full into Langham's
face, and though the blow sent the lawyer staggering across the bridge,
he recovered himself quickly and rushed back to renew the fight.
Montgomery greeted him with an oath, and they grappled again.

Langham had known in his calmer moments when he planned Joe's death,
that his only hope of success lay in the suddenness of his attack. Now
as they swayed on the very edge of the bridge the handy-man put forth
all his strength and lifted the lawyer clear of the ties, then with a
mighty heave of his great shoulders he tossed him out into space.

There was a scarcely audible splash and Joe, looking fearfully down, saw
the muddy drops turn limpid in the soft white light. A moment later some
dark object came to the surface and a white face seemed to look up into
his, but only for a second, and then the restless flood bore it swiftly
away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CUSTER'S IDOL FALLS

Early that same night Mr. Shrimplin, taking Custer with him, had driven
out into the country. Their destination was a spot far down the river
where catfish were supposed to abound, for Izaak Walton's gentle art was
the little lamplighter's favorite recreation. After leaving Mount Hope
they jogged along the dusty country road for some two miles, then
turning from it into a little-traveled lane they soon came out upon a
great sweeping bend of the stream.

"I don't know about this, Custer," said Mr. Shrimplin, with a doubtful
shake of the head, as he drew rein. "She's way up. I had no idea she was
way up like this; I guess though we can't do no better than to chance
it, catfish is a muddy-water fish, anyhow."

He tied wild Bill to a blasted sycamore, and then, while he cut poles
from the willow bushes that grew along the bank, Custer built a huge
bonfire, by the light of which they presently angled with varying
fortunes.

"I reckon not many people but me knows about this fishing-hole!" said
Shrimplin, as he cast his baited hook into the water.

"Where did you learn to fish?" asked Custer, thirsting for that wisdom
his father was so ready to impart.

"I guess you'd call it a natural gift in my case, son," said the little
lamplighter modestly. "I don't know as I deserve no credit; it's like
playing the organ or walking on a tight rope, the instinct's got to be
there or you'll only lay yourself open to ridicule."

But truth to tell, fishing was no very subtle art as practised by Mr.
Shrimplin, he merely spat on his b