AN UNEXPECTED DUCKING
Just about the time that Barnaby Vernon sat down to his first breakfast
at his hotel, old Gershom Todderley, the fat and crusty miller of
Ogleport, stood, with his hands in his pockets, halfway between the dam
and the sawmill, jerking wheezy, angry sentences at the head of his
Irish foreman.
“Mister Murphy, I say. Those rascally boys again. They’ve put up
another spring-board. Twenty times I’ve forbidden ’em to bathe in my
pond. Saw it off, sir. Close up. They’ll be here again this afternoon.
So’ll I, sir. Saw it off. We’ll see, sir.”
And the wheezy miller put on all the dignity that he knew how, as he
turned away towards his own breakfast, although the only reply from the
dusty-looking Mr. Murphy was a subdued and doubtful:
“’Dade, an’ I’ll do that same, the day, sir.”
The moment his employer was fairly out of ear-shot, however, a droll
expression crept across the merry face of the Irishman.
“’Dade, an’ I’m glad the owld curmudgeon didn’t know I put it there
mesilf. Sure, an’ the lake’s betther for ’em, but it’s a mile away,
and the pond’s clane and handy. It’ll spile the fun for the byes, but
ordhers is ordhers. Anyhow, I’ll have some fun of me own wid ’em.
They’ll niver suspect owld Pat of layin’ a thrap for ’em.”
It evidently went to the heart of the miller’s foreman to spoil fun of
any kind, but he went straightway to the grist-mill for a hand-saw, and
then, after a sharp look around, to be sure that he was not observed,
he made a deep cross-cut on the under side of the long pine plank which
he had so carefully set for the convenience of the young bathers of
Ogleport.
The cut was close in, towards the frame of the old flume by which the
plank was supported, and, while no one would have noted or suspected
it, the thin bit of pine remaining on the surface was not a great deal
more than was required to sustain the weight and apparent “spring” of
the plank itself.
“There,” said Pat, as he put away his saw, “I hope the first feller
that puts his fut on that same’ll be a good swimmer. It’s twinty fate
o’ wather he’ll drop in, not an inch the less.”
But Pat’s scrutiny of the “surrounding country,” keen as it was, had
not been as complete as he imagined.
On the opposite shore of the deep and capacious mill-pond, where the
bulrushes had grown so thickly up to the edge, and the willows had
matted the sweeping boughs so very densely, every blackbird had left
his perch some ten minutes earlier.
The birds had been better posted than Pat Murphy, and knew very well
why they had winged it away so suddenly and unanimously, but Pat had
failed to take the hint. Little he was thinking of those chattering
loafers, the blackbirds, but every one of them had his own beady little
eye on the stealthy movements of Zeb Fuller.
Not so very young or so small, either, was Zeb, only somewhat short and
“stocky” in build, and the slight cast in one of his twinkling gray
optics did not at all interfere with the perfection with which he
squinted through the willows at what was going on at the spring-board.
“Going to saw it off, is he?” muttered Zeb. “Well, Pat Murphy never’d
ha’ done that unless the old man made him. No, he’s just a-sawin’ under
it. If that ain’t mean! Well, no, not exactly mean, but if Pat reckons
he’ll catch any of our crowd in that trap, he’s a sold Irishman, that’s
all. Soon as he clears out, I’ll cut around and give the boys the word.
There won’t one on ’em set foot on that there plank--you see if they
do.”
Zebedee Fuller was the last boy in the village to interfere with
anything like a practical joke, and his warning to “the boys” did not
go beyond his own particular set.
Still, the way in which the mill and the pond were watched, that day,
was a lesson for the detective service.
The hour at which old Gersh Todderley started out in his antiquated
buggy, and the hour of his return, as well as every “in and out” of Pat
Murphy himself, were carefully noted by one youngster or another, nor
did the discontented blackbirds have a fair show at their willow-tree
perches during all those weary hours of patient waiting.
At last, as the sun sank lower and lower in the west, the accustomed
time arrived for such of the village boys as declined the long, hot
walk to the lake, to trouble the smooth waters of the mill-pond and the
unsympathizing soul of Gershom Todderley.
Pat Murphy was somehow more than usually busy at the grist-mill; the
saw of the sawmill had been quiet for weeks.
There was really no reason why the boys should not have had a good time
with their spring-board and the cool, cleansing, refreshing water--no
reason at all but the dog-in-the-manger spirit of old Gersh Todderley.
But the accustomed squad of young “dolphins” forbade to come, for some
cause or other, and Pat Murphy came to the north window of the mill,
for the hundredth time, all in vain.
“Faix,” he said to himself, “it’s a pity to take so much throuble as
all that for nothing. Sorra one on ’em’s showed himself near the pond
the day.”
Even as he spoke, however, though he had turned back to his endless
clatter and dust, and saw it not, the seeming solitude of the pond was
being invaded.
Down the stream, from the bushes that concealed its winding course
through the valley above, there drifted a clumsy, scow-built punt, the
pride of Zeb Fuller’s heart, and in it with him were three of his most
trusted friends, for, only three minutes before, Zeb had been advised
by a trusty scout of a very important and promising occurrence.
Not only had the miller returned, but he had been met at his very gate
by the Rev. Solomon Dryer, D. D., Principal of Ogleport Academy, and
the two men were actually approaching the mill together.
“Old Sol hasn’t anything to do with us in vacation, boys,” said Zeb, to
his friends, “and I move we strip and go right in. We can keep out in
the middle, you know, and they can’t get at us. The other boys can keep
hid behind the willows and see the fun.”
The road from the miller’s house gave a good view of the pond at
several points; and before he and his dignified companion had made
half the distance, they saw such goings on upon the water as led even
the fat and wheezy man of lumber and flour to double his perspiring
pace and his wrath at the same time.
“Those boys, Doctor! See them? In the boat! That’s defiance. On my
own pond. Defiance, sir. What are we coming to? What’s your authority
worth, or mine? Glad I had the spring-board cut off. We must see about
this, sir.”
“Indeed, my dear sir,” calmly and frigidly responded the head of the
village institution, “I fully sympathize with you, but I think my
presence will be sufficient. I have long been accustomed to repress
these rebellious ebullitions. I will go with you with pleasure.”
“Right, sir; knew you would. Stop ’em. Make my pond a bathing-tub
before my very eyes, sir.”
And now, while the lyers-in-wait behind the willows were half-bursting
with envy of their more fortunate fellow-conspirators in the boat, the
doctor and the miller puffed their consequential way to the open space
on the old flume frame, between the dam and the sawmill.
What a view that spot commanded of the peaceful mill-pond and of the
audacious iniquity of those boys!
Nearer and nearer drifted the boat, while the white-skinned rebels
plunged from its rocking sides and disported themselves boisterously
and undisguisedly in all directions, as if ignorant of the approach of
any authority higher than their own desire for a good swim.
It was to the last degree tantalizing and irritating, but, just as
Gershom Todderley found breath to sing out, “You young rascals!” his
eyes fell upon the mocking and obnoxious length of the spring-board,
and he exclaimed:
“Doctor, do you see that! I’ll discharge him! He hasn’t cut it off.
That Irishman!”
“Isn’t that what the boys denominate a spring-board?” asked the doctor.
“That’s it, sir. I told Pat Murphy to cut it off this very morning.
They walk out to the end of that, sir, and tilter up and down, and then
jump into the water.”
“Is there no danger of its breaking and drowning them?” asked the
doctor.
“Drown ’em! Drown so many pickerel,” exclaimed the miller. “No, sir.
Hold up a ton, sir. Why, it’s clear white pine. Stole it from me, most
likely. Walk out on it. Try it yourself, Doctor.”
“I? Oh, no, indeed,” responded the doctor. “That would never do. I
weigh very little, to be sure, but I could not think of such a thing.”
As the learned gentleman drew his thin and wizened form back to its
most dignified uprightness, however, a riotous yell and splash from Zeb
and his friends stirred the blood of the miller to the very bounds of
endurance.
“Come on, boys,” shouted Zeb; “let’s have a jump from the board, and
show ’em what we can do.”
The face of the miller grew red, and he actually drew a long breath as
he strode forward.
He knew too well the strength of a two-inch pine plank to have any
misgivings, and, just as a wild shout rang out from the window of the
grist-mill, and Pat Murphy sprang insanely through it to the great heap
of sour “bran” beneath, Gershom Todderley gave the treacherous wood the
full benefit of his overfed weight.
Even then the tough pine held its own for a step or two.
“You young rascals.”
Crack!
A wild spreading out of fat arms, a wheezy shriek of fear, a tremendous
splash in the calm, deep water, and Gershom Todderley had received the
full benefit of Pat Murphy’s trap.
“The boat, boys!” shouted Zeb.
“Quick, now, or the old porpoise will drown himself. Pity we didn’t
bring a harpoon along.”
Four naked boys were in the boat in less than no time, and while
the Rev. Solomon Dryer stood on the flume, helplessly opening and
shutting his mouth, without uttering a sound, Zeb and his heroes pulled
vigorously to the rescue. They would have been there in plenty of time,
too, but Pat Murphy, forgetting, in his conscience-stricken excitement,
that he could not swim a stroke, had made no pause at the brink, but
had gone in, heels over head, to fish for his employer.
There was double work cut out for Zeb and his friends, and the willows
on the opposite shore were alive with a chorus which never came from
the throats of blackbirds.
The miller may have been a selfish man, but he was neither a coward
nor a fool, and when, on coming to the surface for the second time, he
found an oar-blade poked into his well-covered ribs, he had quite sense
enough to cling to it and be pulled to the side of the boat.
“That’ll do,” said Zeb. “You’ll tip us over if you try to climb in.
You’re safe enough, now, and we’ll pull you ashore. I’m going for poor
Pat Murphy.”
Pat was by no means so easy to manage, but in a couple of minutes more
the boys had him upon the other side of the boat, making a very good
counterpoise for the miller.
“Now, Dr. Dryer,” exclaimed Zeb, “we’re only waiting for you. You
needn’t stop to strip. Neither Pat nor old Todderley did. Come right
in. Water’s nice and cool.”
“Young man,” solemnly remarked the doctor, “your levity is most
reprehensible. I hope for an opportunity of inspiring you with a
greater degree of reverence.”
“Boys,” said Zeb, “we’ll let Pat and old Todderley go. They’ve had a
good ducking. But we must drown the doctor. It’s our last chance.”
Whether or not the man of learning had any fears of their carrying
out the proposition, it was received with such a yell of what he
deemed irreclaimable ferocity, that he immediately turned his stately
steppings away from the unhallowed margin of the mill-pond, and the
boys were left to finish their work of rescue alone.
It was easy enough to pull the boat into shallow water, where Pat and
the miller could find footing and wade ashore, but Zeb Fuller had got a
new idea in his head.
The miller had been obstinately silent ever since his bald head rose
above the water, and now Zeb turned upon him reproachfully, with:
“I saw you, Mr. Todderley, or I’d never have believed it. Who’d have
thought such a thing of you, a deacon in the church! And old Sol Dryer,
too! Setting such a trap as that to drown poor boys, just for swimming
in your pond. What do you think the village will say to it? What’ll
the church say! You’re a poor, miserable sinner, but you haven’t the
heart to drown boys, like so many puppies. You fell into your own trap,
Gershom Todderley, and we’ve returned good for evil by saving your
life. Go home and dry yourself.”
“Hark to him! Listen to him, the now!” exclaimed Pat, in open
admiration. “Ownly eighteen! Ownly two winters in a debatin’ society,
and he can lie like that. What a lawyer he’ll make one of these days!”
And the fat old miller stood dripping on the grassy margin for a moment
before he could gather his wits or breath for anything, but then he
said:
“Pat Murphy, set the boys a new board. A good strong one. Must have
been an awful knot in that other.”
“Is it another trap?” sternly inquired Zeb Fuller.
“Zeb, my boy,” returned the miller, “I don’t exactly understand it, but
I am thankful I wasn’t drowned. I think I’ll go to meeting to-night.
You need it, too, Zeb. You and the boys may swim all over the pond, all
day, summer or winter.”
“Thank you, Gershom,” replied the incorrigible Zeb, “and if you meet
old Sol Dryer, tell him to go to meeting, too. He’s had a very narrow
escape from drowning.”
“The young pirate!” exclaimed Pat. “Indade, Mr. Todderley, it’s home
ye’d betther be goin’, an’ I’d loike a dhry rag or two on me own silf.”
The miller turned very soberly away, the worst puzzled man in Ogleport
that day, but Zeb was right when he turned to his companions, and said:
“Boys, I reckon it won’t hurt him. He didn’t know it was Pat’s work,
and we must keep the secret.”
Not a bit of hurt had come to the miller externally, and more than a
little good internally, but there were altogether too many boys in that
“secret” for it to keep any length of time.