SURPRISES FOR JACK HARVEY
Jack Harvey and Tom Edwards, standing in the middle of the road that
extended drearily northward before them through St. Mary county, on the
cold winter morning of December 28, gazed at each other ruefully. They
were aching from the exertions of their escape and of the night spent
without sleep, wandering across country. They were lame, foot-sore, and
hungry, and the cold now began to penetrate their garments, unprotected,
as they were, for lack of oil-skins or heavy coats. The discovery that
they were also now almost penniless, and in an out-of-the-way and
sparsely settled section of Maryland, was well-nigh appalling. They cast
anxious glances over the fields and low rolling hills, to see if they
could discover shelter.
Off to the left of the highway, there wound a thin ribbon of frozen
stream, going down to the southwest, through some irregular ridges;
twenty rods away, on the southern bank of this stream, the roof of a
small house showed, with a chimney sending up a light coil of smoke.
Harvey and his companion left the road and made their way toward the
house.
The occupant of this dwelling, whoever he might be, would not be taken
unawares by their coming, surely, for there bounded out toward them three
dogs, barking. Harvey and Tom Edwards halted, then proceeded slowly. The
dogs did not offer to molest them, but ran close by their side, as a sort
of escort.
A man appeared in the doorway, warned by the dogs, and called to the
three to come away. Then he gave a greeting to the two travellers.
“Don’t mind the dogs,” he called; “they’re not savage. We’re not
accustomed to seeing travelers often, though, and it makes them excited.”
The speaker was a middle-aged, well-built man, of medium height, bronzed
by sun and wind, with an expression and bearing that told of a condition
in life above that of the poor settler. He spoke, too, in accents
different from what they had been accustomed of late to hear. He eyed
them shrewdly, as they came to the door.
“Come inside,” he said, holding the door ajar for them. “You’re fishermen
by your dress—and you’re not. Am I right? If I were to guess, I’d take
you to be northerners, though what you’re doing away down in this
lonesome place is what puzzles me. You’ve been on the bay, perhaps, but
you don’t look like bay men.”
All the while he spoke, his keen, brown eyes were bent critically upon
them, as if the two afforded him an interesting study.
“You’re right, sir,” answered Tom Edwards, “we have been fishermen, but
we’re not now; and what’s more, I hope we never shall be again. We’ve
escaped from a dredger. And, sir, if you will allow me, you don’t look
like a man that toils hard for a living. You’ve got a business hand.”
The man smiled and nodded. “You and I are regular Sherlock Holmeses,” he
said. “Sit down by the fire. No, I’m not a resident here. I’m an invalid.
Do I look it?”
He threw out his chest and laughed heartily.
“You certainly do not,” answered Tom Edwards.
“Well, I was,” continued the stranger. “My name is Phillips, and I live
in New York. I’m a lawyer, and I’m taking a year off for my health. I had
spent many vacations, shooting and fishing about the Chesapeake, and when
I had to give up work for a year, I came down here with my dogs and gun
and rod. I hired this old house and set up as monarch of all I
survey—including an old darkey servant who does my work and cooking. I’m
a pretty lusty invalid, I can tell you. Now where did you come from?”
“It’s a long story,” said Tom Edwards, stretching out comfortably in his
armchair before the hearth fire, “but I’ll make it brief.” And he
sketched rapidly the adventures that had befallen himself and Harvey
since their captivity aboard the dredger. Their host listened intently.
“That’s a strange story, sure enough,” he said, when Tom Edwards had
finished; “but I’ve heard of cases like it before. It’s a bad state of
affairs. I’d like to help prosecute that man, Haley. What a rascal he
must be!”
Mr. Phillips arose, stepped to a closet and produced from a shelf a
bottle and a glass.
“Mr. Edwards,” he said, “I won’t offer this to your young companion, but
you look played out. I keep it on hand, for cases just like this.”
So saying, he poured the glass partly full and handed it to Tom Edwards.
The latter took it, arising from his chair as he did so, and started to
raise it to his lips. To his utter astonishment, and that of the host,
Jack Harvey stepped to the side of his elder companion, drew back his
right arm and planted a blow on Tom Edwards’s shoulder that nearly sent
him off his feet, knocked the glass from his hand and sent it crashing to
the floor.
Tom Edwards recovered his balance, flushed angrily and turned on Harvey,
who stood, chuckling at the effect of his unexpected blow.
“Look here,” cried Tom Edwards, confronting his friend, threateningly,
“what kind of tom-foolery do you call that? What’s the matter with you?
Have you gone crazy?”
Mr. Phillips, seeing the fate of his liquor and his glass, had also
flushed with resentment and stood glaring at Harvey. Harvey laughed.
“You asked me to do it, Tom,” he said.
“What’s that!”
“I did it just to oblige you,” insisted Harvey. “Don’t you remember the
first night we met in that beastly old forecastle of the Brandt? You said
if I ever saw you try to take a drink again to punch you good and hard.
Well, I did the best I know how. Truly, though, Tom, I’m sorry if you’re
angry. I just happened to remember it, and I did it for fun, right off
quick. Say you’re not mad, will you?”
Tom Edwards, thus confronted with his own words, stood, open-mouthed with
surprise. Then a smile overspread his face. He turned to his host,
somewhat embarrassed; the expression on his face became serious.
“Mr. Phillips,” he said, “the boy is right. I asked him to do it. And
what’s more—though I owe you an apology, sir—I’m glad he did it.”
He turned to Harvey and extended his hand.
“Jack, old chap,” he said, “you did just right. Upon my word, I forgot. I
meant that, when I said it aboard the Brandt, and I did intend to stick
to it, upon my word. The fact is, Mr. Phillips, if it hadn’t been for
that stuff, I never should have been caught in this plight. I swore I’d
never touch another drop; and if you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll start all
over again. Jack, here’s my hand on it. I’ll stick to it this time, as
long as I live.”
Mr. Phillips, seating himself in his chair, doubled up with laughter.
“Excuse you, why, of course,” he roared. “Bless me, if that wasn’t the
most effective temperance lesson I ever saw in my life. Young fellow, if
you can convert ’em as quick as that, you ought to go into the business.”
“I was only in fun,” said Harvey, apologetically. “I thought it would
surprise Tom, to give it to him, just as he said.”
“Surprise!” roared Mr. Phillips, “I never saw such a surprised man in all
my life.” And the lawyer leaned back in his chair and roared again.
“Well,” he said, finally. “I’ll try you on the food question. You’re both
hungry enough, I dare say. Just make yourself comfortable and I’ll have
my man start breakfast.”
Harvey and Tom Edwards settled back in their chairs, warm and grateful.
It seemed too good to be true, to be comfortably housed and with the
prospect of a good breakfast, after the hardships they had gone through.
And when they sat down to the table some time later, with coffee and eggs
and bacon and hot rolls and crisp fried potatoes arrayed appetizingly
before them, they could hardly believe they were not dreaming. Hope and
courage grew anew within them, and already their troubles seemed at an
end.
They were glad enough, when they had finished, to accept the proffered
hospitality of a bed; and they went off to sleep, wearied and worn but
vastly content in the consciousness that they were safe, and might rest
unmolested. They slept the most of that day, and roused up at evening
only, to partake of a bit of supper and then turn in again, for a long
night of sleep and rest.
The next day, the easterly storm blew up that had made life miserable
aboard the dredger, Brandt, away across the bay on the eastern shore. How
far from their minds was the thought that, while they sat, comfortably
sheltered against the snow and sleet, the youth, Artie Jenkins, who had
brought all their troubles upon them, was, himself, toiling miserably and
wretched, at the winch aboard the Brandt. By no stretch of the
imagination could Harvey have pictured his friend, Henry Burns, under
bondage to Haley, as he himself had been.
Harvey and Tom Edwards, urged to remain until they were fully refreshed,
and until the weather softened to admit of their travelling without
danger or great hardship, gladly accepted. They remained that day and the
next under the roof of their good host. He, on his part, was glad of
their company, and would have had them remain even longer.
On the fourth day, however, the weather moderating and not enough snow
having fallen to make the road impassable, Harvey and his companion
determined to set out. They were in high spirits, for their generous host
had lent them money for their passage to Baltimore and to purchase what
they might need on the way. Moreover, he had given them the name of a man
at a small settlement called Trap, a mile or two up the road, who owned a
horse, and who, he thought, would drive them northward. In the forenoon,
then, they started, with a cordial farewell and wishes for good luck.
Lawyer Phillips had been a generous and thoughtful friend. The shabby,
sea-worn clothing that the two had worn on their arrival at his home had
been replaced by garments from his own wardrobe—second-hand, to be sure,
but far better and warmer than what they had. Over his shoulder Harvey
carried a small sack which contained half a boiled ham, two loaves of
bread, some corn biscuit and a big bottle of coffee. They were rested and
had been well fed; and they went along the icy road in high spirits.
In a little more than an hour they had reached the settlement to which
they had been directed, consisting of some three or four houses. They
went in to the door of one of these, and knocked. A man opened the door.
“We are looking for Mr. Stanton,” said Tom Edwards.
“That’s my name,” responded the man; “what’s wanted?”
They told him Mr. Phillips had sent them, and informed him of their
errand. The man shook his head.
“I’d do anything for Mr. Phillips,” he said, “but my horse can’t travel
clear to Millstone and back over this road, this time of year. But I tell
you what I will do; I’ll take you by water. My canoe is down at the creek
yonder. We can run up in four hours, I guess; and I’ll put you up with
friends of mine when we get there, and you can stay till the boat comes.
How will that suit you?”
“Suit us!” exclaimed Tom Edwards, “nothing ever suited us half so well in
this world. When can you start?”
“Right away, as soon as I throw a few things into a bag.”
Five minutes later, the three were going along a road that led off from
the highway to the right, diagonally toward the shore. Their guide and
new acquaintance, a small, undersized man, led the way at a brisk pace.
The entrance to the creek, a quite extensive sheet of water, bordered by
salt marshes, was about two miles distant. When they had come to within a
quarter of a mile of this, a small cabin could be seen, squatted down
among the reeds by the shore.
Suddenly their guide stopped short, gazed off to the side of the road,
and uttered an exclamation of surprise. Then he pointed to an object a
short distance away, and ran toward it. Harvey and Tom Edwards followed.
What they saw was the figure of a man, or youth, lying on a little patch
of underbrush, where he had evidently fallen.
The heavy breathing of the person told the three, as they bent over him,
that he still lived; but he seemed to be in a sort of stupor. Mr. Stanton
turned him over and looked at his face.
“I knew it,” he said. “He’s a stranger; some poor chap from a dredger,
sure as you live. He’s not the first one that’s been put ashore down
here. We’ve got to get him into the cabin and give him something hot
pretty quick, or we won’t save him.”
“Lift him up on my shoulders, and I’ll carry him,” said Harvey. “It isn’t
far, and he doesn’t weigh much.”
They lifted the youth up and Harvey started toward the cabin, carrying
him over his shoulder, while the others steadied the swaying figure. He
was, as Harvey had said, not heavy—a youth of about twenty, perhaps,
slender and sickly looking. His face seemed swollen, as though from blows
or from being frost-bitten. As Harvey, strong and athletic, carried him
over the uneven ground, he groaned and muttered something unintelligible.
The jolting had roused him partly from his stupor.
The cabin proved to be a rough affair of boards—with wooden bunks on
either side, and a sheet-iron stove in one corner—used merely as an
occasional shelter by tong-men. Harvey laid his burden down and made
haste to start a fire. Tom Edwards produced the coffee from the bag, and
poured some into a tin can that he found in one corner of the cabin, in
order to heat it on the stove. The man, Stanton, began untying the shoes
and loosening the clothing of the unknown youth, who now stirred slightly
and half opened his eyes. There were two tattered blankets by the
doorway, and Mr. Stanton spread these by the stove, where Harvey soon had
a fire roaring, and they laid the youth down on them.
“It’s just as I thought,” exclaimed Stanton, indignantly, turning down
the youth’s coat and shirt, so that a part of his bare shoulder was
exposed; “he’s been beaten with a rope’s end. It’s a disgrace, the way
they treat men.”
Harvey’s face flushed, as he looked.
“We know how to sympathize with the poor fellow,” he said. “We know what
dredging is like, eh, Tom?”
“Well, I rather think we do,” responded Tom Edwards. “We’ve got some
scores of our own to settle with a few men, when we get back to
Baltimore.”
Tom Edwards advanced now with the coffee.
“Hold him up, Jack,” he said. “This will warm him.”
Harvey put his hand under the youth’s head, raised him to a sitting
position, and Tom Edwards held the tin to his lips. The youth opened his
eyes and looked them in the face. As he did so, Harvey fairly gasped and
nearly let him fall back.
“Tom,” he exclaimed, “look! See who it is!”
Tom Edwards set the tin down on the floor.
“Why, I’ve seen him before,” he cried. “He’s the chap I met in Baltimore,
or his twin brother. How can that be, though? Jack, what do you say? Who
is he?”
“Artie Jenkins!” exclaimed Harvey. “I’d know him, no matter where he was.
He’s the chap that trapped me—and of all places to find him! Say, you’re
Artie Jenkins, aren’t you?”
He looked the youth in the eyes and shook him. The youth nodded, feebly.
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Well,” said Tom Edwards, lifting the tin again, “you get the coffee,
just the same—but hang me if I ever thought I’d do that much for you.
Hold him up, Jack. Here, drink this.”
Artie Jenkins, choking and breathing hard between his efforts, drank the
tin-full of hot coffee, and they laid him down again. They rubbed his
legs and arms till they were warmed with renewed vitality. Then they
rolled him in the blankets and let him lie by the fire.
“He’s all right, I guess,” said Stanton, “but he had a close call.
Another hour out there in the cold and he never would have waked up. It’s
funny, though, that you know him; how did it happen?”
“Yes, he’s an old friend of ours,” said Tom Edwards, smiling; “we’re sort
of old Johns Hopkins chums, he and Harvey and I. We went to school with
him—on the Baltimore water front.” And he narrated the story of their
acquaintance with Artie Jenkins. “Jack and I had a score to settle with
him,” he said in conclusion; “but it looks to me as though someone had
settled it for us. Judging by the looks of our friend, I guess he’s had
enough, eh, Jack?”
Harvey nodded.
“I guess we’ll call it even,” he replied. “But what puzzles me is, what
are we going to do with him?” Harvey looked at Mr. Stanton, inquiringly.
The latter did not answer, but started suddenly toward the door.
“There’s a sloop coming to anchor just outside,” he said. “Perhaps they
know something about him. Just keep close, now. There’s a skiff coming
in, with two in it. I’m a justice of the peace. I reckon this revolver
will be a good argument for them to stop. I’ll hold them until that chap,
Jenkins, is able to sit up again. If he identifies them as the ones that
brought him in here, I’ll put them under arrest. Have you got a weapon?”
Harvey produced Haley’s revolver.
“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Stanton, “keep it handy and stand by. When I step
out, you follow.”
Peering through the doorway, they saw the skiff come in to shore and two
persons step out—one a large, powerfully built man, the other a youth of
about Harvey’s age. The two came up a path leading from the shore, toward
the cabin. Their boots crunched the ice just outside the door when Mr.
Stanton, motioning to Harvey, stepped quickly outside. Harvey followed.
“Hold up there,” cried Mr. Stanton, “I put you two under arrest till I
find out—”
He stopped abruptly and jumped with surprise when Jack Harvey, uttering a
whoop and a yell, darted past him.
“George Warren!” bawled Harvey, rushing up to the astounded youth; “where
did you come from? How in the world did you ever get here? Any more of
the fellows with you? Is Henry Burns out aboard? I was right. I saw you
weeks ago through Haley’s telescope. Tom, come on out. They’ve come for
us. Hooray!”
Mr. Stanton, wide-eyed with wonder, lowered his weapon and bowed to the
man with George Warren.
“The arrest is off,” he said. “I apologize, sir. Come inside and I’ll
explain.”
George Warren, embracing his friend Harvey, was almost too dumfounded to
speak. But Harvey continued to ply him with questions.
“How did you happen to come to look for me?” he asked.
“We didn’t,” replied George Warren, while an expression of anxiety
overspread his face; “we are looking for Henry Burns.”
“For Henry Burns!” repeated Harvey. “Why, what’s become of him—you don’t
mean he’s been carried off, too? Say, it’s making my head swim. Come in
and explain.”
The four entered the cabin where Artie Jenkins lay sleeping by the fire.
George Warren introduced his companion as Will Adams. Then he turned to
Harvey.
“Who’ll explain first, you or I?” he asked.
“Why,” replied Harvey, “you know about us, or you wouldn’t be here—you
got the note I sent ashore, I suppose. It’s a long story, all that’s
happened. I want to know about Henry Burns. Is he lost?”
George Warren recounted the events leading up to the disappearance of
their friend; and then, how they had discovered, on the morning of the
27th of December, that Henry Burns was missing; how they had found the
skiff adrift in the Patuxent; how they had learned, by questioning the
river men, that Haley’s bug-eye had been seen that night in the Patuxent;
and how they had set out in the sloop, Mollie, to hunt for him, after
notifying the authorities. There were, out aboard the sloop, the other
two Warren boys and Edward Warren, their cousin.
“And you’ll have to make room for two more,” cried Jack Harvey. “Tom
Edwards and I can tell Haley’s old bug-eye a mile away. You won’t find
him on this shore, though. He’s on the Eastern shore, among the islands.”
“That’s what we thought most likely,” said Will Adams, “but we thought
we’d clean up this side first, to make sure. We saw your smoke and ran in
to inquire—”
He stopped abruptly and turned to Tom Edwards.
“Say, was it you two that slept in Warren’s barn?” he asked.
“I guess it was his barn, sure enough,” replied Tom Edwards; “and wasn’t
it a piece of hard luck that he didn’t catch us? We’d all be home by this
time,—and they wouldn’t have lost the other boy. What a shame!”
“Things do happen queerly, sure enough,” said Will Adams. “But who’s this
man asleep here?”
Tom Edwards turned and pointed to Artie Jenkins, shaking his finger at
the sleeping figure.
“That chap,” he said, “is the cause of it all. Isn’t it a queer
situation, that he should be here too?”
He told the story of their experience with Artie Jenkins.
“And what are you going to do with him?” asked Will Adams.
Tom Edwards knelt by the sleeper and turned down his shirt collar.
“Take a look here,” he said, pointing to the red marks upon the youth’s
shoulder. “When I was out aboard Haley’s bug-eye,” he continued, “I used
to spend hours thinking what I’d like to do to this fellow, if I ever
found him. I had nine hundred and ninety-nine different ways all thought
out of making him pay for my troubles. But”—Tom Edwards arose and folded
his arms—“I think he’s had his punishment. Somebody put him just where he
put us—aboard a dredger; and he must have struck a Tartar as bad as
Haley. I think we’ll let him go. That is, if we can. Mr. Stanton, what do
you say? We shall not need your help now, to get to Millstone. We’re
going with this sloop to the Eastern shore; but we can’t leave this
fellow, Jenkins, here, deserted.”
“Leave him to me,” replied Mr. Stanton. “He won’t be the first one we’ve
had on our hands. I’ll go back and hitch up the horse and take him to the
settlement, and we’ll ship him up the bay the first chance we get. But
you ought to prosecute him. Ten to one, if he ever gets his health again,
he’ll go back to the business.”
Tom Edwards shook his head vigorously.
“No, he won’t,” he said; “I’d stake my last dollar that he’s had enough
of it. He’s been beaten, and he’s had the heart all taken out of him. He
hasn’t got the nerve left to try it again.”
And Tom Edwards was right.
They shook hands with Mr. Stanton, took a last look at the unhappy object
by the fire, and went down the path to the landing. Soon the sloop
Mollie, with her new recruits aboard, was standing away from the creek,
tossing the spray as the search for Haley’s bug-eye and for Henry Burns
was resumed.