THE STORY OF THE HERMIT.
The boys had listened with deep interest to this story, told by Granger
in a manner which seemed to indicate that he had it well by heart. After
the tale was ended there was silence for a moment or two, broken by
Piper, who observed with no small amount of sarcasm:
“Talk about imagination! I call that going some! Who ever polished up
that gem of a yarn certainly put in some fancy touches.”
“The story is said to be true,” said the visitor, with a touch of
warmth.
“Perhaps it is,” returned Sleuth; “as true as the illuminated fiction
someone politely sneered at a short time ago. If I had read it in a
book, I’d taken it for just what it doubtless is, pure romance. To
romance I have no objection whatever, but I certainly hate for anyone to
try to cram it down my throat as truth.”
“Evidently you’re a doubting Thomas,” said the narrator of the legend,
who was greatly surprised that, of them all, Piper should be the one
promptly to brand the tale as fiction.
“No,” said Sleuth, “I’m a doubting William; Billy is my first name. It’s
scarcely necessary for me to bring my penetrating and deductive
faculties to bear upon that yarn in order to point out the ragged holes
with which it is riddled. Who recorded this wonderful legend? Who knew
all about the very thoughts of the beautiful Indian princess as she lay
a captive in the lodge of the great war chief, her father? I haven’t
anywhere read that the North American Indians could record things by any
other method than that of picture writing of the crudest sort. And the
old guy of a brave who recorded _thoughts_ in that manner would be
obliged to hump himself some. I wonder who faked up that yarn?”
“You seem inclined to take everything too literally,” said Granger,
seeking to repress his resentment over Sleuth’s attitude. “Perhaps it
has been touched up a bit and filled out in complete narrative form, but
doubtless, in the main, the story is true.”
But Billy shrugged his shoulders and elevated his eyebrows
significantly.
“It makes little difference whether _you_ believe the story or not,”
said the annoyed visitor. “A great many people do believe it.”
“There are always suckers ready to swallow anything,” retorted Sleuth.
“Why, I suppose there are some people who actually believe this lake, or
that island out yonder, in particular, to be haunted.”
A queer look passed over Granger’s face, and for a few moments he
scrutinized Piper in a perplexed manner. At first he had imagined that
of the young campers this lad would be the most ready and eager to
accept such fanciful tales as truthful, or as containing a certain
amount of truth, at least. It now seemed that this sentimental,
imaginative boy was the most skeptical fellow among them.
“You may believe as much as you like,” he finally said; “or as little;
it makes no difference to me. The story of Lovers’ Leap, as a story,
sounds very well.”
“And you tell it fluently,” murmured Piper.
Disdaining this remark, Granger went on.
“As for the other matter, it is scarcely strange that some superstitious
people should fancy the lake haunted. I believe it got its name in the
first place through the tale that regularly, once a year, upon the
anniversary of the tragedy, the spirits of the Indian lovers appear upon
the cliff, from which they leaped, clasped in each other’s arms.”
Sleuth smothered a snicker, upon which, unable longer to keep still,
Crane, who had been deeply absorbed in the legend as related, turned
upon him savagely, snapping:
“What’s the matter with yeou, anyhaow? Can’t yeou be half perlite if
yeou try? Yeou don’t haf to listen; yeou can go off somewhere all by
your lonesome.”
The visitor flashed Sile a glance of thanks.
“There’s another reason,” he stated, “why the lake is supposed to be
haunted. Almost everyone around here has heard the story of Old Lonely,
the hermit whose deserted hut still stands on Spirit Island.”
“Yep,” nodded Crane eagerly, “I know abaout that yarn.”
“Perhaps the rest of us have never heard it in full,” said Grant. “I’m
right sure I haven’t.”
It immediately became apparent that Granger was fully as ready to tell
this story as he had been to relate the Indian legend.
“In midwinter some ten years ago,” he began, “it was reported that there
was an old man living on Spirit Island. First his smoke was seen rising
from the island, and then some men who came here to fish through the ice
saw the recluse himself. Their curiosity aroused by the sight of the
smoke, they approached the island. But when they drew near a bearded,
bare-headed man in tattered garments appeared on the shore with a gun in
his hands and a growling dog at his heels, and ordered them away. They
attempted to talk with him, but, save to warn them of personal violence
if they persisted in intruding, he would make no conversation. All that
winter he remained on the island, seen at rare intervals, though the
ringing of his axe and the report of his gun were sometimes heard.
Naturally, people wondered who the stranger could be, and when the
spring fishing came on some sportsmen made a second attempt to land on
the island.
“Again the hermit made his appearance with the vicious looking dog as
his companion, and warned them to keep off. They attempted to parley
with him, but the effort was discouraged, as that of the winter
fishermen had been.
“For almost five years Old Lonely, as he was dubbed for want of another
name, lived there with his dog on Spirit Island. Two or three times a
year, silent and unapproachable, he appeared in Pemstock and bought
certain absolutely necessary essentials of life that could be obtained
in no other manner. Clothing, ammunition for his gun, fishing tackle, a
little hardware and a few simple cooking utensils, together with salt,
sugar, coffee, flour and tobacco made up, in the main, all of his
purchases, which were paid for with spot cash. Where he got it no one
could surmise, but the hermit always seemed to have enough money in his
pocket to pay for what he bought. He engaged a man regularly to deliver
the stuff at the foot of the lake, where Old Lonely received it, loaded
it into his crude flat-bottomed boat and rowed away.
“Upon every occasion when seen he was accompanied by his dog, a
snarling, tooth-threatening creature, who seemed even less friendly
toward human beings in general than did his master. There were fake
stories and surmises afloat concerning the hermit of Spirit Island, but
none of these hints or tales when followed up seemed to have any real
foundation of truth. All were apparently the figments of some
speculative or imaginative mind.”
At this point Piper smothered a cough, but the narrator did not even
glance in Sleuth’s direction. Absorbed in the story he was relating, he
continued without a break.
“Naturally, some of these speculative ones were inclined to picture Old
Lonely as having a dark and terrible past. Others said he was a man who
had been betrayed by a friend and deserted by his wife. The latter
declared that, having watched him when he came into Pemstock, they had
observed that he always turned his eyes away whenever a woman drew near.
At any rate, living that lonely life, the man swiftly aged. When first
seen there had been no sign of gray in his long hair or his ragged
beard, but soon the white began to show, and on his last visit to town
both hair and beard would have been almost snowy white only for the fact
that they seemed soiled and dirty through the general negligence which
marked his entire person. His clothing he wore patched again and again,
until it almost dropped from his body.
“Once, having watched the island a long time and finally seen Old Lonely
leave it in his boat, two men went on and saw his crude clay-chinked log
hut; but, fearing his return and believing he might make good his threat
to shoot any who trespassed, they did not linger long.
“Late in the autumn, something like five years ago, some hunters heard
Old Lonely’s dog howling dolefully on Spirit Island. The howling
continued for two full days, although it grew less frequent in its
outbreaks and seemed to become weaker, as if the dog was losing
strength. And during those two days not a sign of smoke was perceived
rising from the island. That something had happened to Old Lonely became
the conviction of the hunters, but the man’s reputation prevented them
from making haste to investigate. Finally, however, they ventured to put
out and land upon the island. The hermit did not put in an appearance to
oppose them.
“Approaching the hut by way of a path made by the feet of the recluse,
they beheld the door standing ajar. About the dismal place there was a
silence and desolation that bespoke tragedy. When they peered in at the
door two gleaming eyes met their gaze, and the warning snarl of a dog
greeted their ears. In that inner gloom they saw the animal, gaunt and
weak, lift itself upon its trembling legs to stand glaring at them, its
teeth exposed. More than that, upon a dirty bunk they perceived the
silent figure of Old Lonely, his ghastly, stony face framed in a tangle
of white hair and whiskers. They called to him repeatedly, but he did
not answer and he made no move. Then they knew he was dead.
“The dog, however, weak and starving though he was, would not let them
enter the hut, and finally, in order to perform what they believed to be
their duty to the dead, they shot the creature. In its dying throes it
howled once in such a terrible manner that the listeners shuddered and
turned cold.”
“Ge wilikens!” breathed Crane. “I’ve heard the story before, but yeou
sartainly can put in the fancy touches and thrills.”
“The dog,” pursued Granger, “was buried on the island. The body of Old
Lonely was taken to the pauper’s plot in Pemstock cemetery. In an old
leather pocketbook upon the hermit’s person were found some newspaper
clippings and other papers, which revealed the identity of the man. In
that pocketbook there was also a small, faded photograph of a woman, and
this, it was eventually learned, was the likeness of the hermit’s wife.
Old Lonely’s true name was John Calvert. Years before, in a distant
state, he had plundered a bank, for which crime he had been arrested,
tried, convicted and sent to prison for twenty years. Within twelve
months of his conviction his wife died of a broken heart. How he secured
a picture of her after breaking prison, as he eventually did, can only
be surmised.
“As an escaped convict he was hunted relentlessly, until the body of a
man believed to be that of John Calvert was cast ashore by the waters of
Lake Michigan. Thinking the bank looter and prison breaker dead, the
authorities quite naturally gave over the hunt. How he came to Spirit
Island and why he chose to make his home there for the remainder of his
desolate days is likewise a matter of speculation.
“And now comes the strange, and, doubtless you will say, the improbable,
part of the story. The island is said to be haunted by the ghosts of Old
Lonely and his dog. Venturesome ones, entertaining the belief that
Calvert had, ere his arrest, hidden a portion of his plunder, which he
recovered after escaping from prison, have searched for the loot on
Spirit Island, and half a hundred holes that they have dug in the ground
may be seen by anyone who cares to take the trouble and has the courage
to do so.”
“Courage!” scoffed Piper, with a laugh, “Who’s afraid? Of course no
sensible person believes the island is really haunted.”
Granger smiled. “You’re a brave young chap, I perceive,” he said
sarcastically. “I don’t presume you fear ghosts or anything else?”
“Nothing but cuc-cougars,” chuckled Phil Springer. “Brave as he is,
Sleuthy has a certain amount of respect for cuc-cougars.”
“I’m not advertising myself as one who believes in spooks,” smiled the
entertaining visitor; “but, nevertheless, even though you may feel
inclined to ridicule me, I will say that I’ve seen and heard some
strange things around Spirit Island, and I’m not the only one, either.
Many people have seen vanishing lights flashing there at night. They
have heard the weird howling of a dog. They’ve even seen white, ghostly
figures upon the shores of the island. When Calvert’s body was found a
small eight day clock sat ticking upon a shelf above the man’s bunk, and
some of the loot hunters, venturing by day into that desolate hut, have
vowed that they plainly heard the ticking of a clock coming from some
unknown place. They have likewise heard strange tappings, like the
knocking of ghostly fingers. Every little while people from the hotel
visit the island, but they always do so in numbers, and it would be a
nervy person who would go there alone, especially at night. Perhaps our
brave friend, the doubter, would not hesitate to make such a visit, even
after nightfall.”
The bare idea, however, was enough to cause the other boys to laugh
heartily, whereupon Piper rose to his feet, crying:
“I’m not chump enough to go prowling around anywhere alone at night; but
I’ll tell you what, I’d just like to visit that old island in the
daytime, and I don’t take any stock in this fine, well polished ghost
story.”