FACES THROUGH THE TELESCOPE
It was after school hours in the little city of Benton, on a day near the
middle of December, and a party of youths, with skates under their arms,
were walking toward the bank of Mill stream. A huge fire, of pieces of
logs and brush-wood, blazed cheerily by the shore, and welcomed their
approach. The frozen surface of the stream, swept clean by high winds of
previous days, shone like polished ebony, and stretched away to the
northward for a mile before it became lost to view amid high banks, on
its winding course.
The sun, a great red ball, nearing the western horizon, sent a
rose-tinged pathway across the black ice from shore to shore. A score or
more of skaters, some engaged in cutting fancy figures, others swinging
along on the outward roll, others having an impromptu race, made the air
ring with their shouts of hearty enjoyment.
Seated on a log, by the fire, one of the party of boys addressed his
nearest comrade.
“Say, Henry Burns,” he asked, “have you heard anything from Harvey, yet?”
Henry Burns, a rather slight but trimly built and active youth,
apparently a year or two younger than the boy who had spoken, paused in
the adjustment of the clamp of his skate, and looked puzzled.
“No,” he answered, “and, what’s more, I don’t expect to, now. Jack Harvey
rather take a licking than write a letter, anyway. And, another thing,
he’s having too much fun, I suppose, to stop to write.”
“Still, it’s queer,” he continued. “I didn’t think he’d go off the way he
did. He told me he wouldn’t go, no matter how much his folks urged him.
Said he knew he’d have more fun here with us this winter than poking
’round Europe with his father and mother; said his mother wouldn’t let
him wear his sweater in art galleries and in stores—rather skate, and
fish through the ice, than dress up and go around looking at things in
shop windows and museums.”
“Well, they must have got him to go, after all,” said the first boy.
“Too bad,” commented Henry Burns, standing up on his skates. “He’s
missing lots of fun. It scared my aunt, too, for a few days. She thought
he might have got lost. Just as though Jack couldn’t take care of
himself. But she remembered they said if he didn’t come back she could
know he’d gone on the steamer to Europe. So she’s feeling all right now.
I’d like to know what they offered Jack, to get him to go, though.”
Henry Burns’s companion, George Warren, having adjusted his skates, arose
and glided down the bank to the ice.
“Come on, Arthur,” he said, calling to a brother, a year or two younger,
who was still lingering by the fire; “we’ll give Henry a race up to the
bend. He thinks he knows how to skate.”
The brothers started off, with Henry Burns soon in swift pursuit; the
three went rapidly up the stream, the keen edges of their skates cutting
the glare ice with a crisp, grinding hum. Henry Burns caught the two by
the time they had gone half a mile, for he was a youth whose wiry muscles
seemed never to tire; and the three linked arms and went on together.
Presently a still younger boy came hurrying down to the shore, in a state
of activity that had left him short of breath. He was smaller, but
heavier of build than the others who had gone before, with a plumpness of
cheeks that told of evident enjoyment of good dinners; also, his was a
temperament, one would have guessed, that was more inclined to ease than
to any great exertion. But now he fastened on his skates hastily and
joined the party of skaters in mid-stream.
“Seen George and Arthur?” he inquired of a group of boys.
“Gone up-stream with Henry Burns,” was the reply.
The boy started off, bending forward and making his best time. Some
fifteen minutes later, the three, returning, saw him coming.
“There’s Joe,” said George Warren. “Looks as though he was skating for a
dinner. He’ll get thin if he doesn’t take care. Let’s give him a
surprise.”
The three quickly hid themselves behind some alder bushes and cedars that
fringed the bank. Young Joe Warren came on, unconscious of their
presence. He realized it presently as he came abreast. A snow-ball,
thrown with accuracy by Henry Burns, neatly lifted his cap from his head;
one from George Warren attached itself in fragments to his plump neck;
the third smashed against his shoulder. The combined effect of which,
with the surprise, so disturbed the equilibrium of the skater that his
feet suddenly flew out from under him, and he came down with a thump,
seated on the ice, and slid along in a sitting posture for nearly a rod.
“Too bad, poor old Joey,” said George Warren, sympathetically, gliding
out to his brother’s assistance; “somebody threw a snow-ball and hit you,
I guess. Get up on your feet and we’ll all go after him.”
Young Joe, angry at first, was not wholly unmindful of the humour of the
situation, as viewed from the position of the group that now tenderly
offered their assistance. Moreover, he had had a taste of this sort of
thing before.
“That’s all right,” he said, “never you mind about helping me up. I don’t
need any help. I’ll pay that fellow off some other time.” He reached a
hand in his coat pocket and drew forth an envelope, eagerly.
“You don’t deserve this, George,” he said, “and like as not you wouldn’t
get it until you got home, if I didn’t want to see what’s in it. Gee!
fellows, what do you think? It’s a letter from Jack Harvey. Oh, I haven’t
read it, George. It’s for you. But I know it’s from Jack, because it’s
from Baltimore. That’s the post-mark.”
“Baltimore!” exclaimed Henry Burns. “Then there’s something the matter.
Why, he ought to have left Baltimore weeks ago. Whew! You don’t suppose
he’s got hurt, after all?”
“And say,” he added, wonderingly, “what’s he writing to you for? Why
didn’t he write to me or my aunt? Perhaps someone is writing for him.”
The boys, in a high state of excitement, gathered close to George Warren
while he tore open the envelope, which was, sure enough, stamped with the
Baltimore post-mark, and was addressed in a bold, plain hand to George
Warren.
George Warren gave a whistle of surprise the next moment; Henry Burns, an
exclamation of mingled relief and disappointment.
“It isn’t from Jack, nor about him,” they cried almost in the same
breath. And George Warren added, buoyantly, “Say, it’s all right.
Fellows, Cousin Ed wants us to come down for the holidays and visit him.
My! But I’m glad there’s nothing the matter with Jack. Here’s what Ed
says:
“Dear Cousin George:—Isn’t it about time you youngsters made me that
visit you’ve been promising? You’ve never been here, and you ought to
see the place, though it isn’t what it used to be in the old days. This
isn’t just the time to see the country at its best, of course, but it’s
a dull time with me, and I won’t have anything to do but give you
youngsters a good time.
“I’m all alone for the next two months, except Old Mammy Stevens to
keep house for me. She can cook a turkey so it will just jump right
down your throat; and corn fritters, the way she fries ’em, just melt
in your mouth—”
Young Joe interrupted with a squeal of approval. “Let’s go, George,” he
exclaimed.
“Shut up! Joe, and let George go on,” admonished his brother, Arthur.
George Warren continued:
“We’ve got plenty of room for you and Arthur, and if Joe should come,
why he could sleep out in the stable with the cattle—”
A howl of indignation from Young Joe.
“Let’s see,” he cried, reaching for the letter. “He doesn’t say any such
thing, I’ll bet.”
“Well, perhaps not,” admitted George Warren. “Here’s what it is.” He
began again:
“There’s plenty of room in the old house for you three, and anybody
else you’ve a mind to bring. I’ll be glad to see any friend of yours.
We’ll shoot some rabbits and have a high old Christmas. Make Uncle
George let you chaps all come for the winter vacation. I’ll look out
for you. I’m going back home from the city to-morrow.
“Affectionately your cousin,
“Edward Warren,
“Address, Millstone Landing,
“St. Mary County, Maryland.”
“Whee!” yelled Young Joe. “I’m going to put for home, and ask father.
Say, I wonder what kind of syrup they have on those corn fritters.”
“Tobacco syrup,” replied George Warren, solemnly. “That’s what they raise
on all the farms down there. It’s awful bitter, too, at first, but you
get used to it, so they say.”
“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” said Joe. “It’s corn syrup; that’s
what it is. I want to go, don’t you?”
“Well, perhaps so,” replied George Warren. And, turning to his companion,
asked, “What do you say, Henry?”
“Why, I’m not invited,” replied Henry Burns.
“Oh, yes, you are, isn’t he, fellows? Ed said bring anybody we wanted.
Well, we want you.”
The brothers chimed in, heartily.
“Why, I’d like to go, first rate, if I can,” said Henry Burns.
“Then we’ll do it,” said George Warren—“that is, if the folks will let
us. You’ll like Ed. He’s older than we are—about twenty; but he likes fun
as much as we do. It’s a big old farm house, with open fire-places and
things. We’ll make the place hum. Come on, let’s go home.”
There was little peace in the Warren household that night until the
matter had been duly discussed in all its phases, and the coveted
permission granted; whereupon, there was a departure in force for the
home of Miss Matilda Burns. There, however, the resistance was stronger.
Henry Burns’s aunt did not yield consent without reluctance nor without a
struggle. There was Jack Harvey, she said, who went to Baltimore and
never came back. Goodness knew where he might be. She didn’t believe in
boys going off without someone to look after them.
There was, in reply, positive assurance from all hands that Jack Harvey
was all right and having the finest time of his life, travelling about
Europe.
It was an unequal contest, and the opposition was finally overcome.
“See that you don’t run off to Europe—or anywhere else, though, except to
Mr. Warren’s,” Miss Matilda added, smiling. “And, Henry, you’ve got to
write me twice a week.”
Henry Burns groaned, but promised.
“She didn’t say how much to write,” he commented, inwardly, with a vision
of a sheet of paper bearing the words, “Dear Aunt, I’m all right,” in his
mind.
With which successful turn of affairs, the four let out such a series of
shrieks of triumph that poor Miss Matilda Burns nearly fell out of her
chair.
Four days later, there arrived in Baltimore four smiling youths, vastly
elated at their freedom; vastly puffed up with the importance of being
travellers at large, without a guardian.
It was a sharp, crisp winter morning, of the 15th of December, to be
precise; the old river boat of the Patuxent line lay in its berth at
Light street, making its own hearty breakfast off soft coal, and pouring
out clouds of black smoke from its funnel, with vigour and apparent
satisfaction. The cabins were warming up, and the last of a huge pile of
freight was being stowed away below. The four boys, shortly before half
past six—the early hour of departure—made their way aboard.
There was a jingling of bells, the lines were cast off, the gang-planks
drawn in, and the steamer was on its way down Chesapeake Bay.
The day passed pleasantly, for it was all new to them, and the bay, with
its peculiar craft, presented many attractions. They were hungry as
tigers, too, as they seated themselves at the cabin table for dinner.
“You’ve got the wrong side of the cabin, young gentlemen,” said the
coloured waiter, politely. “That other side’s the one for white folks.”
They changed places, accordingly.
“Wonder what would happen to us, if we sat over there?” remarked Arthur
Warren.
“Perhaps we’d turn black,” said Henry Burns.
“Well, Joe always eats till he’s black in the face when he gets a good
dinner,” said George Warren.
Young Joe sniffed, contemptuously.
After dinner they strolled about the boat. There were not a great number
of passengers aboard, and the four kept their own company. The only
exception for the afternoon was in the case of a young man, who accosted
the party as they happened to pause for a moment in front of the open
door of his state-room. He was a youth of about nineteen years, but with
the manner of a man of the world. He sat, with his feet up on the foot of
the bed, smoking a cigar and filling the room with clouds of smoke. A
derby hat was perched rakishly on the back of his head. His dress was
smart in appearance, though not new, and his coat thrown back revealed a
waist-coat of brilliant hue and flaring design.
“How’d do,” he said, removing his cigar, and waving a hand rather
patronizingly to them. “Step in. Strangers down this way, I see. Have a
smoke?”
He motioned to a table on which there was a box of the cigars.
“No, thanks,” replied George Warren. “Don’t smoke.”
They would have passed on, but the young man was not to be wholly denied.
He had a free and easy flow of conversation, which would not be stopped
for the moment, and which culminated in the offer—indicating his design
from the first—of a game of cards with them, which, he assured them,
should not cost them but little, if anything, with the alluring
alternative that they might be fortunate enough to win his money.
“Say,” interrupted Henry Burns at this point, “why don’t you fix your
neck-tie?”
The youth, surprised at the interruption, paused and laid down his cigar
on the edge of the table. He put both hands to the tie, a gaudy one tied
sailor fashion, and turned to Henry Burns.
“Why, what’s the matter with it?” he asked, in a tone of wonderment.
“Isn’t it all right?”
“Why, yes, it looks so,” replied Henry Burns, coolly and without changing
countenance; “but I thought perhaps you might like to untie it and tie it
over again. Come on, fellows.”
The consciousness that he had been made game of by the youth flashed upon
the stranger, as the boys moved on. He half arose from his seat, while a
flush of anger spread over his sallow face. A person on the threshold
accosted him at this moment. He looked into the face of a tall man, who
was smiling in at him.
“Why, hello, Jenkins,” said the man. “What’s up? You look as though your
dinner didn’t set right. What are you doing down this way?”
Mr. Jenkins returned the man’s smile with a scowl.
“Nothing’s the matter,” he said, surlily. “Come in and have a smoke. I’m
going up the river for a week. I used to live up that way, you know.
Business is dull, and I’m going up to the old place for Christmas. Shut
that door, and we’ll have a talk.”
The four boys from Benton had had their first meeting, brief and
fleeting, with Arthur Jenkins.
It was still daylight when the steamer turned the Drum Point light-house
and headed into the Patuxent river. It was a picturesque sight that the
four boys looked upon. Scattered here and there over the water, and
coming into harbour for the night, was a fleet of dredging vessels. Some
of them, rivals in speed, were racing, with all sail set, heeling far
over and throwing up little spurts of water at their bows. The sight
captivated Henry Burns, and he gazed with interest.
“My! but I’d like to be aboard that fellow,” he cried, as a fleet bug-eye
crept up on a rival craft and swept proudly and gracefully past.
“Not much you wouldn’t,” exclaimed a voice beside him.
Henry Burns turned. The genial, kindly face of the steamboat captain met
his gaze.
“It looks very pretty and all that, young man,” said the captain; “but
it’s a hard life they lead aboard the dredgers. It’s knock-down and drag
out all winter long, with bad food and little to show for it in wages
when the winter’s done—that is, for the most of them. It’s not much like
what you think it is, I reckon. But they do look pretty coming in; that’s
a fact.”
The dredger, Z. B. Brandt, coming in from down along shore, may have,
with others of its kind, presented a pretty sight as viewed from the deck
of the river steamer. Most assuredly, the steamer, viewed from the deck
of the dredger, looked good and inviting to the weary crew of the sailing
vessel. To them, watching its approach, it represented all that they
longed for—comfort, good food, freedom from abuse; and was a thing that
would transport them home—if they could only, some day, reach it.
Hamilton Haley, eying the steamer from a distance, suddenly uttered an
exclamation of amazement. A figure that, in dim outline, suggested
someone whom he had seen before, stood out against the sky, as the person
leaned against the steamer’s rail.
“I’m blest if I wouldn’t swear that ere was young Artie Jenkins!”
exclaimed Haley. “It’s him or his ghost. I’ll have a look at the chap.
Here you, Harvey, skip down into the locker, starboard, forward, and
fetch me up that glass. Lively now. I want it quick.”
Jack Harvey, who had long ere this learned the necessity of quick
obedience aboard the dredger, hastened to obey. He brought the telescope
and handed it to Captain Haley.
The latter, adjusting it to suit his eye, gave one long, careful look
through the glass, then took it from his eye with another muttered
exclamation.
“Well, I swear!” he said. “I knew it was him the minute I clapped my eye
on him. I’d know his rakish rig anywhere. I wonder what mischief he’s up
to down here.”
And he added, as he looked angrily at the steamer, “Wouldn’t I like to
have you aboard here, young feller! Wouldn’t I have it out of you, for
some of the counter-jumpers you’ve made me pay high for.”
Jack Harvey, watching Haley with curiosity as the captain surveyed the
steamer and as his face wrinkled with anger, wondered what he had seen
aboard to excite his wrath. It could not be anybody that Harvey had ever
known, but still he had a curiosity, an over-mastering desire, to take a
look for himself. As the glass was returned to him by Haley, he paused a
moment and asked, “May I have a look, sir?”
Haley nodded.
“Handle that glass easily, though,” he snarled. “Break that, and you’ll
wish you’d never been born.”
Harvey raised the glass to his eye, and levelled it at the deck of the
steamer. He had never looked through a large telescope before, and it was
wonderful how clear it brought out the figures aboard. He seemed to be
looking into the very faces of men and women—all strangers to him.
Strangers? Strangers? The telescope, as it was slowly moved in Harvey’s
hand, so that his glance took in the row of faces from one end of the
boat to the other, rested once on a group of four boys standing close by
the rail. For a moment Jack Harvey stood, spell-bound. The next moment he
forgot where he was; forgot the presence of the wrathful Haley; forgot
all caution. Taking the glass from his eye, he brandished it in the air,
and yelled at the top of his voice:
“Henry Burns! George Warren! Hello, it’s—”
The sentence was unfinished. Hamilton Haley, springing from the
wheel-box, was upon him in an instant. He snatched the telescope from
Harvey’s hand and, stooping, laid it on the deck. The next instant he had
dealt Harvey a blow in the face that knocked him off his feet. Harvey
fell, rolled over, half slid off the deck into the water; but he clutched
at the inch of plank that was raised at the edge, held on, and Haley
dragged him aboard again.
Holding him at the edge of the vessel, Haley shook him like a half
drowned dog.
“Another cry out of you, and down you go!” he said. “I’d put you under
now, if you hadn’t made good, up the river the other night. You get
below, and don’t you let me hear a yip out of you. What’s the matter with
you—crazy?”
Jack Harvey, half out of his wits with amazement, dazed from the blow,
and chilled with the sting of the icy water that had wet him to the
shoulders, stumbled below, without reply.
And aboard the steamer, Henry Burns turned to the captain, in dismay.
Neither he nor his companions had distinguished the cry sent forth to
them from the deck of the bug-eye, but they had seen a strange thing
happen aboard the vessel they were watching.
“Captain,” said Henry Burns, his face flushing with indignation, “I guess
what you said about rough treatment aboard those vessels is true. Why, I
just saw the man at the wheel strike some one and knock him down.”
“The brute!” exclaimed the steamer’s captain. “I told you so. But it’s
nothing new. It happens every day.”
“I’m sorry for the chap that got it,” remarked Henry Burns. “I hope he
gets square with the captain, some day.”
And for half that night, Jack Harvey, tossing in his bunk, unable to
sleep, wondered if what he had seen could have been true; wondered if his
eyes had deceived him; wondered, even, if his brain was going wrong under
his hard treatment.
Once he got up and roused Tom Edwards.
“Tom,” he said, “have you noticed anything queer about me lately?”
Tom Edwards sat up and looked at his friend in astonishment.
“Queer!” repeated Tom Edwards. “Of course I haven’t. You’ve been just the
same as ever. Why, what’s the matter, Jack? Are you sick?”
“I guess perhaps I am,” replied Harvey, dully. “I’ve heard about sailors
seeing mirages and things that didn’t exist. I saw something on a
steamer, as we came in, that couldn’t have been true. I thought I saw
some friends of mine that live way up in Benton in the state of Maine.
They can’t be down here in winter—hold on, though. They might be, after
all. Yes, sir, perhaps they’ve come to look for me. I’ll bet that’s it!”
“But,” he added, ruefully, “I don’t see how that can be, either. They’d
have come long before this, if they were looking for me. But I saw them.
I saw them, Tom Edwards, just as clear as I see you now.”
“Well, you don’t see me very clear in this dark forecastle, Jack, old
chap,” replied Tom Edwards. “Turn in and go to sleep, and see what you
can make out of it to-morrow.”