{"id":946,"date":"2019-03-27T03:23:13","date_gmt":"2019-03-27T03:23:13","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.sportsnewsforyou.com\/?p=946"},"modified":"2019-03-27T03:23:13","modified_gmt":"2019-03-27T03:23:13","slug":"mr-tutt-fights-a-draw-by-arthur-train","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/googmn.com\/?p=946","title":{"rendered":"\u201cMr. Tutt Fights a Draw\u201d by Arthur Train"},"content":{"rendered":"

American lawyer and writer, Arthur Train, was a prolific author of legal thrillers. His most popular work featured recurring fictional lawyer Mr. Ephraim Tutt. In \u201cMr. Tutt Fights a Draw\u201d Mr. Tutt is disturbed when he learns about the burning of land nearby, and he immediately takes legal action against the arsonist. <\/em><\/p>\n

Published August 8, 1936<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The Santapedia, which flows into the Bay of Chaleur at Ste. Marie des Isles, is one of the most celebrated salmon streams in Canada. On it is located the Wanic Club, which owns, perhaps, the best fishing water in the world and is composed of six eminent men \u2014 Sewell T. Warburton, president of the Utopia Trust Company of New York; Sidney Arbuthnot, president of British Columbian Railways; George R. Norton, president of the British Colonial Trust Company; Chester L. Ives, president of the Royal British Bank of Canada; the Right Reverend Lionel Charteris, Bishop of St. Albans; and last, but not least, Mr. Ephraim Tutt, honorary member. How the latter achieved his place in this Olympian body of sportsmen may be read in a piscatorial chronicle entitled Mr. Tutt\u2019s Revenge. But a lot of water has flowed over the rapids of \u201cPush-and-be-damned\u201d and through the Oxbow since that happened.<\/p>\n

Mr. Tutt had had the happiest three weeks of his life in outdoor companionship with the most congenial men he knew. Regretfully, surrounded by his old friends, he left the clubhouse veranda and walked down to the little beach, where his seventy-nine-year old guide, Donald McKay, was waiting in the canoe to paddle him back to civilization. Clad in khaki breeches and high-laced boots, he, nevertheless, wore his ancient stovepipe hat tilted on the back of his head \u2014 the only way to carry it, as he explained. \u201cWell, Eph,\u201d said Bishop Charteris, taking both the gnarled old hands in his, \u201cgoodbye until next year, and God bless you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThanks, My Lord,\u201d smiled the old lawyer. \u201cSorry I can\u2019t bestow my episcopal benediction in return, but you\u2019re a swell guy and I wish you luck.\u201d \u201cGoodbye! Goodbye, old man!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHere\u2019s your lunch, Mr. Tutt,\u201d interrupted Charles, the decrepit Negro functionary who had served as the Wanic\u2019s butler, valet, cook, waiter, barkeep and private orchestra for the past thirty-five years. \u201cI done slip in a bottle of the Bishop\u2019s Madeira,\u201d he added in a whisper.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou old thief!\u201d Mr. Tutt slapped him on the back… \u201cWell, boys, so long! Leave a few fish!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIf anyone hooks Leviathan again, send me a wire!\u201d He stepped into the canoe, settled himself comfortably against a gunny sack and lighted a stogy.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you expect to make Ste. Marie des Isles tonight?\u201d asked Charteris. \u201cEasily! Donald and I will \u2018boil,\u2019 as he calls it, at Portage Brook, reach the Nipsi by four o\u2019clock and be at The George in Ste. Marie in time for supper. I\u2019ll get a good night\u2019s sleep and catch the Whooper when it comes through at five tomorrow morning.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve got a better idea than that,\u201d said the president of the British Colonial Trust Company. \u201cYou know where the Canadian Seaboard and Gaspe crosses the river below the Stillwater Pool, twenty miles above Ste. Marie? Old man Micklejohn, of Montreal, has a camp there. He\u2019s leased most of the land on that part of the river \u2014 enough to give him a practical monopoly of the fishing rights, although I believe there\u2019s a farmer owns a short strip on the other side. I\u2019ll call up Micklejohn and tell him you\u2019re coming, and you can spend the night with him. That will give you time to fish the Stillwater before dark.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut I\u2019d have to get up by three o\u2019clock tomorrow morning and paddle the twenty miles downriver to Ste. Marie or miss my train,\u201d protested Mr. Tutt. \u201cYou forget I\u2019m getting old.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, you wouldn\u2019t,\u201d retorted Norton. \u201cThat\u2019s the point. Micklejohn\u2019s camp is just above the railroad and, under the law, the train has to stop there for three minutes because it\u2019s a drawbridge.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re wrong about that,\u201d said Sidney Arbuthnot, president of British Columbian Railways. \u201cThe train doesn\u2019t have to stop unless the draw is open, which it hasn\u2019t been in fifteen years. The reason it stops is that Micklejohn, who is president of the company, orders it to. He gets all his mail, ice, milk and eggs, everything he needs, that way fresh every morning, just as conveniently as if he was at home.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat a cinch you railroad men have!\u201d laughed Sewell Warburton, shaking his head. \u201cImagine what would happen if the president of the New York, New Haven and Hartford ordered the Yankee Clipper stopped at his country place to deliver his groceries!\u201d \u201cYes, but there\u2019s some difference between the Whooper and the Yankee Clipper,\u201d commented Chester Ives.<\/p>\n

\u201cA difference of about fifty-five miles an hour,\u201d nodded the Bishop.\u201d Well, anyhow,\u201d continued Norton, \u201cthe point is that, whatever the reason, the Whooper stops at the bridge and that, by taking it there, you can save the trip by river to Ste. Marie, besides having a chance to fish the best pool in the province besides.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSounds good to me,\u201d declared Mr. Tutt. \u201cI\u2019ve always wanted to throw a fly over the Stillwater.\u201d \u201cI\u2019ll call up Micklejohn at once,\u201d said Norton, \u201cand tell him to be sure to have the train stop for you. I know he\u2019s there.\u201d \u201cSure, he\u2019s there!\u201d grunted Donald McKay, and spat over the side of the canoe. \u201cBut will he want me to spend the night with him? Suppose he should be full,\u201d said Mr. Tutt. \u201cThere\u2019ll be plenty of room,\u201d Norton assured him. \u201cMicklejohn never has any guests.\u201d \u201cWell, goodbye!\u201d Mr. Tutt waved. \u201cGoodbye and tight lines to all! …Let her go, Donald!\u201d<\/p>\n

They pushed out into the stream. Against the high bank below the clubhouse stood his five friends waving their farewells. A lump came into his throat. God bless \u2018em They were the best \u2014 the top! Fishermen always were!<\/p>\n

For the first hour, with his long legs stretched comfortably before him, Mr. Tutt cast lazily with his trout rod, first right, then left, while Donald McKay paddled him swiftly down the Santapedia; then, as the sun grew hotter, he unjointed the rod, put it with the others in his leather case and abandoned himself to admiring the passing scenery and to ruminating upon the river\u2019s history. To the north, as far as the St. Lawrence, stretched an unbroken wilderness, penetrated only by rough logging roads. At rare intervals the eye caught broken patches, thick with birch and maple, which had once been clearings, but the few pioneer settlers had vanished long ago, and now one could paddle half a day without encountering another human being. It had always been a great salmon river, the water closely held under individual leases, ever since a sporting governor general of the Dominion had discovered its possibilities half a century before; although, owing to the lumbering of its watersheds, it had steadily dwindled in size throughout that period and many former fishing camps had been abandoned.<\/p>\n

Twenty miles below the Wanic, they passed a pine-covered bluff above a sand spit. \u201cJoe Jefferson had a camp in those trees,\u201d said Donald, pointing to a pile of rotting timber. \u201cI poled him and Grover Cleveland upriver first time they come. Must ha\u2019 been forty years ago. Boy! They was hell on fishin\u2019.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd on telling stories?\u201d suggested Mr. Tutt.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd tellin\u2019 stories!\u201d agreed Donald. \u201cSay, the loggers are tellin\u2019 those same yarns up in the back country yet.\u201d<\/p>\n

At noon they beached the canoe to \u2018boil\u2019 at a bend beside a foaming stream where the woods had been cut back for, perhaps, a third of a mile, and while Donald built the fire and put on the teapot, Mr. Tutt followed the brook through the alders and undergrowth. All was still under the noonday heat except for the chitter of squirrels or the plash of a kingfisher, dipping in syncopated flight ahead of him. A hundred yards or so from the river, he came upon some overgrown depressions, their bottoms half filled with stones, and farther back, upon some elevated oblong mounds. Poking among the bushes, he stumbled upon a piece of rusted iron half eaten away.<\/p>\n

\u201cMust have been some houses in there once,\u201d he remarked to Donald, exhibiting his find.<\/p>\n

\u201cSure,\u201d answered the old guide from where he squatted with the frying pan of bacon in his hand. \u201cThis is where the old French village used \u2018to be. There\u2019s treasure buried there, if you can find it. I\u2019ve hunted for it many a time when I was a boy.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat kind of treasure?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGold, money. A hundred and seventy years ago this was all French country. Ste. Marie des Isles was one of their big towns. When the war with the English come, the inhabitants all got scairt and moved upriver to where they thought they\u2019d be safe. Three hundred came here with their children and everything they had. They settled along that stream and built their houses. Nobody came after \u2019em and they stayed here for twenty years or so. Then the smallpox killed \u2019em all off \u2014 nary one was left. There\u2019s a pile of money buried in there somewhere.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow far are we from Ste. Marie?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAbout eighty miles.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd to the Stillwater?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSixty. We\u2019ll get there easy by six o\u2019clock.\u201d<\/p>\n

They devoured Charles\u2019 excellent lunch, carefully extinguished the tiny fire, drank a tin cup each of the Bishop\u2019s Madeira, and pushed off again. Each of the old men had a stogy between his lips, while the bottle, with its remaining contents, stood embedded between Mr. Tutt\u2019s legs. He was very happy, peaceful and satisfied. He had killed his limit, he was full of fresh air and good food, the sunlight flecked the ripples on the river, a soft breeze laden with the scent of balsam drew down the gullies \u2014 God was in his heaven, all was right with the world. Mr. Tutt unbuttoned his waistcoat, extended himself longitudinally as far as possible and took another drink. This was the life! Those French fleeing from their enemies had selected a good place. A bit cold in winter, perhaps. But what the fishing must have been in those old days! And yet they were all gone!<\/p>\n

The sun lowered towards the pine tops in a cloudless sky; the breeze died; amid a silence unbroken save for the gurgle of the river against the sides of the canoe, they were swept swiftly downstream by the current. The shadows of the trees were lengthening across the river as, about five o\u2019clock, they passed the Oxbow \u2014 the pool next above the Stillwater, ten miles farther on. A couple of sportsmen were just getting into their canoes for the evening fishing. Then the forest closed about them again, and they entered a long stretch of rapids, where Donald let the canoe run, steering it with his paddle.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnother twenty minutes and we\u2019ll be at the Stillwater,\u201d he said. \u201cBetter set up your rod. There\u2019s half a dozen drops and it\u2019ll take us over an hour to fish it before we get to Micklejohn\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n

By the time Mr. Tutt had put his rod together and selected his gear, they had shot the rapids and emerged into a smiling farmland, the river broadening to lush meadows high with grass. A mile ahead, below a series of sparkling reaches, lay the railroad bridge. They had reached the famous Stillwater.<\/p>\n

Donald shoved the canoe into a shady backwater sheltered by tall trees while Mr. Tutt adjusted his leader.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere was a town here once too,\u201d he remarked. \u201cAlthough you\u2019d never guess it. There\u2019s only one family left \u2014 Jim Ferguson\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mr. Tutt looked across the river. \u201cIsn\u2019t that the remains of an old wharf?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, but it\u2019s all fallen to pieces. This is a great place for hay. In the old days they used to barge it down to Ste. Marie des Isles. Jim made good money until he was burned out…. The first drop\u2019s over there. It\u2019ll be dark soon. I\u2019d try a Black Gnat.\u201d<\/p>\n

While the old gentleman was tying on his fly, there rose from the woods beside them a series of birdcalls more melodious than anything he had ever heard. The notes rose and fell in chirpings, now like scattered drops of crystal, now in silver trills and quavers, followed by the mellow arpeggio of the Canadian thrush, until Mr. Tutt found himself, like Siegfried, staring entranced into the boughs above his head. \u201cExquisite,\u201d he murmured. \u201cThe mellow ousel fluting in the elm!\u2019 What sort of bird is it?\u201d<\/p>\n

Donald grinned.<\/p>\n

\u201cBurrd! That ain\u2019t no burrd! It\u2019s a woman! \u201cThrusting his paddle into the water, he silently shoved the canoe around a boulder that cut off the view of the bank fifty yards beyond.<\/p>\n

The song ceased suddenly in the midst of a cadenza. A young girl, her black curls tied gypsy-like in a red handkerchief, was sitting on a log with her head thrown back against a rock, her open khaki shirt exposing her white throat. Her brown eyes, startled at their unheralded approach, quickly regained their confidence.<\/p>\n

\u201cHello, Mr. McKay!\u201d she called, in a voice as sweet as the notes she had been uttering.<\/p>\n

\u201cPlease don\u2019t stop!\u201d begged Mr. Tutt. \u201cI\u2019d rather listen to you than fish.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe thought you was a burrd!\u201d laughed Donald. \u201cI don\u2019t blame him neither. Many\u2019s the time you\u2019ve fooled me with your veery calls and your warblers.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey often answer me at this time of day,\u201d she said. \u201cThe thrushes at twilight especially from the grove behind them echoed a golden canzonet. Hark! Do you hear that one?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSure!\u201d declared Donald. \u201cYour mate\u2019s a-callin\u2019 you. Is your dad to home?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019m sure he\u2019d like to see you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTell him I\u2019ll be over after supper, or maybe before,\u201d answered Donald, with a grimace.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you going to fish the Stillwater? There\u2019s a run on. I saw a lot of big ones on their way up the river from the bridge last evening. Mr. Micklejohn killed a forty-pounder this morning.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWho is that lucky child?\u201d asked Mr. Tutt, as, the Black Gnat having been properly fastened, he told Donald to shove off.<\/p>\n

\u201cJim Ferguson\u2019s girl. Clochette,\u2019 they call her. Her mother\u2019s French.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cA charming creature. She has a wonderful voice.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou bet she has. Some folks say she could sing in grand opry.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIs she getting proper instruction?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJim\u2019s been sendin\u2019 her to Boston every winter for the last three years. He\u2019s mighty proud of her, I tell ye! We all are, for that matter. But she\u2019s got to give it up.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHer dad lost everything he had in the fire. Ain\u2019t even got a house no more. They\u2019re campin\u2019 out in tents this summer.\u201d<\/p>\n

The canoe slid out into midstream and floated toward the head of a wide sun-flecked stretch alive with ripples. Donald dropped the killick overboard into the translucent water, here only from three to six feet deep, dug in his paddle to steady the canoe, and Mr. Tutt, lifting his rod, cast at right angles across the stream. The fly settled lightly on the current and was sucked rapidly along and under. Gradually the arc of the line straightened out and he was just about to make another cast when the tip of the rod was drawn heavily downward, the water boiled as from the turn of a propeller, and the line began to run through the guides.<\/p>\n

Mr. Tutt struck lightly against a dead weight. Next instant the reel was screaming, the line melting away, humming like a telegraph wire in a sixty-mile gale. He anchored the butt in his belt socket, braced his feet and held tight. It was as if he were connected with a plunging race horse. Far downstream, there was a silver gleam as the salmon broke. The strain slackened momentarily, and the old man reeled in as fast as he could. Then the reel began to scream again, and once more the spool melted away. \u201cHe\u2019s headed for salt water!\u201d shouted Donald, pulling the killick.\u201d We got to follow him!\u201d \u201cHurry!\u201d gasped the old man, pressing down the drag of the reel with all his force. \u201cI haven\u2019t got more than thirty yards left!\u201d Donald dropped the killick into the canoe with a thud, yanked free his paddle, threw his whole weight against it, and the canoe shot downstream. The reel stopped screaming and Mr. Tutt, heaving the rod against his ancient belly, began, foot by foot, to regain his line. But this did not disconcert the salmon, which had evidently made up its mind that it had important business in Ste. Marie des Isles and intended to get there immediately. Aided by Donald\u2019s strenuous paddling and the strength of the current, the big fish towed them along at fifteen miles an hour. The shores slid by. The railroad bridge drew nearer and nearer. The half dozen buildings of Micklejohn\u2019s camp, with the Canadian flag flapping above them, swept into view.<\/p>\n

Suddenly the salmon broke again, hurling itself, end over end, high into the air in a rainbow of silver and dropping flat with a crash that churned the surface into foam. Mr. Tutt reeled furiously. The line came in slack, then gradually tightened, running out toward the riffle at the outlet of the pool just above the bridge. The salmon had decided that he needed a rest and that, for the moment at least, he had gone far enough. Swiftly the current carried them toward where the great fish lay skulking in mid channel, until they were almost directly above him. Mr. Tutt had regained most of his line and was ready for another dash \u2014 to Anticosti, if need be.<\/p>\n

\u201cKeep your line tight, or he may work free,\u201d warned Donald. \u201cHe\u2019s anchored there. Got his head agin\u2019 a rock prob\u2019ly.\u201d<\/p>\n

It was too deep to reach the salmon with a gaff or otherwise to dislodge him. Neither was it possible, in the face of the current, to maintain their position. So, while Mr. Tutt continued a steady strain upon the line, Donald swung the canoe inshore and held it firmly with the paddle.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019ll get sick of it \u2018fore long,\u201d he said. \u201cWe\u2019ve got to be ready to start whenever he does.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mr. Tutt sat there, the butt of the rod against his diaphragm, his eyes upon the point where his taut line entered the water seventy feet distant, waiting for something to happen. It did.<\/p>\n

There was a scattering of gravel from the bank behind them, the sound of heavy breathing and, before the old man could turn his head, a hunting knife held by a brawny hand descended and severed his line: \u201cPing!\u201d Mr. Tutt, thus unexpectedly released from frontal strain, was only saved from falling backward into the canoe by the gunny sack behind him.<\/p>\n

\u201cJumping Jehosaphat!\u201d he ejaculated, grabbing at his stovepipe. \u201cWhat\u2019s happened!\u201d<\/p>\n

The owner of the knife, a huge bearded man in waders, stood lowering at him beneath shaggy black eyebrows.<\/p>\n

\u201cGet off my land!\u201d he ordered. Donald drove the canoe back into the river.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd off my water!\u201d yelled their assailant.\u201d Get off \u2014 and stay off!\u201d<\/p>\n

Mr. Tutt was trembling with outraged indignation. The line attached to the salmon had vanished into oblivion. No doubt, it was already on its way to Ste. Marie des Isles.<\/p>\n

\u201cMicklejohn,\u201d muttered Donald shortly, squirting a thin brown stream in the direction of the shore.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe man we expected to spend the night with?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe didn\u2019t. Maybe you did. I\u2019ve known him longer than Mr. Norton has.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat fellow the president of a railroad!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe owns it,\u201d explained Donald. Micklejohn, having sheathed his hunting knife, was seated cross-legged upon the bank, watching them. \u201cGet along!\u201d he shouted. \u201cBeat it!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMr. Micklejohn\u201d said Mr. Tutt raising his voice so that it would carry across the intervening distance, \u201cYou have made me lose a brand-new twelve-foot double leader and a hundred and fifty yards of line. I shall expect you to pay for them.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLike hell! They were forfeit under the statutes!\u201d shouted Micklejohn. \u201cI could have kept your rod too. I\u2019m going to telephone the warden and lodge a complaint against you for trespass. I\u2019ll teach you that we have laws in Canada.\u201d<\/p>\n

Then Mr. Tutt, eminent member of the New York Bar that he was, lost all his dignity. They were drifting rapidly downstream toward the bridge, and maybe his old voice was tired. Perhaps he believed that action spoke louder than words. At any rate, with or without excuse, the distinguished Mr. Tutt placed his antique thumb to the end of his long nose, wiggled his bony fingers at Mr. Micklejohn and gave vent to an inelegant sound known as \u201cthe raspberry,\u201d or \u201cBronx cheer.\u201d<\/p>\n

By this time, it was nearly dark and a cold wind was blowing up the river.<\/p>\n

\u201cWant to go on to Ste. Marie?\u201d asked Donald.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s twenty miles. Supper would be over before we got there. And I\u2019d rather meet the sheriff by daylight,\u201d answered Mr. Tutt. \u201cWhere else can we go?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJim Ferguson would put us up.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay. Let\u2019s go there.\u201d<\/p>\n

A campfire in front of a small group of tents threw a cheerful gleam across the river, and it took Donald but a few moments to reach the opposite shore, where the genial Ferguson, his pleasant- faced French wife and Clochette welcomed them on the beach. A full moon was rising above the pines as they finished their modest but savory meal of potato soup, broiled salmon steak and peas, fresh strawberries and black coffee. Mr. Tutt produced what was left of the Bishop\u2019s bottle of Madeira, and Clochette, without a trace of self- consciousness, her voice rising high and clear, sang for them while they smoked \u2014 boating songs of the voyageurs, Scottish border ballads, and chansons of old France, handed down in her mother\u2019s family.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you know Nanette?\u201d she asked. \u201cNanette went down to bathe. That is what I\u2019d been doing when you saw me this afternoon.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd Mr. Tutt thought she was a burrd, Jim!\u201d chuckled old Donald; so Clochette laughed and sang A in Claire Fontaine, because it was about a bird.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s what she should be called\u2019 Nightingale\u2019!\u201d averred the old man. \u201cAnd, as the song says, I shall never forget her either!\u201d<\/p>\n

While the women washed the dishes on the shore, Jim Ferguson told the story of Stillwater and the loss of his home. Years ago, it had been a thriving town of lumbermen and farmers, surrounded by cleared fields for a quarter mile back on either side of the river. Five generations of Fergusons had lived where the tents were now pitched. There had been a school, post office, a couple of stores, and daily a small river steamer had come up from Ste. Marie des Isles, bringing mail and supplies and keeping the settlement in touch with the outside world. Then the small- pox had ravaged the community, the logging industry had declined, the young folks had moved away, until at last the Fergusons were the only ones left.<\/p>\n

As a partial compensation, Jim had been able to acquire a large tract of abandoned land for almost nothing. There was a good market for his hay, which he at first had barged down to the coast, and then, after the railroad had come through, had shipped by freight. He prospered, saving enough to add each year to his machinery tedders, mowers and sweep rakes, building barns in which to store his crop until he could sell to best advantage, and installing his own press to bale the hay for transportation.<\/p>\n

He had married a girl of French descent and Clochette was their only child. During the winters they moved down river to Ste. Marie des Isles, so that she could go to school. When they discovered that she had a voice, they had sent her to Boston for training. Then the preceding summer, just at harvest time, when two of the barns had been filled and the rest of the crop was in cocks ready to be carried, a fire had started near the railroad track and, sweeping across the fields, had destroyed everything, including their dwelling house. Not a building had been left, and the insurance had been only sufficient to re-equip them with tents, canoes and a few tools, and keep them going through the winter.<\/p>\n

The fire had probably been started by a spark from the Whooper, and the company was clearly responsible. Jim had brought suit for $25,000 through a firm in Ste. Marie des Isles, but his lawyers advised him that the evidence, though morally convincing, might be held insufficient to sustain a judgment, since there was nothing, from a legal point of view, to exclude the possibility that the fire had started through the carelessness of some fisherman, hunter or river driver. So they were going to have to start all over again, and Clochette would have to give up her musical career.<\/p>\n

\u201cDoesn\u2019t Micklejohn know that a spark from one of his engines destroyed your property?\u201d demanded Mr. Tutt.<\/p>\n

\u201cSure he does. Everyone knows it. It\u2019s true that the fire started over fifty yards from the track, but there was wind enough to carry a spark even farther than that. Besides, there weren\u2019t no fishermen anywheres round here except Micklejohn. The skunk wouldn\u2019t ha\u2019 been above setting it himself!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou mean that he might have burned you out purposely?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJust what I mean. He\u2019s wanted to get rid of me for years, so as to have all the fishing on both sides for himself. Y\u2019see I was here first and had my quarter mile of shorefront before he located his camp over there and bought up all the land there was left.\u201d Mr. Tutt had a momentary vision of a black-bearded man with the hunting knife in his hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s not a good neighbor?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe don\u2019t speak.\u201d<\/p>\n

The old lawyer sat smoking by the dying embers of the fire long after all but Donald had gone to bed. \u201cIs everything Jim said true?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cHonest to God!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow long has Micklejohn been here?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cEleven years. He bought soon as he got to be president of the road.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen was the bridge built?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNineteen nineteen \u2014 sixteen years ago.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWas the town here then \u2014 Stillwater, I mean?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSure! Quite a settlement. My sister lived here with her husband. The smallpox come in 1920. They didn\u2019t discontinue the post office until a couple of years later.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow long since the steamer stopped running?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSame time.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFifteen years?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJust about.\u201d Donald got up, stretched, and spat into the fire. \u201cIf we\u2019re to take the Whooper at five tomorrow mornin\u2019, what time shall I wake you?\u201d<\/p>\n

Mr. Tutt stared across at the bead of light that marked the presence of Local Public Enemy No. 1.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou needn\u2019t wake me,\u201d he said. \u201cWe\u2019re not taking the Whooper. If we go to Ste. Marie tomorrow, it will be by canoe.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI reckon I\u2019ll turn in anyhow,\u201d answered Donald. \u201cYou mayn\u2019t be tired, but I be!\u201d<\/p>\n

The moon rode higher and higher, a silver dime in a starless sky, azure as by day. Mr. Tutt could see every stone upon the beach, the patches on the bottom of the overturned canoe, the gunny sack containing his personal belongings; could even read the label on a near-by tomato can. Opening the sack, he removed a bug light, put it in his pocket and, lighting a fresh stogy, he lay flat upon his stomach and peered down through the ties.<\/p>\n

\u201cH\u2019m!\u201d he said to himself, observing that the keys swung clear of the buttress by about six inches where it emerged from the surface. Getting to his feet, he untied the string and repeated the process at the other end of the draw.<\/p>\n

\u201cH\u2019m!\u201d he repeated in a tone of satisfaction.<\/p>\n

Bug light in hand, having returned the string and key ring to his pocket, he examined the joints of the antiquated machinery, rusted and eaten away by the wind and rain of thirty years. The bolts in one counterweight had disappeared; the lever operating the trunnion was immovable, frozen, as if welded.<\/p>\n

\u201cH\u2019m!\u201d he ejaculated a third time.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf I haven\u2019t got that so-and-so, I\u2019ll eat my tall hat.\u201d<\/p>\n

He was aroused by the crackling of a fire outside his tent and the pungent smell of bacon. From the beach below came the warble and trill of Clochette\u2019s limpid coloratura:<\/p>\n

\u201cAu beau Blair de la tun\u2019 m\u2019en allant promener<\/em> \u2014 \u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow the devil did you know that?\u201d he demanded as she ascended the bank, a pail of water in her hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cKnow what?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, never mind,\u201d he answered. \u201cWhat time is it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSix o\u2019clock. Didn\u2019t you hear the Whooper go by an hour ago?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhooper! It would have taken Big Bertha to wake me up. I slept the sleep of a just man. Tell Donald to get the canoe ready. I\u2019m going to Ste. Marie as soon as I\u2019ve had my breakfast.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you leaving us for good?\u201d she asked regretfully. \u201cI hoped you\u2019d spend the day with us.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, I\u2019ll be back, Nightingale! Never you fear!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry for Mr. Micklejohn, I\u2019m sorry to give him pain, but a hell of a spree there\u2019s going to be When Tutt comes back again!\u201d<\/p>\n

The president of the Canadian Seaboard & Gaspe, smoking his after breakfast cigar on the veranda of his camp, saw the canoe with its tall hatted occupant skirt the opposite shore and disappear under the bridge.<\/p>\n

\u201cI taught that silly old ass a lesson, all right!\u201d he gloated, for he had feared that the trespasser might stay on and fish the quarter mile of water he did not control. His worst nightmare was that Ferguson might build a sporting camp and thus destroy the practical monopoly of the Stillwater which he now enjoyed. But the farmer was too busy haymaking to do any fishing, hence Micklejohn, week in and week out, had the whole ten miles to himself.<\/p>\n

It was another sparkling day and the president of the C. S. & G., having killed a couple of thirty pounders, was paddling back for lunch when the noonday silence was unexpectedly broken by an untoward sound \u2014 a sound that President Micklejohn had never before heard in that locality \u2014 the unmistakable whistle of a steamer just below the bridge.<\/p>\n

\u201cToot, toot, toot! Toot, toot, toot!\u201d \u201cDamn his eyes!\u201d he cried.\u201d That fool will drive every salmon ten miles upriver!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cToot, toot, toot! Toot, toot; toot!\u201d snorted the unseen visitor impatiently. \u201cWhat in hell can that fellow want?\u201d exclaimed the railroad man, for never once in the entire eleven years of his occupancy had he seen a steamboat on the Santapedia.<\/p>\n

Then, as if with the deliberate intention of demonstrating its nuisance value, the whistle broke into a shrill, continuous and never-ending scream.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll fix that!\u201d shouted Micklejohn in wrath, climbing the embankment.<\/p>\n

A stubby little tug was holding herself in the channel, nosing the draw, tooting her head off.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are you making such a noise about?\u201d he yelled above the racket. Then, to his amazement and disgust, he observed that the Silly Old Ass in the tall hat was sitting cross-legged on the roof of the pilothouse, puffing a curious looking, rat-tailed cigar, while on the deck below stood the sheriff of the county and a tall man in a gray felt hat whom Mr. Micklejohn did not recognize. Behind them were a group of strangers in mufti. Since the embankment was but twenty feet above the river, the entire party, including Mr. Micklejohn and Mr. Tutt, were in fairly close juxtaposition.<\/p>\n

\u201cOpen your draw!\u201d called the captain of the tug from the pilothouse window.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are you talking about?\u201d answered the president of the C. S. & G.<\/p>\n

The tug suddenly stopped tooting. \u201cLet us through!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m no draw tender!\u201d replied Micklejohn furiously.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf you ain\u2019t, where is he, then?\u201d asked the captain.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere isn\u2019t any. This draw hasn\u2019t been used in the last fifteen years.\u201d The tug had laid alongside the bridge, and a deck hand now made it fast to the abutment. The tall man stepped forward.<\/p>\n

\u201cExcuse me,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019m Sir Douglas Hartley, judge in Admiralty of the Exchequer Court for this district. This gentleman, through his local counsel, has made an informal application before me, in chambers, for a mandatory injunction to abate a nuisance and to compel the Canadian Seaboard & Gaspe Railroad to maintain its draw in this bridge in accordance with its license. He offered \u2014 very fairly, I must admit \u2014 since he does not wish to take the railroad company by surprise or to put you to any greater inconvenience than is necessary, to facilitate the proceeding by bringing the court here to see for itself \u2014 \u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBirnam wood be come to Duns inane\u2019!\u201d chirped Mr. Tutt.\u201d \u2014 what the actual conditions may be,\u201d continued Sir Douglas, faintly smiling.\u201d I take it that I am addressing Mr. Cyrus Micklejohn, president of the railroad?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou are,\u201d snapped Micklejohn. \u201cBut I\u2019m not here in my official capacity.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt would appear then that there was nobody here in an official capacity?\u201d suggested Sir Douglas mildly.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere has never been any reason why there should be.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYour Honor,\u201d said Mr. Tutt from the roof, \u201cthis is a navigable stream and I have hired this steamer to take me to Stillwater. I want to go there. I insist on going there!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, you can\u2019t go there!\u201d roared Micklejohn.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve got a draw; open it!\u201d<\/p>\n

Mr. Micklejohn stared haughtily at the rusty levers and trunnions and the dilapidated counterweights.<\/p>\n

\u201cNonsense!\u201d he remarked.<\/p>\n

\u201cWon\u2019t it work?\u201d blandly inquired the sheriff.<\/p>\n

\u201cI \u2014 I don\u2019t know! And I don\u2019t care!\u201d retorted Micklejohn.<\/p>\n

A businesslike-looking young man stepped forward from the group behind the judge.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy name\u2019s McAvoy,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019m Provincial Bridge Engineer. I have two of my assistants here. Suppose we take a look at it.\u201d<\/p>\n

They climbed up the abutment and examined the draw.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re going to have a hard time opening that thing,\u201d declared Mr. McAvoy. \u201cThe machinery\u2019s all rotted to pieces, the iron has frozen, and, besides, the piers have sagged so far out of plumb that I don\u2019t believe it would work anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n

Micklejohn took out his handkerchief and rubbed his forehead.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell,\u201d he growled, \u201cthis is something I shall have to turn over to our law department.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI took the liberty of having my clerk telephone to your attorney, Mr. Cameron Hall, in Cardogan,\u201d interjected Sir Douglas. \u201cHe said he\u2019d order a special and come down.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMeanwhile, how am I going to get to Stillwater?\u201d pressed Mr. Tutt. \u201cStillwater! There isn\u2019t any Stillwater!\u201d snorted Micklejohn.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, yes, there is!\u201d replied the old lawyer.\u201d Stillwater continues to be a geographical and legal entity, even if it is functus officio.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThere aren\u2019t any people living there!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know of at least four,\u201d answered Mr. Tutt. \u201cYourself, Mr. and Mrs. Ferguson and their daughter.\u201d \u201cThis is all hocus-pocus!\u201d hotly protested Micklejohn. \u201cFerguson doesn\u2019t want to use the draw! And I\u2019m sure I don\u2019t!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, I do!\u201d shouted Ferguson, sticking his head out of the pilothouse window.\u201d I want to go right up the river.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mr. Tutt descended from the roof of the pilothouse, Micklejohn glaring at him the while. The president of the C.S. & G. had begun to wish he hadn\u2019t adopted such strenuous tactics with the Silly Old Ass.<\/p>\n

\u201cYour Honor,\u201d said Mr. Tutt, landing on the deck, \u201cI appreciate that this isn\u2019t either the time or place for a legal argument, but since you\u2019ve been so amiable as to lend your presence to an attempt at an adjustment of what might otherwise prove a long-drawn out and expensive litigation, I beg to assure you most emphatically that there is no hocus-pocus about it whatsoever. Under the Canadian Railway Act of 1919, no railroad company may build a bridge over any water, river, stream or canal so as to impede navigation, no matter how slight, except with the approval and subject to the directions of the Board of Railway Commissioners and the Department of Public Works. That authority, under the powers delegated to it by Parliament, approved the plans submitted in the year 1919 by the Canadian Seaboard & Gaspe for a drawbridge over the Santapedia at this point, on condition that it be operated as such. The condition having been violated, the authorization is void and the bridge becomes a public nuisance, which can be abated.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRot!\u201d bellowed President Micklejohn. \u201cWe don\u2019t have to keep a man sitting here if the draw is never used.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re obliged to keep your draw in operation or your license lapses. The law says, \u2018It is not the use which has been made of the water, but the use which may be made of it, without a change of conditions, that determines its navigability.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThere has been a change,\u201d declared Micklejohn sullenly. \u201cThere was a town here when the bridge was built, and it isn\u2019t here now.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe phrase \u2018change of condition\u2019 in the law refers not to the number of inhabitants but to the navigability of the stream. So long as there is a single landowner upstream beyond the bridge, he has a right to insist on the railroad complying with the conditions under which it received its authority to build. It is a riparian right inherent in his ownership of the land.\u201d<\/p>\n

At that moment a distant whistle echoed through the forest, the rails began to hum, and presently an engine dragging a single day coach came thundering down the track and stopped at the other end of the bridge. Half a dozen men piled out, among them Cameron Hall, K. C., the railroad\u2019s chief legal adviser, from Cardogan, the capital of the province. With him were two of the company engineers. By this time everyone from the tug, including Sir Douglas, Mr. Tutt and the sheriff, had ascended the embankment.<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course, I\u2019m here purely ex officio,\u201d said Sir Douglas. \u201cDon\u2019t bother about me. I\u2019m enjoying this little excursion immensely. Suppose I take a walk and give you gentlemen a chance to get together?\u201d<\/p>\n

While the company engineers looked over the bridge, Cameron Hall, K. C., conferred with Micklejohn, after which they all went into a huddle at the other end of the bridge.<\/p>\n

\u201cMay I speak to you a moment, sir?\u201d at length said the lawyer, a dignified but kindly looking man, advancing toward the draw.<\/p>\n

\u201cWith pleasure, so long as your client doesn\u2019t share in our conversation,\u201d answered Mr. Tutt. \u201cHow about a stroll down the tracks?\u201d<\/p>\n

They picked their way along the ties until they reached the opposite shore, where they sat down in the hot sunlight at the same spot where Mr. Tutt had climbed up the night before \u201cau beau Blair de la lun\u2019.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve often heard of you, Mr. Tutt,\u201d said Hall, K. C. as he accepted a stogy, \u201cbut somehow I never supposed you really existed. Certainly it\u2019s a great surprise to meet you under circumstances such as these. What do you want us to do?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow much do your engineers say it will cost to install proper piers and rebuild the draw?\u201d<\/p>\n

Hall squinted at him over the end of his stogy.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you trust me?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know an honest man when I see one.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat compliment will probably cost me about fifty thousand dollars!\u201d chuckled Hall.<\/p>\n

\u201cI could have found it out for myself. In fact, I have, rather roughly \u2014 only my estimate is thirty-five thousand.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI, too, know an honest man when he tells me a thing like that.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd that will probably cost me about ten thousand,\u201d said Mr. Tutt significantly. \u201cHow shall we work it?\u201d Hall, K. C., looked across at the ruined barns by the little group of tents.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow much damage does Ferguson claim against the company on account of his fire?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTwenty-five thousand dollars.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOur engine didn\u2019t set it, you know.\u201d Mr. Tutt shrugged. \u201cIf not, I know who did.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI see that we agree \u2014 in principle. All right, but, as Eden said to Hitler, this isn\u2019t an ultimatum. Suppose we settle the damage suit for twenty thousand and give Ferguson five thousand more for all his riparian rights, including his fishing. In that case, naturally, he\u2019ll have to sign a special release waiving the discontinuance of the draw.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mr. Tutt shook his head. \u201cThere will be no surrender of any fishing rights whatever. That is an ultimatum!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cVery good. I was instructed to ask for them, that\u2019s all. Now I\u2019ve done it. How about twenty-four thousand for the fire and a thousand for the bridge release?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot enough!\u201d<\/p>\n

Hall, K.C., looked pained. \u201cThere is one more condition which I make as a sine qua non,\u201d said Mr. Tutt sternly.<\/p>\n

\u201cGo easy on us!\u201d begged Hall. \u201cWhat is it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cUpon the signing of the papers, Micklejohn is to deliver to me one new twelve-foot, mist-colored double leader, two hundred yards of the best salmon line you can buy in Cardogan and \u2014 \u201d<\/p>\n

Hall\u2019s eyebrows had drawn together. \u201cWhat the devil!\u201d he seemed to be saying.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, and \u2014 ?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd his hunting knife.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s a queer one!\u201d ejaculated the K.C.<\/p>\n

\u201cOtherwise the C.S.&G. can rebuild the bridge!\u201d<\/p>\n

Just then from the neighboring grove came a high, sweet song like that of a bird.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat a beautiful voice!\u201d exclaimed Hall in admiration.\u201d It\u2019s like what I\u2019ve always supposed a nightingale\u2019s would be!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes\u201d Nodded Mr. Tutt. \u201cThe C.S.&G. isn\u2019t paying for a fire, but for a girl\u2019s career\u2026 well! Is it a deal?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt is\u201d answered Hall, and shook hands.\u201d Now I\u2019ll go and give my most unpleasant client the glad tidings.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd be sure to tell him that I\u2019ve discovered that they have laws in Canada.\u201d Said Mr. Tutt<\/p>\n

The old man climbed down the embankment and walked over to the grove. He hated to return to the city. New York was all right, but the woods were better. He\u2019d spend all winter planning how to get back to them. His old house on 23rd Street, with its comfortable library and sea-coal fire \u2014 even with Miranda\u2019s cooking \u2014 would be very lonely. It was hard to say goodbye.<\/p>\n

Clochette was sitting against a tree, singing her heart out. \u201cHello, Mr. Tutt!\u201d she cried. \u201cWhat are all those people doing on the bridge? And why is that tug there?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s taking me back to New York,\u201d answered the old man, looking down at her tenderly.\u201d Would you like to go with me, Nightingale?\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

American lawyer and writer, Arthur Train, was a prolific author of legal thrillers. His most popular work featured recurring fictional lawyer Mr. Ephraim Tutt. In \u201cMr. Tutt Fights a Draw\u201d Mr. Tutt is disturbed when he learns about the burning of land nearby, and he immediately takes legal action against the arsonist. Published August 8,…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-946","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-news"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/googmn.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/946","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/googmn.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/googmn.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/googmn.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/googmn.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=946"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/googmn.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/946\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/googmn.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=946"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/googmn.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=946"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/googmn.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=946"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}