HENRY BURNS MAKES A DISCOVERY
It was after eleven o’clock when Harvey and Tom Edwards paused to rest
and consider what they should do. The night was very still and clear,
and, with the approach of Christmas day, there was already a perceptible
change in the temperature. It was growing milder. With that, and the
relief from their long oppression,—the sensation of being once more
free—they felt a great buoyancy of spirit.
“I could sit right here all night,” exclaimed Harvey, breathing deep and
looking off exultantly at the river. “There’s the old Brandt—bad luck to
her! You can see the masts against the water, as she swings. Whew! But
we’ve had a time of it. I’d like to see Haley when he finds us gone, and
his hatch missing.”
“Well, you are young and tough and you may not want a place to sleep,
to-night,” replied Tom Edwards; “but I don’t mind saying that I do, and I
want it soon as I can get it. I’m dead tired, and I’m dead sleepy. I
wonder which one of these houses we’d better try.”
“That’s what bothers me,” answered Harvey. “Sam Black told me once that a
good many of these people along shore own shares in some of the dredgers,
and they’d give a sailor up, if he ran away.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Tom Edwards.
“I’m not so sure he wasn’t trying to keep me from trying to escape,”
admitted Harvey. “I dare say some of these folks would be glad to see us
get away. Let’s try that little house over there, through the trees.”
He pointed to a house a few rods up on a road that led from the shore,
and they proceeded towards it. It was all in darkness, and, indeed,
seemed almost deserted. They passed in through a half tumbling gateway,
with rotting posts on either hand, and Tom Edwards knocked at the door.
There was no answer, and he knocked again. They heard some one stirring
within. Presently a chamber window was thrown up, and an old woman poked
her head cautiously out.
“What do you want, this time of night?” she asked.
“Madam, we want a night’s lodging,” replied Tom Edwards, removing his
tarpaulin, and making as polite an appearance as his fisherman’s
oil-skins would permit.
“Hey?”
“A night’s lodging, madam. We have left the vessel, and we haven’t any
place to stop.”
“Oh, you be sailor men, eh—but you talk like a man as tried to sell me a
sewing machine once—sort of smooth like. Well, I’m a lone woman, and I
haven’t any lodgings for anyone. You’ll have to go along.”
“We can pay,” ventured Harvey.
The woman shook her head.
“I’ve heard they do beat ’em dreadful on the dredgers, oftentimes,” she
said, “and I don’t know as I blame you for running off, if that’s what
you’ve been doing. But you’ll have to try somewhere’s else. I guess you
couldn’t pay much, by the looks of you.”
Harvey and Tom Edwards looked at each other. Tom Edwards shook his head.
“It’s no use, Jack,” he said. “She won’t let us in.” Then he turned to
the window once more and made a sweeping bow, with his greasy tarpaulin
in hand.
“Allow us to wish you a Merry Christmas, madam,” he said.
“Hey?”
“A Merry Christmas, I say.”
The old woman suddenly withdrew her head from the window, and they
started to go away; but she reappeared and called to them.
“Here,” she said, “catch this.” And she tossed something out of the
window.
A coin fell at Harvey’s feet, and he stooped and picked it up. It was a
quarter of a dollar.
“If that will do you any good, you are welcome,” she said. “It’s all the
Christmas I can afford to give you.”
Then she shut the window.
Harvey and Tom Edwards, amused and disappointed, passed out of the
gateway and went on.
“Well, we’re a quarter better off,” laughed Harvey, untying his oil-skins
and stowing the coin away in a trousers’ pocket.
“Oh, hang the quarter!” exclaimed Tom Edwards, sleepily. “I’d give ten
dollars for a good night’s lodging, a bath and a shave—that is, if I had
the ten,” he added. “What shall we do, Jack?”
“I know,” replied Harvey, promptly. “I’ve seen a big old farmhouse, with
a lot of barns and hen-houses and cattle sheds and things, when we’ve
been lying off shore, and it looked mighty comfortable and home-like.
It’s down the shore a piece. Let’s go there. We won’t ask for lodgings,
though. We’ll get into one of the barns, and make ourselves comfortable.
They can’t find us until morning, anyway.”
“Go ahead. I’m with you,” said Tom Edwards.
Harvey led the way, across the open country, through a series of little
hills and hollows, to the eastward of where they had landed. Tom Edwards,
wearied and burdened with the weight of the cumbersome oil-skins,
followed doggedly, nearly falling asleep as he walked.
They came presently to the outskirts of a farm of some considerable size,
fenced in, and skirted with small trees and bushes. From the shelter of
these, they could look across some ploughed land, with the old stubble of
corn-stalks showing, to the farmhouse and out-buildings. There were, as
Harvey had noted, several of these.
“I wonder if there are any dogs,” muttered Harvey, as he surveyed the
prospect. “If there are, we’re done for—unless we have better luck than
we did before.”
He gave a low whistle, not to be audible far, but which might carry in
the still night air to the buildings. Then they waited anxiously. There
was no answering bark. They stole quickly across the open fields and came
within the shadow of one of the barns. There they paused again, listening
intently for any sound that might come from the house. The place was
silent, save for the stirring of some cattle within the barn.
This barn was one of the larger ones, evidently built for storing hay,
with a part of it used for cattle. It was nearest the farmhouse—only a
few rods distant. They made the round of three sides of it, keeping close
within the shadow of its walls, looking for a possible means of entrance.
To their disappointment, there were no windows large enough to admit of
the passage of even a boy—only some small ones, high up, that admitted
light and air for the cattle.
At the farther end, however, they discovered two doors; the larger one on
the ground floor, used for teams and farm wagons, and, high above that, a
smaller door that opened on to the second floor, used for hoisting in
hay. The smaller door they perceived to be slightly ajar—evidently
through the oversight of some farm hand.
Tom Edwards pointed to the door, half-heartedly.
“Isn’t that tantalizing?” he said. “Of course, it’s the door that’s out
of reach that’s open.”
“We’ll make it,” replied Harvey. “Whoever heard of a farm without a
ladder of some sort?”
They found one, after a cautious hunt, lying alongside another shed. In a
twinkling, they had raised it to the upper window, ascended, and were
inside.
There was absolutely no way of telling where they were, save that they
were in some sort of a hay-loft, with a window at the farther end,
through which the stars gave scarcely any light at all. They ventured to
strike one match, but it gave them only a transient, shadowy view of
their surroundings; and they dared not repeat the experiment amid the dry
hay.
There were cattle and perhaps other stock on the floor below, judging by
the sounds. There was hay scattered all about them, and a huge mow of it
on one side. There was a bucket filled with sand that Harvey discovered
by bumping his shins against it. A rope went up from this to the beam
above. Harvey knew the contrivance, for he had seen the like in barns at
home. The rope ran through a big block fastened to a beam overhead, and
passed down again from that pulley through a hole in the floor, to the
room below. There it connected, he knew, with a barred door, like a large
gate, that was used in summer nights, instead of the regular sliding
doors, to admit of a free supply of air into the barn. The rope connected
with it like a window cord, and the bucket of sand answered for the
weight. This much of their surroundings was apparent. All the rest was
hidden in darkness.
Tom Edwards unbuttoned his oil-skin coat, removed it, and dropped upon a
little pile of hay, using the coat to cover him.
“It’s gorgeous! Jack, my boy,” he exclaimed. “It beats any bed in the
Parker House in Boston. Turn in. There’s room for two, and not a cent to
pay. My, but I’m tired!”
“I’m with you,” answered Harvey, “but I’ll just close that door a bit
more. We haven’t got much bed-clothing.”
He stepped to the door and shut it almost tight. Then he started back,
for where Tom Edwards lay. It was dark, and he could not see his way. He
took a few steps, when something impelled him to stop abruptly. The next
moment he discovered he was at the top of a pair of stairs leading down
to the lower floor.
“Jimminy! Tom,” he cried softly, “I came near taking a flying trip that
time. Here’s a pair of stairs.”
He retraced his steps a little, and stumbled against a pitchfork, that
was leaning against the side of the barn.
“Tom,” he laughed, “where are you, anyway? This is the easiest place to
get lost in I ever saw.”
Before Tom Edwards had opportunity to reply, Harvey had taken a few more
steps in the darkness. Then Tom Edwards heard him utter a startled,
frightened, half-smothered cry. There was a queer, scraping sound, and a
heavy thud somewhere on the floor below.
Tom Edwards sprang to his feet, in alarm.
“Jack,” he cried, “what’s the matter? What’s happened?”
There was no answer. He groped his way across the floor.
“Jack,” he called again, anxiously, “where are you? What’s happened? Are
you hurt?”
He peered into the darkness, and listened. Then he heard the frightened
whinny of a horse, followed by a clatter of hoofs on the barn floor. Tom
Edwards made his way in the darkness to the top of the stairs.
“Jack, Jack,” he called.
To his inexpressible relief, the voice of Harvey came up to him; then the
vague figure of Harvey, himself, ascending the stairway. He was limping,
but taking two stairs at a jump.
Tom Edwards seized him by an arm as he arrived at the top.
“Good gracious, my boy, what happened?” he asked.
Harvey gasped.
“I’m more scared than hurt, I guess,” he said, panting for breath.
“Cracky! How I did go. Dropped down one of the chutes that they feed the
hay down into the stalls through. It was all over in a minute. I thought
I was going clear to China, and then I struck and landed in a manger.
Scared? You bet! But the horse in that stall was scared worse than I was.
He gave a snort and jumped to his feet, broke his halter and cleared out
of that stall quicker than scat. There he goes about the stable, making a
racket to wake the whole farm. I’ve done it, I expect. Say, Tom, we’ve
got to hide, and hide quick.”
“Where’ll we go—down the ladder and make a run for it?” asked Tom
Edwards.
“I can’t do it,” answered Harvey. “I’ve got a bad ankle. I know what.
Where’s that pitchfork?”
He groped his way cautiously to the side of the barn, and had the good
fortune to put his hand on the handle of the fork.
“Lie down there again, Tom,” he said. “I’ll heap the hay over you. Here,
take my coat, too. I’ll cover you, and then I’ll go up the rope. I can
climb, if I can’t run.”
Tom Edwards, confused by the sudden turn of affairs, obeyed instructions.
Harvey hurriedly pitched a quantity of the loose hay over the form of his
friend, pressed it down until Tom Edwards begged for mercy, vowing he
should smother, then tossed the pitchfork aside. Grasping the rope,
Harvey went rapidly up, hand-over-hand, until he could seize the beam. He
drew himself up, caught one leg over the beam and swung himself astride
of it. Then he stretched himself out at length upon the beam, holding to
the block for safety. It was an easy accomplishment for him. He had done
a similar feat in the gymnasium at home a hundred times; and the fear of
discovery now lent him strength which made little account of the extra
weight of clothing that encumbered him. It was dusty and uncomfortable on
the great beam, but he could stick.
Sometime after midnight, Henry Burns and young Joe Warren, asleep in that
corner room of the old Warren house that was nearest the big barn, awoke
suddenly. Of one accord, the two sat bolt upright in bed and wondered if
the house were tumbling down about their heads. Then they realized that
the noise was outside the house—a most extraordinary racket, as of a
stampede of cattle, or a horse galloping through a covered bridge at full
speed. They sprang out of bed and ran to the window.
Henry Burns laughed.
“It’s all right, Joey,” he said. “It isn’t an earthquake nor a cyclone. I
thought we were all going in a heap for a moment, though. It’s out in the
barn—one of the horses got loose, I guess.”
They heard sounds of stirring in the room opposite, and presently Edward
Warren called out to them.
“Don’t be scared, boys,” he said. “It’s old Billy, got loose, somehow.
Funny, too, I hitched him all right last night. What on earth is the
matter with him? He’s scared at something, sure. I reckon it isn’t
thieves, for they don’t steal horses around here. I’ll have a look pretty
quick, though. There’s something wrong.”
“Come on, Joe,” said Henry Burns. “Let’s see what’s the matter.”
But Young Joe was not eager. He yawned and returned to bed. Henry Burns
dressed and hurried out into the hall. A few moments later, Edward
Warren, carrying a lantern, and George and Arthur Warren and Henry Burns
made their way out of the back door and entered the barn at the door
facing the house.
As they threw open the sliding door and entered, with the lighted
lantern, the whinny of a horse greeted them. Then old Billy, recognizing
his master’s voice, came ambling up and thrust his nose into Edward
Warren’s hand.
Edward Warren gave an exclamation of surprise.
“That’s queer,” he said. “Look at that halter. If he hasn’t broken it
short off. I never knew him to do that before. What’s the matter,
Billy—had bad dreams?”
“You don’t think anybody has broken into the barn?” suggested George
Warren, peering into the dancing shadows cast by the lantern.
“Oh, no,” replied Edward Warren. “I never knew that to happen here. This
door was fastened, and so is the one at the farther end.” He held the
lantern aloft and threw the light across the barn. “That’s fastened up
tight,” he said.
“Come on, Billy,” continued Edward Warren, “I’ll hitch you up again.
Confound you, old scamp, what do you mean by acting this way?”
The horse, led by his master, followed quietly; but at the entrance to
the stall he stopped and danced about, trembling. It was with difficulty
that he was dragged to the manger and hitched up.
“That’s queer, sure enough,” said Edward Warren. “There’s something about
that manger he acts afraid of. I’ll just step up-stairs, pitch him down a
feed of hay, and quiet him.”
He took the lantern and ascended to the floor above, leaving the boys in
darkness.
Jack Harvey, stretched at length on the beam, heard the footsteps, with
alarm. Peering down, he caught the gleam of the lantern. He clung rigidly
on his perch, till every bone and muscle in his body seemed to be aching.
He saw the man hunt for his pitchfork, heard him remark impatiently when
he did not see it in its place against the wall; saw him pick it up from
another part of the loft, on the floor. Then, to his dismay, he saw the
man turn toward the pile of hay that he had thrown over Tom Edwards.
But the man stopped, gathered up a fork-full from the floor and thrust it
down the chute.
“That will be enough to quiet the old boy,” he muttered, and departed
down the stairs. Harvey felt a shiver of relief run through him.
“Lucky I closed that door,” he muttered. “If he’d gone to that and seen
the ladder, we’d have been done for.”
A few minutes later, the little party from the house had shut and locked
the barn door again and returned to their beds. Harvey, stiff in every
joint, managed to slide down the rope into the arms of Tom Edwards. A
moment more, and they were both snug in the hay, exhausted but thankful.
Sleep soon overtook them, and they rested till the morning light came in
through the window. Then they aroused and scurried down the ladder,
setting off on as brisk a run as Harvey could manage with his lame ankle,
across the fields to the woods, without stopping to remove the ladder.
“That was a close call, Tom,” gasped Harvey, as they rested a half hour
later. “Supposing they had caught us? We’d be in the town lock-up, like
as not.”
Later that morning, a group of boys stood with Edward Warren, gazing at
the ladder raised to the upper barn door.
“And only to think there was somebody in there all the time,” said Henry
Burns. “Too bad you didn’t catch them, Mr. Warren. What do you suppose
they wanted?”
“Tramps,” replied Edward Warren, “and old Billy didn’t like ’em.”
Christmas day came in warm and genial. It was a wonderful day for winter,
even in Maryland. The party went into the woods and fields in the
morning, and returned with game for Mammy Stevens to roast. The Christmas
dinner followed. Young Joe dragged himself from the dinner table, fairly
groaning with his cargo of good things. The others were hardly better
off. They stood together on the Warren verandah.
“Well, what shall it be?” inquired Edward Warren. “Anything you chaps
say, you know. Got enough gunning?”
They demurred.
“Couldn’t walk half a mile after that dinner,” said George Warren.
Even Henry Burns declared himself unequal to so much activity, though he
was ever the last to tire or balk at exertion, being slight and wiry and
surprisingly strong.
“How about a sail?” ventured Edward Warren.
To his surprise, a shout of approval answered him.
“Oh, I forgot you chaps were sailors,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d
venture it on a winter day. You sail up in your bay, summers, don’t you?”
“I should say we did,” answered George Warren. “Jack Harvey and Henry
here own a fine yacht together. Jack Harvey’s gone to Europe this winter.
And we fellows have a craft of our own, too. We keep them going lively in
summer. We’d just like to try that canoe of yours, Ed. Do you mean it?”
“Why, certainly,” said Edward Warren. “She’s all ready; nothing to do but
get sail on, and go. I keep her moored in the cove, to run over to Drum
Point occasionally in, and to Solomon’s Island. It’s a fine afternoon for
a sail, if you get some oil-skins on. They keep the cold wind out.”
Edward Warren had made the proposal half in fun; but the opportunity for
a sail on a Christmas day such as this was not to be lost by the Warren
brothers and Henry Burns, who were, indeed, enthusiastic yachtsmen. The
novelty of a sail in winter, too, appealed to them. They lost no time in
equipping themselves with oil-skins and heavy jackets, provided by Edward
Warren, and soon the entire party was down by the shore.
“She’s no fancy yacht,” said Edward Warren, pointing to the canoe drawn
in to the bank and moored with a line carried up and hitched to a tree,
“but she can go some. She’s won many a touch-and-go race up and down this
river with different fleets of tong-men, if she hasn’t got any silver
cups to show for it.”
The canoe, a craft of about twenty feet in length and narrow, after the
type of canoe common to Chesapeake Bay and its rivers, and carrying two
leg-o’-mutton sails and a jib, was not exactly a handsome boat, to be
sure. It was built of planking and finished up rather roughly, for use in
oystering; but it had, for all that, lines that denoted speed, and the
boys were eager to be off in it. They scrambled aboard, got up sails on
the slender, raking masts, and, with Edward Warren at the tiller, darted
across the river.
It was remarkable, in the eyes of the youths accustomed to a type of
craft altogether different, how the narrow, crank looking canoe stood up
so stiffly, withstood the wind flaws and sailed so well. Some tongmen
came down the river presently, and Edward Warren joined their little
fleet, stood along with them, and drew ahead of them all. It was evident,
as he had said, that he had a fast canoe.
“How would she behave out in the bay?” asked Henry Burns.
“Fine as a ship,” answered Edward Warren. “The men around here cross the
bay in them in pretty rough weather. We’ll go out and take a few seas,
and let you see how cleverly she rides.”
They headed out toward the mouth of the river, passed beyond the
lighthouse, into the open waters of the bay. It was not rough, but there
was some sea running. The canoe weathered it all surprisingly. They
followed up the shore of the bay for a mile or two.
Time passed quickly, and it was late in the afternoon when they left the
light on their starboard hand in running back again. Edward Warren looked
at his crew and laughed.
“You stood it well,” he said. “But you’re a frozen looking lot, for all
that. Winter’s a chilly time for yachting, at its best. I tell you what
we’ll do. Do you see that house up on the hill? My old friend, Will
Adams, lives there all alone. He’ll be pleased enough to see us. We’ll
just stand in and land and make him a call, get some coffee and thaw out
by his fire before we run home.”
He turned the canoe in and ran up to a little landing not far from the
Drum Point lighthouse; they disembarked and walked briskly up the hill. A
young man of about thirty, standing in the doorway of the big house they
were approaching, hailed them as they drew near.
“Hello, Ed,” he called cheerily, “I saw you out on the river. Got a crew
with you, eh? Pretty cold yachting for a raw crew, isn’t it? Come in, I’m
glad to see you. There’s a good fire going. Cousins, you say, and Henry
Burns—all from Maine. I’m glad to meet you all. Take off your duds.
You’ll stay to supper with me, you know. It’s a dull life I lead here,
and I’m glad to have company.”
There was no doubt of the heartiness and sincerity of his welcome. There
was cordiality in his voice, and a genial smile on his face. He was a
large, powerfully built man, hearty and free in all his actions and
words. The boys threw off their outer garments, and gathered about the
open fire in the sitting-room.
Edward Warren was for getting home before dark, but Will Adams wouldn’t
hear of it. He started the two servants on an early supper, and his
guests sat down to table with him, an hour later, enjoying the best that
his house afforded.
“I don’t have much company, nowadays,” he explained, as he sat offering
them his hospitality in the cheery dining-room. “I lead rather a lonely
life, in fact. About the only strangers that come to my door are a few
poor fellows from off the dredgers—got clear by hook or crook, and coming
begging, rousing me up at all hours of the night, asking a night’s
shelter or a dollar to get up the bay with.”
Henry Burns listened eagerly.
“Are there many that get away when they’re beaten?” he asked.
Will Adams paused a moment, while his face darkened.
“There’s some that get away,” he answered, “who never come farther ashore
than just beyond the reach of the tide. Down on that shore yonder there’s
eight of the poor chaps buried. They were washed ashore, and we found
them. Some of them had the marks that showed they had been knocked
overboard—beaten—abused shamefully. That’s the way some of them escape.
“Others do get away, with never a cent in their pockets, half starved and
half clad. I help a few of them along.
“Sometimes in the still summer nights, I hear a man crying for mercy out
aboard a dredger. I know what’s happening to him—tied up to the mast and
getting a lashing. Sometimes an entire vessel’s crew is beaten up, by the
captains and mates of four or five vessels that work together. Hard life?
Well, it’s about the hardest I know of.
“You wouldn’t think a man would swim ashore on a winter night, half a
mile or more, in water you could hardly bear your hand in? Well, I’ve
known them to do that. Had one come the other night. He was nearly dead
when he got here—say, that was the queerest of all. He brought a note
ashore, in his cap, and lost the cap down by the shore; and I had to go
out with a lantern and find the cap for him, to keep him from going back,
half dead as he was. I’m going to give that note to the authorities. I’ll
show it to you, if you’ve any curiosity.”
Will Adams arose and went to a desk, took therefrom a sheet of paper on
which he had pasted three other torn pieces, and handed it to Edward
Warren. The latter took it, ran his eye over it hastily, then sat up and
read it again slowly.
“Well, that’s queer,” he exclaimed. “What does that say? ‘Send word to
Benton,’—Benton! Why, that’s where these youngsters come from. What is
this—a joke? Look at that, Henry. Come around here, George. It’s a joke,
or it’s the oddest thing that ever happened.”
Henry Burns took the sheet and deciphered the message. He held it for a
moment, as though he could not believe what he read. Then he handed it to
George Warren and said, calmly and deliberately, “It’s from Jack Harvey,
George. He hasn’t gone to Europe. He’s out on that man Haley’s dredger.”
One unacquainted with Henry Burns might have thought, by his voice and
his deliberation, that he was strangely unmoved at his astounding
discovery. George Warren, who had known him for years, knew by that same
unusual deliberation, by the set look of his face, and by his eyes, that
something extraordinary had aroused him.
George Warren gave one glance at the paper, and uttered a cry that rang
through the rooms:—
“Jack Harvey! Carried off on a dredger, Arthur. What do you think of
that? Why, he’s our friend, Mr. Adams. He’s from Benton, where we live.
We’ve got to hunt for him? What’ll we do?”
“Haley, Haley,” repeated Edward Warren, “where have I seen him? Why, of
course, that fellow that came for the potatoes. You fellows remember him.
His vessel was off shore. Will, I think we can get that fellow to-night.
What do you say?”
“No, you can’t—not to-night,” said Henry Burns, in a tone of deep
disappointment; “I saw him get under weigh from Solomon’s Island just as
we came back into the river, not more than two hours ago. He’s gone down
the bay somewhere. I know the craft. I took notice of it this morning, on
account of that trouble at the house the night before, when Joe ran into
him.”
“George,” he added, “don’t things happen queer, though? Jack out aboard a
dredger—and we close by, all the time he’s been off there. And we thought
he was in Europe! And to think that he’s been trapped by the very man we
fell in with—that brute, Haley.”
Henry Burns turned to Edward Warren and Will Adams. “What can you do?” he
asked. “We’ve got to get Jack off quick. How are we going to do it?”
“Well, sit down here,” answered Will Adams. “We’ll talk it over.”