Randy of the River | Page 2

don't know unless it is patience," answered Randy, with a broad smile. "To catch fish you must be patient. Now when I caught my mess of fourteen two other boys were up to the Hole. But just because the fish did not bite right away they moved away, further up the river. But by doing that they got only about half as many as myself."
"Well, I am willing to be patient if I know I am going to catch something."
At this Randy laughed outright.
"You can't be sure of anything--in fishing. But I always reckon it's a good thing to hold on and give a thing a fair trial."
"I reckon you're right, Randy, and I'll give the fishing a fair trial to-day," answered Jack Bartlett. "Remember, the dock in quarter of an hour," he added, as he moved away.
"I'll be on hand--unless mother wants me to do something for her before I go away," returned Randy.
Randy, or rather Randolph, Thompson, to use his right name, was the only son of Louis Thompson, a carpenter of Riverport, a thriving town in one of our eastern states. Randy had no brothers or sisters, and lived with his father and mother in a modest cottage on one of the side roads leading to the hills back of the town. Randy was a scholar in the local school, standing close to the head of his class. It was now summer time and the institution of learning was closed, so the boy had most of his time to himself.
He had wanted to go to work, to help his father, who had some heavy doctors' bills to pay, but his parents had told him to take at least two weeks' vacation before looking for employment.
"He needs it," Mrs. Thompson had said to her husband. "He has applied himself very closely to his studies ever since last fall."
"Well, let him take the vacation and welcome," answered Louis Thompson. "I know when I was a boy I loved a vacation." He was a kind-hearted man and thought a good deal of his offspring and also of his wife, who was devoted to him.
The cottage stood back in the center of a well-kept garden, where Mrs. Thompson had spent much time over her flowers, of which she was passionately fond. It was a two-story affair, containing but five rooms, yet it was large enough for the family, and Randy, who had never known anything better, considered it a very good home. There was a small white fence in front, with a gate, and the path to the front stoop was lined with geraniums. Over the porch was trained a honeysuckle which filled the air with its delicate fragrance.
"Mother, I'm going fishing with Jack Bartlett!" cried Randy, running around to the kitchen, where his mother was busy finishing up the week's ironing.
"Very well, Randy," she answered, setting down her flatiron and giving him a smile. "I suppose you won't be back until supper time."
"It's not likely. Can I do anything for you before I go?"
"You might get a bucket of water and another armful of wood."
"I'll do that," answered Randy, and caught up the water bucket. "Anything else?"
"No. Take care of yourself while you are on the river."
"Don't worry about me, mother. Remember, I can swim like a fish."
"Yes, I know. But you must be careful anyway," answered Mrs. Thompson, fondly.
The water and wood were quickly brought into the cottage, Randy whistling merrily while he performed these chores. Then the youth ran for his fishing outfit, after which he took the spade, went down to the end of the garden, and turned up some worms, which he placed in a pasteboard box.
"Now I am off, mother!" he called out.
"Good-by, Randy," she said, and waved him a pleasant adieu from the open kitchen window.
"She's the best mother a boy ever had," thought Randy, as he walked away to join Jack at the dock.
"What a good boy!" murmured Mrs. Thompson. "Oh, I hope he grows up to be a good man!"
When Randy arrived at the dock he found himself alone. He brought out the boat and cleaned it up and got the oars. He was all ready for the start when a boy somewhat older than himself slouched up.
The newcomer was loudly dressed in a checked suit and wore a heavy watchchain, a big seal ring, and a diamond shirt stud. He might have been good-looking had it not been for the supercilious scowl of independence upon his face.
"Hullo there, Randy Thompson!" he called out. "What are you doing in Jack Bartlett's boat?"
His manner was decidedly offensive and did not suit Randy at all.
"I don't know as that is any of your business, Bob Bangs," he answered coldly.
"Humph! Jack won't thank you for getting out his boat," went on Bob Bangs. "If you