonesome. He never owned this afterward, and you may
be sure we never let him know, by word or look, the evil he had done.
Jimmy saw him holding up one paw helplessly, and looking at him
with wistful, imploring brown eyes, heard his pitiful whimpering cry
for aid, and never doubted his great distress and peril. Was Dash not a

fisherman? And fishermen, in Fishin' Jimmy's category, were always
true and trusty. So the old man without a second's hesitation started
down the steep, smooth decline to the rescue of his friend.
We do not know just how or where in that terrible descent he fell. To us
who afterward saw the spot, and thought of the weak old man, chilled
by the storm, exhausted by his exertions, and yet clambering down that
precipitous cliff, made more slippery and treacherous by the sleet and
hail still falling, it seemed impossible that he could have kept a
foothold for an instant. Nor am I sure that he expected to save himself,
and Dash too. But he tried. He was sadly hurt, I will not tell you of that.
Looking out from the hotel windows through the gathering darkness,
we who loved him--it was not a small group--saw a sorrowful sight.
Flickering lights thrown by the lanterns of the guides came through the
woods. Across the road, slowly, carefully, came strong men, bearing on
a rough hastily made litter of boughs the dear old man. All that could
have been done for the most distinguished guest, for the dearest,
best-beloved friend, was done for the gentle fisherman. We, his friends,
and proud to style ourselves thus, were of different, widely separated
lands, greatly varying creeds. Some were nearly as old as the dying
man, some in the prime of manhood. There were youths and maidens
and little children. But through the night we watched together. The old
Roman bishop, whose calm, benign face we all know and love; the
Churchman, ascetic in faith, but with the kindest, most indulgent heart
when one finds it; the gentle old Quakeress with placid, unwrinkled
brow and silvery hair; Presbyterian, Methodist, and Baptist,--we were
all one that night. The old angler did not suffer--we were so glad of that!
But he did not appear to know us, and his talk seemed strange. It
rambled on quietly, softly, like one of his own mountain brooks,
babbling of green fields, of sunny summer days, of his favorite sport,
and ah! of other things. But he was not speaking to us. A sudden, awed
hush and thrill came over us as, bending to catch the low words, we all
at once understood what only the bishop put into words as he said, half
to himself, in a sudden, quick, broken whisper, "God bless the man, he
's talking to his Master!"

"Yes. sir, that 's so," went on the quiet voice; "'t was on'y a dog sure
nuff; 'twa'n't even a boy, as ye say, an' ye ast me to be a fisher o' men.
But I haint had no chance for that, somehow; mebbe I wa'n't fit for 't. I
'm on'y jest a poor old fisherman, Fishin' Jimmy, ye know, sir. Ye
useter call me James--no one else ever done it. On'y a dog? But he
wa'n't jest a common dog, sir; he was a fishin' dog. I never seed a man
love fishin' mor 'n Dash." The dog was in the room, and heard his name.
Stealing to the bedside, he put a cold nose into the cold hand of his old
friend, and no one had the heart to take him away. The touch turned the
current of the old man's talk for a moment, and he was fishing again
with his dog friend. "See 'em break, Dashy! See 'em break! Lots on 'em
to-day, aint they? Keep still, there 's a good dog, while I put on a
diffunt fly. Don't ye see they 're jumpin' at them gnats? Aint the water
jest 'live with 'em? Aint it shinin' an' clear an'--" The voice faltered an
instant, then went on: "Yes, sir, I 'm comin'--I 'm glad, dreffle glad to
come. Don't mind 'bout my leavin' my fishin'; do ye think I care 'bout
that? I 'll jest lay