THE FISHING PARTY
That Saturday morning dawned fair enough in Ogleport.
To be sure, there were a few clouds lurking along the far away
outlines of the hills, but they did not seem to amount to anything in
particular; not even enough to justify Mrs. Dryer in bringing such a
very cloudy face to the breakfast-table.
She had said all she had to say, and that was no very small thing, to
the Doctor, before they went to sleep the night before and as soon as
they waked up that morning, but she had somehow failed in getting a
fair chance at Euphemia.
In fact, for once in her life, to say the very least, Effie Dryer’s
face was not altogether sunny. The usually smiling mouth had settled
into lines that betokened a mind made up and a temper not to be trifled
with.
It is barely possible that her father’s third wife had sense enough
to understand the meaning of Effie’s face, and so, although there were
clouds enough at that end of the breakfast-table, they followed the
good example of those on the hills and waited a better opportunity
before breaking into anything like a storm.
As for George Brayton, he had decided that the trip to the lake should
not be a “walk,” and Runner’s best pair of horses, in front of what he
was pleased to call a “baroosh,” were on hand in due time to transport
the sailing-party, lunch and all.
Mrs. Wood had taken especial pains in the preparation of the lunch,
and even Zeb Fuller would have been compelled to admit that there was
nothing “ghostly” about it.
There was a funny sort of smile on Mrs. Dryer’s face when that span of
horses was pulled up in front of the Doctor’s residence, but she had no
other use for it than to keep it in its proper place, above her teeth,
till Effie had taken her seat beside George Brayton and the “baroosh”
disappeared beyond the trees of the village green.
Then, indeed, her learned husband was glad enough to plead several
engagements with the Academy trustees and hurry away to keep them.
Prompt as had been the departure of Bar and Val and their friends,
Zebedee Fuller and his faithful cronies had the start of them and were
already tempting the perch and pickerel, when the “baroosh” came to a
standstill in front of the somewhat heterogeneous home of Puff Evans.
“It’s all right,” said Puff to Bar. “She’s ready, name and all. There’s
heaps of bait under the seat and it’s a right down good day for
fishin’. Only there may be squalls.”
“Squalls?”
The word lingered in Bar Vernon’s ear for a moment, but just then Effie
Dryer exclaimed:
“There she is. The prettiest boat on all Skanigo!”
“Why, so she is,” replied Sibyl, “a very pretty boat, indeed. What’s
her name, Mr. Vernon?”
“Name?” repeated Bar, as the color began to climb up across his face.
“There it is,” exclaimed Effie, “painted on the stern. Can’t you read?
S-i-b-b-l-e, Sibble. Why, what a queer name. Did Puff name her?”
“I should say he had,” exclaimed George Brayton, as he burst into a
roar of laughter. “Don’t you see, Sibyl? She’s named after you. Only a
few letters out of the way, that’s all.”
Poor Bar!
Puff was attending to something else just then, and Val Manning stood
just where he could poke his elbow into Bar’s ribs without being
noticed.
As for Sibyl Brayton, she did not seem to see where the fun came in,
but stepped right forward into the boat, like a brave and good girl as
she was. Even Effie Dryer followed her with a face that was all one
twinkle, but that did not let a single laugh get loose.
There was need of at least one term at the Academy for Puff Evans,
that was clear, and Bar was glad enough to busy himself with the
fishing-tackle.
His intended compliment had become a thing to be hidden from Zebedee
Fuller, lest it should be carved on half the loose boards of Ogleport.
There were only five of them, and the trim little craft did not seem to
care a fig for a lighter load, as she danced away on the blue waves of
Skanigo.
George Brayton himself was a very good hand with a boat and he handled
the graceful little _Sibyl_ in a way that made her passengers forget
how very badly her name had been spelled for her.
Miles and miles away, up the lake, sped the gay-hearted cruisers, right
past the spot where Zeb Fuller and his friends were steadily pulling in
their victims, until they reached a land-locked sort of bay which Puff
had indicated as a “sure thing for good fishin’!”
Here, indeed, the sail came down and the anchor was thrown over, and
Effie Dryer altogether forgot her stepmother in the unwonted excitement
of watching for nibbles.
The nibbles came, too, plenty of them, and Val Manning earned a new
title to his chum’s devotion by the forbearance with which he allowed
Bar not only to bait Sibyl Brayton’s hook, but to take off and consign
to the “fish-car” for her every finny fellow who was reckless enough to
bite hard and stay on in spite of her unskilful management of her line.
Effie Dryer had been on the lake many a time before, and had a very
good opinion of her own skill, but she was somehow contented to allow
George Brayton to follow the example Bar Vernon set him.
Fishing is sure to become tiresome in due time, however, even if the
biting is liberal, and before noon all hands were ready to see the sail
hoisted again.
Then there was a “voyage of discovery” up and down the rugged line of
the lake shore, to find a suitable place for their picnic.
Plenty of them there were, but it would not do to throw away the fun of
choosing, and at last they pitched upon a spot, at the head of a deep
cove, shadowed by great rocks and tall overhanging trees.
The _Sibyl_ was hauled ashore; the girls were helped out; a blazing
fire was kindled; coffee was made; the contents of Mrs. Wood’s ample
basket were brought to light; and then it was shortly discovered that
the best thing in the world to secure a good appetite was to take a few
hours of sailing and fishing on Skanigo.
It was at the end of the lunch that Val Manning once more covered his
unselfish head with glory, for he volunteered to look out for the boat
and the “things” while George Brayton and Bar Vernon took the young
ladies for a stroll among the rocks and trees, and up and down the
shore.
Splendid fun that was, but Bar Vernon was yet a good deal of a “boy,”
for one of the first things he said to his companion was:
“You mustn’t think I didn’t know how to spell your name. That was all
Puff Evans’s fault.”
“Then you really did name your boat after me?” asked Sibyl.
“Of course I did,” said Bar. “You are the only Sibyl I ever knew.”
“It was very kind of you,” she answered, gently; “and I think she is a
beautiful little boat.”
There was not a prouder fellow on or about Skanigo Lake at that moment,
than Mr. Barnaby Vernon.
That sort of thing could not last forever, though it might be ever so
pleasant, and Val Manning’s self-imposed watch at the shore was shortly
terminated.
It was not quite so warm or sunny just now, and if Puff Evans had been
within speaking distance, it is very likely he would have spoken a word
of warning, but the party in the boat had not the least idea in the
world that any danger to them could be lurking among the clouds and
hills.
Perhaps there was not, indeed, for their only real danger was in their
own ignorance and sense of security.
“Boys,” Zeb Fuller had remarked a few minutes before, “there’s a squall
coming. We’d better pull up the lake. City folks are all fools, you
know, and there’s no telling what may happen to ’em.”
Good for Zeb, only he came very near being too late, in spite of his
wise forethought.
The _Sibyl_, with her precious freight, had danced away lively enough
from the launching-place, but had scarcely made a mile before the wind
seemed almost to die out, so Val Manning suggested to Bar that they had
better take a turn at the oars.
“No,” replied Bar, “there’s more a-coming. Don’t you see that
dark-looking ripple out there?”
“Where?” asked Effie Dryer.
“There,” said Bar, pointing with his finger, “and--”
“Here it comes!” exclaimed Brayton.
Come it did, indeed!
There was no time to bring the boat around to it--no time for the
slightest precaution--no time for anything but a wild cry of fear
from the two girls--and then all five of them were floundering in the
mocking waters of Skanigo, while their beauty of a boat lay capsized
and useless beside them.
Half a mile from shore, and no life-preservers!
It was a good thing that the male members of that party could all swim
well.
“Look out for Miss Dryer,” shouted Bar to George Brayton; “I’ll keep
Sibyl up. Val, try to right the boat.”
George Brayton had felt a great pain at his heart the moment before,
but Bar’s words seemed to take it right away.
“Can you keep her up?” he anxiously inquired.
“Yes, George,” said Sibyl herself, “and he’s brought me an oar. You
take care of Effie.”
That was quite enough for one man to do, though Effie met the emergency
very courageously; but she could not swim a stroke, and the water was
becoming a trifle rough.
Val Manning had, at first, come very near being entangled with the
boat, and even now he could hardly understand how it was that his
friends had come to the surface and “paired off” so very nicely.
It may be because they had been sitting together and so have gone
overboard in company.
At all events, he saw that the most important duty of all had fallen on
his own shoulders, and he set about it like a hero.
“Cut the halyards,” shouted Bar, “and let the sail come down. You’ll
never right her without that.”
Val obeyed, for the heavy, water-soaked sail had toppled clean over
upon him the first time he tipped up the boat, knocking him under the
water.
Relieved of this impediment, it was not so very difficult to get the
boat once more on an “even keel,” or to swim around and pick up the
floating oars, but whatever of her cargo which could not float or swim
was already at the bottom of the Skanigo.
“Her gunwale is only an inch or so above the surface,” exclaimed Val.
“I don’t see how we are ever to bail her.”
There was a terrible whiteness on George Brayton’s face just then, and
Effie Dryer must have seen it, for she said to him in a low voice, “I
understand. You must leave me and swim ashore. You must save yourself.”
“Never!” he hoarsely replied, but it was a dark moment in the life of
George Brayton.
Just then, however, Bar Vernon caught hold of a piece of wood that
floated past him.
“Here’s the rudder, Sibyl,” he exclaimed. “Now put that and the oar
under your chin. Are you brave enough to float on that? It’ll keep your
head above water while I go and help Val.”
“I’ll do anything,” she answered. “Don’t be afraid about me.”
A rare girl was Sibyl Brayton, and in a moment more Bar came swimming
to the side of George Brayton with another oar and one of the movable
boat-seats.
“There,” he said, “that’ll help you keep her up. Val and I will bail
out the boat.”
Nothing but their hats, indeed, to start with, though the water was
not so rough now. Still the waves would splash over in, and their work
seemed almost hopeless. One inch. Then another!
If their strength and that of George Brayton and the girls would only
hold out!
“Bar,” exclaimed Val, “try and get over the stern without upsetting
her.”
“You try it,” said Bar; “you’re lighter than I am.”
It was a perilous experiment, for it endangered all they had thus far
gained, but in a minute or so more Val Manning was in the boat and
bailing for dear life.
Bar turned, every now and then, for a look at his other friends.
Sibyl’s face was pale, but she was steadily obeying his injunction “not
to try to keep too much of her above water.”
George Brayton was doing all a man could do, but it was evident that he
was fast becoming fatigued, while Effie Dryer seemed almost afraid to
look at him.
“If I can only get in and help Val,” groaned Bar.
But just then, sweeter than the sweetest music Bar had ever heard in
his life, a chorus of wild yells from boyish throats came to his ears
across the water, and around the nearest point of land he saw the
great, clumsy, scow-built punt which Zeb Fuller and his friends had
borrowed for their day’s fishing coming on at as great a resemblance to
speed as her crew of excited boys could give her.
“Overboard, all of them!” had been Zeb’s exclamation, as the scene
of the disaster opened upon him. “Pull, boys, pull! No time now for
remarks.”
Pull they did like good fellows, only it seemed to them very much as if
the heavy old scow were anchored.
“Courage!” shouted Bar to Sibyl; “there’s help coming.”
“Courage, Effie,” murmured George Brayton.
“And you, too,” she said, in reply. “Oh, you must keep up! For my sake!”
“For yours? Then, indeed, I will.”
They needed whatever encouragement and strength they could get all
around before the punt arrived, but then Zeb Fuller and Hy Allen
seemed to make nothing at all of pulling in the girls, one after the
other. In fact, Brayton was compelled to say:
“Gently, now, boys,” more than once, by way of moderating their
somewhat headlong strength and eagerness.
Bar had been on hand to help, but now he swam back to the _Sibyl_ and
clambered in.
That unlucky craft was beginning to be a little less water-logged, and
Zeb Fuller tossed over a big, rusty tin basin, with the aid of which
the work went on tenfold more rapidly.
“Saved, thank God!” exclaimed George Brayton, as he sank, dripping and
exhausted, on a seat of the punt, opposite to Effie and his sister.
Neither of them said a word aloud, but there was no doubt they were
saying the same thing in their hearts.
“Those two brave boys, too,” said Effie, a moment later. “I scarcely
know how we are to thank them.”
“And Zeb and his friends,” began George Brayton, but that young worthy
interrupted him with:
“No thanks, please, Mr. Brayton. It’s an every-day matter with us. We
get our pocket money by it. If the man’s drowned we charge only a dime,
but if we get him ashore alive, it’s twenty-five cents. We’ve done lots
of harm that way.”
“Harm?” exclaimed Sibyl.
“Yes, indeed,” said Zeb, gravely, “but then it’s so hard to decide, on
the spur of the moment, whether we ought to let a man drown or not. I
fear we are influenced too much by the odd fifteen cents.”
Worn out as he was by his long struggle in the water, Brayton was
forced to laugh at Zeb’s way of avoiding unwelcome gratitude, and Effie
Dryer’s face half lost the expression of deep, sweet thoughtfulness
it had worn ever since she came out of the water. As for Sibyl, she
was intently watching Bar and Val at their work, which was now nearly
completed.
In a few moments the _Sibyl_ was once more in sailing trim and the
picnic party could abandon the slow safety of the punt and start for
home.