CAMPING ON THE PISCATAQUI
A full week had passed since the departure of the Pony Rider Boys
from Chillicothe. During that time they had leisurely made their way
toward their destination, having gone by way of New York and up Long
Island Sound on a boat. Eventually they had reached Bangor, on the
Penobscot, whence they proceeded in a northwesterly direction to
Dover, a short distance from where they were now encamped on the
banks of the Piscataqui river.
At Dover they had been joined by the guide who was to accompany them.
The latter was Cale Vaughn, a raw-boned, jolly-faced Yankee, much
more talkative than had been most of the guides on their previous
wanderings. Cale, it was said, was the best woodsman in the north,
a man who simply could not be hopelessly lost in the woods.
Professor Zepplin was asking the guide about this same thing as they
lounged at their campfire after having eaten their breakfast on this
cool but glorious spring morning. The Professor wanted to know if it
were possible for a man to be so good a woodsman that he could not
be lost.
"If there is such a man I'd like to set eyes on him," answered the
guide.
"Have you ever been lost in the big woods?" questioned Stacy, hoping
to draw out some of Cale's experiences.
"More times than I've got hairs in my head."
"Then there isn't much hope for us after we reach the forest yonder,"
declared Ned Rector, nodding toward the faint fringe of deep green
that lay to the northwest of them.
"It's easy enough to keep track of yourself if you follow a few
simple rules," answered Vaughn.
"And what are they?" asked Walter.
"Water always runs down hill," reminded the guide with a significant
smile.
"Eh? Of course it does," scoffed Stacy. "Did anyone ever see it run
uphill?"
"I've known folks that thought it did," chuckled the guide.
"Why, I can show you watercourses where you'd be willing to stake
your life the water was running in a certain direction, whereas it's
going the other way."
"Humph!" grunted Chunky. "They couldn't fool me that way."
"You think so?" laughed Cale.
"I know so," retorted Stacy.
"Well, now suppose we were standing beside a stream, say like the
river before us, only in a place where the direction of the current
deceived you. I said the water was running that way, the way it
does, and you declared it was moving in the other direction, how
would you prove whether you were right or wrong?"
Stacy puffed up with importance.
"That's easy."
"Well, answer Mr. Vaughn's question," commanded the Professor.
"Why, I'd throw Ned Rector's hat into the water. If it floated that
way, I'd win. If it floated the other way, Mr. Vaughn would win. In
either case Ned would lose," answered the fat boy solemnly.
"You win," grinned the guide.
"He wouldn't win if he threw _my_ hat in the water," growled Rector.
"Don't let me catch you tossing my hat overboard."
"Oh, I'd see to it that you didn't catch me," jeered the fat boy.
"That's funny. Even Tad would have laughed at that," spoke up
Walter.
"I am afraid Tad isn't laughing just now," said Ned.
"No, I'm laughing for him. Ha, ha, ha! Haw, haw!" brayed Stacy.
"You were speaking of getting lost," Professor Zepplin reminded the
guide.
"Yes. Another important thing to keep in mind is that the sun rises
in the east and sets in the west. By keeping these things in mind
you are likely to find your way."
"Provided you know where you are going in the first place," observed
Stacy. "I don't. I'm lost before I find myself when I get in the
woods."
"We will take a few lessons in woodcraft when we get into the spruce
forest," promised Cale.
"By the way, we don't seem to be making much headway in that
direction," answered Rector. "We have been loafing here for a whole
day. Why the delay?"
"We are waiting for Charlie John," replied the guide.
Charlie John, it may be explained here, was a half-breed Indian whom
the party was taking along to do the rough work, to bear the extra
burdens, to help cut a path for them when they found themselves in a
thicket too dense to permit the passage of the ponies. None of them,
except the guide, had seen Charlie, but Cale said the fellow was all
right so far as behavior was concerned, though Charlie was not
overburdened with brains.
"We've got too much of that here already," replied Ned. "That's
what's the trouble with our outfit."
Stacy strolled over to Rector, gravely snipped off the latter's hat
and holding it top-up shook the hat vigorously.
"Nothing doing," said the fat boy, replacing the hat on the head of
its owner, while Ned's face flushed, and the others laughed.
"I decline to be disturbed by Chunky's antics," howled Ned. "He
thinks he's funny, but no one else does. When do you think that
lazy half-breed will be along, Mr. Vaughn?"
"He should be here some time today," answered Cale. "If you boys want
something to do why don't you go fishing? There's plenty of fish in
the river here."
"Let Chunky do the fishing," drawled Ned. "It needs a lazy man to
make a good fisherman."
"Oh!" cried Stacy, his face breaking out into a broad smile. "Now I
understand. Remember that fine mess of trout that Ned caught when we
were in the Rockies? I wish I could fish like that. I'd be willing
to be called a lazy one."
"I know what you are going to get, young man," answered Rector,
slowly getting to his feet.
"What am I going to get?"
"You're going to get the opportunity to prove whether you are lazy or
not, for I'm going to throw you into the river right now."
"You can't do it," retorted Stacy belligerently.
"I'll show you whether I can or not."
The Professor opened his mouth to reprove the two boys, then closed
it again, a smile curling his lips, causing the bristling beard to
bristle still more fiercely.
With arms about each other, struggling, red of face, perspiring, Ned
Rector and Stacy Brown staggered down the sloping bank towards the
river, each striving with all his strength to get the upper hand of
the other.
Splash!
The two boys disappeared in the water.
"Can they swim?" asked the guide, glancing a bit anxiously at the
Professor.
"Like fish," answered Professor Zepplin tersely.
About that time two bobbing heads appeared above the water, only to
disappear again, leaving some froth and a sea of bubbles on the
surface. When next they appeared they were a long way from shore,
but were swimming toward the bank, each with a hand on the other's
coat collar, swimming with one hand.
"Look at the twin fish," howled Walter.
The swimmers did not answer him. They were too busy looking after
themselves. Ned started to get to his feet as they reached shallow
water, but Stacy was ahead of him. The fat boy butted Ned in the
stomach, whereupon Stacy very calmly sat down on his companion's
head, which was under water.
"Let him up!" cried Walter.
"Get off! He'll drown!" shouted the guide.
"Don't get excited. It will do him a lot of good to drown a few
times. I've always observed that drowned persons are extremely well
behaved persons."
The guide gripped Stacy by the collar and dragged him from his
victim, while Walter was helping Ned up. Ned was purple in the face.
He had been under water about as long as was good for him, though not
quite long enough to suit the fat boy. A few seconds more, however,
and Rector would have thrown Chunky, whereupon it would have been the
fat boy's turn to swallow some water.
"I--I slipped," explained Ned between chokes.
"So I observed," replied Stacy solemnly.
"That was very rough and ungentlemanly, Stacy," rebuked the
Professor.
"Rough on Ned, yes, sir. You would have thought so if I'd been
sitting on your head under water."
"Never mind, Prof--Professor. I'll take--take care of him," coughed
Rector.
"You tried to a little while ago. Mr. Vaughn, who won that bout?"
"You win on points," laughed the guide.
"If I had been a fish I'd have won in every other way. I'll tell you
what, Ned. You said I was the lazy man and I ought to do the fishing.
I'll do it and give you a chance to show how active you are. I will
fix up a hook and line, then you jump in the water and swim around
the bait just like a trout. You can make a grab for the hook once in
a while it you want to. If I catch you by the upper lip I'm a good
fisherman. If I don't, you are a good fish. What do you say?"
The others did the saying before Rector had a chance to speak.
Chunky's proposition was too much even for the gravity of Professor
Zepplin, whose body shook with laughter.
"Think I'm a trout?" growled Ned.
"No, you're a clam."
Ned started for Stacy, really angry now, but he was halted by the
stern voice of the Professor.
"Young gentlemen, this thing has gone far enough. You will lose your
tempers, then there will be trouble."
"Lose our tempers?" demanded Stacy. "Why, I'm so mad now that I'm
speechless. Look out for me. Somebody hold me!"
"We miss Tad Butler. He was the one who held you in check, as I see
the matter now," nodded the Professor.
"I wasn't aware, Professor, that Chunky had ever been in check,"
smiled Walter.
"That's what I say," agreed Ned. "It is high time something were done
to curb him. There is no telling what he may not do now that Tad
isn't here. I wish he were."
Stacy did not answer for the moment. He was gazing off over the
rugged landscape with wondering eyes. Finally he turned, thrusting
both hands in his trousers pockets, his chest swelling with
importance.
"You win," he said.
"Win what?" demanded Ned sullenly.
"Your wish."
"I haven't made any wish. What did I wish?"
"You wished Tad Butler were here."
"Huh! I wish my wish might come true."
"I told you it had."
"What do you mean, Chunky?" questioned Walter suddenly.
"Why, Tad's here now. You fellows don't use your eyes. You can't
any of you see beyond the ends of your noses."
The eyes of Professor Zepplin were twinkling. Cale Vaughn was
regarding the lads quizzically. All at once Walter Perkins uttered
a wild yell and bounding to his feet started off at a lively sprint.
Ned rubbed his eyes, scarcely believing what they saw.
A horseman was galloping toward them at a fast gait. The figure of
the horseman was slight, clad in khaki, a broad-brimmed sombrero
waving in one hand.
"Whoo-oo-pee!" yelled the horseman, his voice coming to them faintly.
"It _is_ Tad!" howled Ned, then he too started off at a run.
"They are a lively crowd, sir," observed the guide, turning to the
Professor.
"You will think so before you get through with this job," answered
the Professor grimly. "I have had several seasons of it, and I'm
thankful to be able to say that I am still able to be about, though
I have been on the verge of nervous prostration more than once."
The horseman, Tad Butler in reality, was now rapidly bearing down on
the camp. Walter was far ahead of the pursuing Ned, but Chunky made
no attempt to run out to meet his companion. He was still standing
with hands in trousers pockets solemnly regarding the scene.
Walter and Tad were nearing each other, when the former stumbled and
fell.
Tad raised a hand and Walter, understanding, lifted one hand also,
whereupon Tad charged him at a gallop. The horseman swerved at the
second when it seemed as if he must run down the kneeling boy, then
the palms of the two lads met with a smack, Tad having leaned from
the saddle. To the amazement of Cal Vaughn, who was not much of a
horseman, the slender form of Walter Perkins seemed to rise right up
into the air without effort on his part.
Walt landed astride of the pony just behind the rider, and at touch
of spur the little pony straightened out and reached for the camp at
a full run, nearly bowling over Ned Rector, who barely got out of the
way in time to save himself from being run down.
"Well, what do you think of that?" exclaimed the guide. "I never saw
anything like that outside of a circus."