HARVEY MEETS WITH A LOSS
Jack Harvey and Tom Edwards had made good their escape—escape from their
own friends. Alas, they knew not how near they had been to the end of all
their troubles. As it was, now that they were out of sight and sound of
the farmhouse, the whole adventure seemed amusing. Harvey leaned against
a tree and roared with laughter.
“You’re a sight!” he exclaimed to his companion. “I’d like to see you
walk into a store now and try to sell a man some goods. Oh, but I’m
winded. How we did scoot.”
Tom Edwards was, indeed, nearly used up, from the dash across the fields.
His shabby garments were covered with wisps of hay and straw; his very
hair was filled with it. His face was stained with the dust of the
hay-mow and the exertion of running. Altogether, he looked not unlike
some huge fowl, half plucked, with short feathers sticking out here and
there. His shoes, much worn and breaking through, were miry with the soil
of the corn field. He looked himself over, as Harvey spoke, and a grim
smile overspread his face.
“I nearly died under all that hay,” he said. “And when that chap came
into the mow and walked toward me, I had to hold in with might and main
to keep from letting out the biggest yell I ever gave in my life. I
expected that pitchfork to go into my leg every minute. If it had,
there’d have been one scared farmer in Maryland, I tell you.”
Harvey roared again. Then his face grew serious.
“Poor old Tom!” he exclaimed. “You’ve had the hardest time of it right
along. I thought, one time, you wouldn’t stand the winter at the dredges.
Well, we’re through now, though. Lucky I saved that money. We’ll get down
to the shore, and find out about the boat. Then, hooray for Baltimore!”
“And after Haley!” added Tom Edwards, emphatically. “I’m going to put him
where he belongs.”
“And I’m going to put this where it belongs,” remarked Harvey, drawing
forth a biscuit, from his pocket. “I’m hungry enough to eat some of that
hay, back in the barn. Here’s a piece of corn bread, too. It’s good, if
George Haley did cook it. It wasn’t meant for the crew, that’s why.”
Tom Edwards producing other of the food taken from the Brandt, they made
a breakfast in the open, without stopping to build a fire; and they
quenched their thirst from the water of a little stream that trickled
down through the wood.
“This will do well enough for now,” said Tom Edwards, as he bolted a
piece of biscuit, hungrily; “but just you wait till we get into
civilization once more, Jack, old fellow. I’m going to take you to Boston
with me, and we’ll go to the best hotel there, and I’ll order a big
sirloin steak as thick as your two hands, and we’ll sit and eat till we
choke.”
“Hooray!” mumbled Harvey, biting into a piece of corn bread; “isn’t it
good to be free?”
When they had eaten, they started back into the country, on a long détour
to avoid the farmhouse, to make their way to the shore in the
neighbourhood of the steamboat landing. They walked across a somewhat
uneven country, broken here and there by little streams that flowed down
into the creeks that cut into the shore line. Some of these were frozen
so as to bear their weight; others had open water, so they were forced to
walk some distance in order to find a crossing place. Once they ascended
a hill of perhaps a hundred feet, from which they could see the
surrounding country and the river, plainly.
There were several smaller hills lying to the eastward of this, between
one of which a stream of some considerable size ran down into a large
creek above Millstone landing. They could see the farmhouse from this
hill; and, with the coming in of the morning, they saw a sight that
thrilled them—that made them burn with exultation—the bug-eye Brandt,
making sail and going across the harbour to Solomon’s Island. They
watched the craft with satisfaction for a long time. Then they slowly
descended the hill in the direction of the landing.
Crossing more uneven country, Harvey and Tom Edwards came finally into a
road that trended down toward the shore. They followed that for about
three quarters of a mile, till another road crossed it at right angles.
At this point, they espied, coming down the road that intersected the one
they were on, a man, carrying a gunny sack over one shoulder. They
halted, and waited for him to come up.
The man was ill favoured, roughly dressed, stooping and almost stealthy
in his gait, looking about him from side to side. As he approached, he
eyed them slyly out of the corners of a pair of sharp, black eyes,
turning his head and giving them no direct glance. He would have passed
them without speaking, but Tom Edwards hailed him.
“Can you tell us what time the boat will go up the river to-day, sir?” he
asked.
The man stopped, lowered his sack to the ground, and stood, darting
glances at them, without replying for a moment. Then he answered, curtly,
“’Twon’t go up at all to-day.”
Tom Edwards and Harvey looked at each other, with keenest disappointment
on their faces.
“When will it go up?” continued Tom Edwards.
“Day after to-morrow—it will, if the weather’s right. If it isn’t, it
won’t. Where d’yer want to go?”
“We want to go to Baltimore,” replied Tom Edwards; and added, by way of
explanation, “we’ve come ashore from a vessel.”
“Hmph!” ejaculated the stranger. “Reckon you’ll stay right here to-day.”
He eyed them shrewdly for a moment, in silence. Then he said, “Off a
vessel, eh? You ain’t flush with money, then. Couldn’t pay for a night’s
lodging, I suppose.”
“Yes, we can,” answered Harvey, promptly. “We haven’t got much money, but
we can pay for that, and for a dinner, too. Do you know where we can get
it?”
The man’s appearance bespoke poor hospitality that he might have to
offer; but they had met with ill success, in seeking shelter, and
anything would be better than a night in the fields.
“Hm! What might you be willing to pay for keeping you over a night, with
meals?” inquired the man, casting doubtful glances at their shabby,
mud-stained clothing.
Harvey looked at Tom Edwards. The latter made answer.
“We’ll give you a dollar for dinner, supper, night’s lodging and a
breakfast to-morrow,” he said. “Then we’ll see about what we’ll do.”
The man’s eyes twinkled shrewdly.
“Make it two, and it’s a bargain,” he said.
“All right,” said Harvey.
“Well, I’m going down to the shore,” said the man, “and I’ll be back this
way. You can come along, or wait for me here. I won’t be gone long.”
“We’ll wait for you,” replied Tom Edwards.
The man shambled off down the road toward the landing.
“It doesn’t look very inviting,” said Tom Edwards, as their new-found
host went on his way, “but we’ve got to take what we can get. We’ll make
up for it when we get to Baltimore.”
The man’s promise to be back soon was not fulfilled, for it was more than
an hour before they saw him returning. He was burdened, however, with the
weight of the sack, which he had evidently been to the warehouse to fill.
He set it down as he came up to them, and Harvey offered to carry it a
way for him—an offer which was accepted promptly.
“I’m not so spry as I used to be,” he remarked; “and you’re young and
rugged.”
He started up along the road he had first come, and the two followed,
Harvey carrying the sack, which proved to be filled with potatoes. They
proceeded for about half a mile, when Harvey, wearied with his load,
inquired how much farther they had to go.
“Oh, just a leetle piece,” responded the man, cheerfully. He did not
offer to relieve Harvey of the sack, however. The “leetle piece” proved
to be fully a half mile more, when the man turned from the road and
followed a wheel track through the fields. They proceeded along that for
about a quarter of a mile.
“I guess I’ll stop and rest for a minute,” said Harvey presently. “This
sack is pretty heavy.”
“Sho!” exclaimed the man. “You’ve been carrying it a long way, haven’t
you? I’ll take it the rest of the way.”
He gave a grin, as he spoke, the reason for which was soon apparent. They
had gone on for only a rod or two more when they espied, in a clump of
trees, a dingy, weather-beaten house. It was of one story in height,
leaning over at an angle that threatened its complete collapse at no
distant day. The hearts of Tom Edwards and Jack Harvey sank. It was not a
pleasant prospect for Christmas.
Throwing open the door, the man invited them to enter. They found
themselves within a shabby room, bare of furnishing, save a wooden table,
some chairs, strengthened with pieces of board, and a horse hair sofa in
one corner, the springs of which had broken through and were touching the
floor.
“You’re welcome, misters,” said the man, “to such as it is. It ain’t
nothing to boast of, but it’s a sight better than some dredgers I’ve
seen. Had breakfast?”
Harvey nodded. The place left him little appetite.
It was some time before the man spoke again. He seemed to be considering
something. Then he said, somewhat hesitatingly, “Misters, I know as how
you are all right, by the looks of you—sailors, eh, but not such as would
take advantage of a poor man. But bein’ as you are strangers, why it will
have to be pay in advance—and no offence intended. Besides, I don’t keep
much on hand, as I live alone; and I’ll have to go along up the road a
piece, and buy a bit of meat.”
Harvey was prepared for it. In the absence of the man on his errand to
the warehouse, he had carefully withdrawn four one dollar bills from the
money pinned into his clothing, and now he had the two dollars ready. He
handed them over.
The man snatched the money greedily, while his eyes twinkled. He took
down his slouch hat from a peg, and prepared to be off again.
“Will you make yourselves at home, misters,” he said, more deferentially
than before. “I’ll be after a bit of meat for dinner. The old house isn’t
much to look at, but it don’t leak rain, and it’s warm. You keep the fire
going, and I’ll promise you’ll have a dinner that beats dredgin’ grub by
a long sight.”
He went out and left them alone. They sat for a moment in silence. Then
Harvey laughed, as he surveyed the dingy room.
“Merry Christmas! Tom,” he said.
It was Tom Edwards’s turn to smile now.
“The same to you, Jack, old boy,” he exclaimed, heartily. “I guess the
old cove is right, after all. It does beat Haley’s dredger—but not by
such a big margin.”
They explored the ramshackle house, together. There was a room opening
off the one they were in, a sleeping room, with a rough cot in it that
might accommodate two, on a pinch. A wood-shed led off from the first
room, also. That was the extent of the cabin. They returned to the living
room, which, with a small cook-stove set up in it, answered for
dining-room, parlour, and kitchen in one. They replenished the fire-pot
with wood, from a box, and stretched themselves out at length on the
floor beside the fire. The room was at least warm, and they were still
weary from lack of sleep.
The hours passed, and it was near noon when they heard the returning
footsteps of their host. He came in and busied himself with preparations
for dinner, setting out a coffee pot on top of the stove and cutting some
strips of bacon to fry in a pan. He took from a closet a few cold boiled
potatoes, and sliced these into the pan, with the bacon.
That was their Christmas dinner; but they were hungry, and ate heartily.
Toward the end of the meal, their host eyed them slyly, but critically.
He noted their clothing, their shoes, even the wisps of hay still
clinging to their hair. He arose and pretended to be busy about the fire,
but cast sidelong glances at them.
“I heard that there were tramps got into Warren’s barn, over yonder, last
night,” he said, in a matter-of-fact tone. “We don’t have much of that
around here. Neighbour Darrell says Warren would give a dollar, and
perhaps more, to catch them. But I says, ‘Probably the poor fellows
didn’t have nowheres else to go, and I wouldn’t tell on ’em, if I knew
where they were.’”
Again the man stole a stealthy glance at his guests.
“I wouldn’t take money for that,” he added, “though I reckon it would be
worth a dollar to the chaps, themselves, to keep out of the lock-up.”
Harvey, and Tom Edwards exchanged significant glances. It was only too
clear what their host was driving at. But Harvey waited for some time
before he yielded. It was half an hour later, when they had finished
dinner and were sitting by the fire, that he met the sly demand.
“Look here,” he said, suddenly, as though the thought had just struck
him, “you’re giving us the best you can, and we haven’t paid you enough.
Here’s another dollar. I’d give more than that, if we could afford it.”
He held out the dollar. The man took it, eyed it avariciously and stuffed
it into a pocket.
“I wouldn’t take it if I wasn’t as poor as poverty,” he said.
Late that afternoon, he took down his hat and said he would go “up the
road” again, and be back shortly. They watched him till he was out of
sight. Then Tom Edwards turned to Harvey, his face clouded with anger.
“Jack,” he said, “we’ve got to get out of here, and now’s our chance. I
wouldn’t trust that old rascal another minute. He may be lying about the
lock-up he spoke of—I don’t believe there’s one for miles around. But
he’d sell us to the first captain that came along. What do you think?”
Jack Harvey nodded, wearily.
“You’re right,” he said. “It’s a beastly shame, though. I want a night’s
sleep. But we can’t get away from here any too soon, I’m thinking. Come
on. Let’s bolt.”
They started off, running along the wheel track, and thence down the road
they had come before. It was already growing dark, and their hearts sank,
as they hurried on, wondering anxiously where they should spend the
night.
They followed the road down to the landing, because they knew not where
else to go. They came finally to the wharf, with its warehouse at the
farther end. This was shut fast, and no sign of life about it. They sat
down for a moment, to rest.
“Well?” queried Harvey, “what do you think?”
“Try another farmhouse?” suggested Tom Edwards.
“I’m scared to do it,” replied Harvey. “There’s an old barn, or factory
of some sort over yonder, however, that looks deserted. Anything will do
for a night. Let’s go and see.”
They made their way over to the eastward of the wharf, for a distance of
several rods, and came up to an old canning factory, which had been some
time out of use and was closed. They forced the shutter of a window and
entered, finding themselves almost in darkness.
What sort of a place they were in, what it consisted of, and whatever
accommodations it might afford them for a night’s lodging, they had no
means of finding out. They had only a few matches, and these would serve
them but little. They feared to wander about, lest some rotten timbers
should let them through to the cellar, or whatever might be beneath. The
single match they lighted sufficed to show them all they needed.
The little patch of light fell upon a litter of old straw, as though from
packing boxes of some sort. Tired and sleepy, they crept into this,
devoured the remaining biscuits they had in their pockets from the
Brandt’s cabin, and fell sound asleep.
Both awoke shivering, the following morning, for there had been scant
covering to their bed, and the building was cold. They hastened out into
the sunshine, going around to the southern exposure of the cannery, where
the warmth was greatest. Again, Harvey took the precaution of dividing
the money in his small and very private bank, drawing on the account
pinned to his undershirt, for three dollars, leaving fourteen thus
secured.
He had hardly accomplished this transfer when they heard voices, and
three men came past the corner of the old cannery, going off to the right
in the direction of a great creek. Harvey halted them, with a call, and
they turned in surprise. They were negroes, and evidently oystermen of
some sort.
“Hello, what be you two doing here?” inquired one of them, who seemed by
his manner to be the leader of the three.
“We want to get to Baltimore,” replied Harvey.
The man shook his head.
“Boat don’t go to-day,” he said.
“We want something to eat,” said Tom Edwards. “You fellows got anything
to sell?”
“Mebbe a little bread, and sure enough some oysters,” answered the man.
“They’s down ’board the boat, though. You’ll have to come and get ’em.”
The three negroes started on again, Tom Edwards and Harvey following. The
three apparently paid no more attention to Harvey and his companion—at
least, they did not arouse the suspicion of the two. Nevertheless, one by
one, as they walked along, the three turned and looked the strangers
over. Then they conversed together, softly, but with more than ordinary
interest.
Arrived at the creek, there appeared a great canoe drawn up to shore,
with perhaps a bushel of oysters lying in a heap in the bottom. It was a
canoe of unusual size, at least twenty-four feet long, and broad of beam.
The man who had spoken handed over to Tom Edwards half a loaf of bread,
while another of the men began shucking some of the oysters. He passed
these to them, and they devoured them hungrily.
“You want to go to Baltimore right away?” asked the negro, suddenly,
turning to Tom Edwards.
“Quick as we can get there.”
“Jim,” said the man, addressing one of his companions, “what time this
afternoon does that Potomac river steamer get ’round to Otter Point?”
“About five o’clock,” answered the man promptly.
“You know Otter Point?” asked the first man, of Tom Edwards.
The latter shook his head.
“I know,” said Harvey. “It’s a long way down.”
“’Bout eighteen miles,” said the negro. “Good offshore wind this fo’noon;
take you down in ’bout three hours, you catch the afternoon steamer, get
you into Baltimore to-morrow mo’ning.”
“How much will you charge?”
“Guess it’s worth ’bout a dollar.”
“What do you say, Tom?” asked Harvey.
“I say, let’s go,” answered Tom Edwards.
“All right,” said Harvey. “When will you start?”
“Jes’ as soon as you get aboard,” replied the negro.
Harvey handed a dollar to the man, and they stepped into the canoe. The
men shoved off, the sails were set and the canoe glided out of the creek,
through a narrow opening, into the bay. There was a smart breeze coming
up, off the land; and the canoe, with the wind about abeam, headed down
along shore. It was fast, and they made good time. Some three hours
later, at about eleven o’clock in the forenoon, they ran between two
points of land, into a creek that spread out broadly for over a mile in
width, and extended northward for some three miles.
They ran for something like a mile northwesterly, and turned into one of
the numberless coves, to where a small cabin stood, a little way back
from shore. The country round about was desolate. There was not another
sign of habitation in sight.
They went up to the cabin, with the three negroes, and entered. It was a
mere fisherman’s shack, with some bunks on two sides, filled with hay for
bedding. A cook stove warmed it. There was a table in the middle of the
floor, with some empty boxes to serve as seats.
Despite the barrenness of it, however, Harvey and Tom Edwards made a good
dinner, about two hours later, of fried fish and bread and hot coffee.
They were in good spirits, when they stood, at a quarter to five that
afternoon, at Otter Point, awaiting the steamer.
But there was no wharf there—nothing but a rude framework of poles, at
which a small boat might moor.
Harvey turned to their one companion, in surprise.
“A steamer can’t land here,” he exclaimed.
The leader of the three negroes, who had accompanied them from the cabin,
answered, with assurance.
“The landing was over yonder,” he said. “It was carried away, and they
just puts folks ashore and takes them on here. We has to send a boat
off.” He took out a pipe and began smoking stolidly.
Five o’clock came—and six—and there was no steamer. Night had settled
down. The negro answered their questions by asserting that “something
mus’ have hap’nd; that boat was always on time befo’.”
They waited a little while longer, with fast dying hopes. It was all
guesswork to them. They could not know that, at six o’clock in the
evening, by its schedule, the Potomac river steamer bound for Baltimore
was twenty miles back on its course, coming out of St. Mary River, into
the Potomac; that it never did stop at the creek where they were
anxiously waiting, and that it would go by sometime in the night. At
half-past six o’clock they gave it up and rowed back with the negro, in a
skiff, to the cabin.
“Jack,” said Tom Edwards, as they turned in for the night, in bunks, one
above the other, “I’m afraid they’ve played a trick on us, though I don’t
know what for. I don’t like the looks of this place.”
“Nor I,” said Harvey. “I’m going to keep awake for an hour or two, and
watch. I’ve got Haley’s revolver.” He took it from his pocket and hid it
in the straw under his head. “We’ll be ready for them, anyway,” he
muttered.
But they had reckoned without their weariness. In less than an hour, they
were both fast asleep.
Nothing evil befell throughout the night, however. The morning found them
undisturbed. The negroes were stirring, and the odour of cooking brought
them to their feet, hungry and refreshed.
That day seemed endless. There would be no boat up river until
to-morrow, they were now assured. They could only wait. They were
suspicious—alarmed. The place was so out of the way, and so dreary. But
they decided to wait the one more day, and then, if no boat came, to
strike off across country for themselves.
Harvey slept soundly that next night, for several hours. Then
something—he knew not what—roused him. He stirred sleepily, half awoke
and turned in his bunk. A figure stole away from him, in the darkness,
toward the door. It is probable that Harvey would have relapsed into
sound slumber once more had he not felt cold. He awoke, shivering, and
felt a draft of cold night air blowing in on him. Then he saw a patch of
moonlight streaming in through the half-opened door.
Harvey, fully dressed, as he had turned in, rolled out of the bunk and
stepped to the door. Some distance away, two men were going down to the
shore. The next thing he saw sent the blood leaping through his veins.
Out in the creek, the moonlight was reflected on the sail of a bug-eye.
It was rounding to, coming up into the wind. Harvey darted back into the
cabin and awoke Tom Edwards, shaking him vigorously.
“Tom, get up, quick!” he said; and dragged him from where he lay.
“There’s a vessel coming in, Tom,” he cried, “and the men from here are
going down to meet it. They’re after us—that’s what. Tom, we’ll be sold
again to a dredger if we don’t get out of here. That’s what they got us
down for.”
They had, fortunately, no clothing to put on, for they had turned in
dressed, even to their shoes. They waited only for a moment, snatching up
some pieces of dry bread that remained on the table from the supper. Then
they hurried out of the door.
They were not a moment too soon. Perhaps the third man had been about the
cabin somewhere and had given the alarm. As they stepped outside, the
three negroes came plainly into sight, in the moonlight, armed with short
poles which they brandished as clubs, running back toward them and crying
out for them to halt.
There was a sharp surprise for the three, however. Tom Edwards, made
desperate by the crisis, had drawn a fish knife that he had taken from
the cabin of the Brandt; Jack Harvey stood coolly in his tracks, holding
Haley’s revolver.
“Stand back there, or I’ll shoot,” he cried.
The negroes stopped short and stood, holding their clubs in hand. They
were clearly taken all by surprise. The leader, balked of his prize money
for two able-bodied men for the dredger, was not to be beaten, off-hand,
however. His eyes flashed with anger, as he advanced a step.
“That thing isn’t loaded,” he asserted. “You can’t fool us. It won’t
shoot.”
“Won’t it?” said Harvey. “Let’s see.” He raised the weapon, aiming it
over the man’s head, and pulled the trigger. The report of the weapon
sounded afar in the still night air, ringing out across the water. The
man sprang back, in terror, and, the next moment, the three started
running for the shore toward the vessel.
“Tom,” cried Jack Harvey, “get your wind for a run now. We’ve got to get
out of here before they bring the captain and mate and his men after us.
We’ll have to run and trust to luck.”
They started off across country, away from the shore, as hard as they
could run. The moonlight, fortunately, showed them the ground over which
they ran—though they knew not whither they were travelling.
All that night they proceeded, coming to a road, after a time, that went
northward. They followed along that. Not until daybreak did they pause to
rest.
Poor Tom Edwards was groaning, and gasping like a fish out of water.
“The luck’s against us, Jack, old boy,” he murmured. “Here we are, twenty
miles worse off than we were before—and, only to think, that other boat
goes up to-morrow from Millstone, and we won’t be there in time.”
“Never mind,” said Jack Harvey, stout-heartedly, “we’ll get out of it
some way. We’ll follow the road, and we won’t starve. I’ve got the money
to pay for food along the way.”
He thrust his hand under his waistcoat, as he spoke—and uttered a cry as
he did so.
“Tom,” he shouted, “I haven’t got the money. I’ve been robbed! It’s
gone!”
He felt through his clothing, feverishly. He drew forth from one pocket a
single dollar bill and a small amount of change. It was all he had left.
The money that had been pinned to his clothing had been taken, pin and
all, while he slept. The dollar left to him had been in the trousers
pocket, protected by his body.
They were too poor now to pay their fare up the river. They were worse
off than before against the cold or any storm that might arise; for they
had left their oil-skins back in the cabin, in their flight.