A LONG RACE BEGUN
The circus remained two days longer in Benton, but there were certain
youths who kept away from it. A solemn oath of secrecy bound them as to
the reason why. Only Tim Reardon and Joe Warren couldn't resist the
temptation of stealing in among the wagons and watching for the
appearance of Danny O'Reilly in all the glory of his paint and feathers;
and, when they beheld a crowd of farmers gaze upon him admiringly as he
passed in for the Wild West performance, they nearly choked to death
with laughter, and couldn't have run if he had espied them.
"Guess we won't get licked, after all," whispered Little Tim. "Not if we
keep dark, we won't. Danny's going on with the show up the state. He
told Jimmy Nolan, his cousin, and Jimmy told me. 'You'd never guessed he
wasn't an Injun,' says Jimmy to me, 'unless I'd told yer. Don't you ever
let on,' he says--and I like to died--hello, who's that coming?"
Looking in the direction pointed out by Tim Reardon, Young Joe beheld an
old wagon, drawn by a lean horse, the seat of the wagon nearly bent
down to the axles on one side by the weight of the occupant.
"Well, if it isn't Colonel Witham!" exclaimed Young Joe. "Didn't suppose
he'd pay to go to a circus."
It seemed, however, that Colonel Witham had no immediate intention of
entering the main tent, for he proceeded to walk along the line of
smaller pavilions, where the side-shows proclaimed their many and
monstrous attractions. The canvas of one of these presently attracted
the colonel's attention, for he paused in front of it and stood studying
it contemplatively.
Little Tim and Young Joe, stealing around in the rear of Colonel Witham,
beheld the object of his curiosity. There was a full length portrait on
the canvas, painted in brilliant colours, of a woman standing before an
urn from which vague vapours were arising. She held in one hand a wand,
with which she seemed in the act of conjuring forth a shadowy figure
from within the vapours. A little black satanic imp peered coyly over
her right shoulder. The inscription beneath her portrait read:
Lorelei, the Sorceress.
Your Future Foretold--All Mysteries Explained--Your
Fate Read by the Stars--Hidden Things Revealed--Lost
Property Recovered.
Something about the gaudy and pretentious sign seemed to fascinate
Colonel Witham. He walked past it once, reading it out of the corner of
one eye; but he went only a little way beyond, then turned and stopped
and surveyed it once more. He edged up to the canvas, sidled into the
entrance and disappeared.
"Cracky!" cried Young Joe. "Isn't that rich? The colonel's going to have
his fortune told. Wow! wow! Suppose he's fallen in love?"
"Not much," said Little Tim. "He wants to know where he's lost a dollar,
probably. Hello, Allan, come over here."
Little Tim, in high glee, bawled out a greeting to a comrade, Allan
Harding, and conveyed the great news. The three stood awaiting the
colonel's reappearance.
If they could have seen within the tent, they might have beheld Colonel
Witham, seated at a table upon which a light was thrown, its object
being not so much to illuminate the occupant of the seat as to obscure
his vision. It served to render more shadowy a vague figure that
occupied a little booth across which a gauze curtain hung, and from
which a voice now issued:
"I see a dusty road, with fields running back from it," droned the
voice, with mysterious monotony, while the person behind the veil
scrutinized keenly the figure and dress of her visitor. "I see a great
house a little way back from the road, with--with what seems to be a
porch in front."
"Yes, yes," said Colonel Witham, beginning to be impressed, ignoring the
fact that his person indicated his occupation and that the description
would answer almost every farmhouse along the road from Benton.
"I see a figure sitting on the porch, and it resembles--yes, it is
yourself. You are thinking. There is something that you want to know.
You do not seem to be in love--"
Colonel Witham snorted--and the hint to the sorceress was sufficient.
"The stars are very clear on that point," continued the voice. "Your
mind is bent on more serious things. You have a business matter that
troubles you."
"Wonderful!" ejaculated Colonel Witham, under his breath. "What else do
you see?" he inquired, eagerly.
"Let me read the stars," continued the voice. "I see what looks like
another man."
"Yes, yes," said Witham, forgetting in his eagerness that he had come
in, half skeptical, and meant to reveal nothing on his own part. "Is he
hiding anything?"
"Wait--not so fast," replied the voice. Then, after a pause, "No, he is
not hiding anything."
Colonel Witham's jaw dropped.
"But," continued the sorceress, "there is something strange about him.
Wait, until I ask the spirits. They will tell something. Yes, he has
something already hidden. It is secreted. He has hidden something away.
Let me see, are they papers? They look like papers, but it is vague--"
"And where are they hidden?" cried Colonel Witham, rising from his seat
eagerly.
"The spirits will not say," answered the voice. "They seem to be angry
at something. Ah, they say they must have more money."
"But I paid at the door," protested Colonel Witham.
"Yes, but they are angry," said the voice. "They are angry at me for
taking so little for all I impart. They will have two dollars more,
or--yes, they are already disappearing--quick, or you will be too late."
Colonel Witham groaned in anguish; slowly produced a shabby wallet, took
therefrom two greasy dollar bills and passed them across the table to an
outstretched hand.
"Ah, they are coming back," said the voice. "Another moment and it would
have been too late. Now the stars are coming out clearer also. What is
it they tell? Ah, they say--listen--they say the man has concealed
papers that are wanted by you--concealed them _in his place of
business_."
"Yes, yes, but where?" cried Colonel Witham. "In the safe, or around the
machinery--where-abouts?"
"Listen," said the voice. "The spirits seem angry again--"
"Let 'em be angry!" bellowed Colonel Witham. "They'll not get another
cent, confound 'em!"
"Softly, softly," said the voice soothingly, "The spirits are greatly
agitated by loud words. And the stars are growing dim once more. The
spirits want no more money. They will tell you all; that is, all you
need to know. Listen: They say you will find the papers. But you must be
patient. They are hidden in a building where there are wheels turning
rapidly. And the spirits say the noise hurts their ears. They say,
though, that you must wait a little while, and then you will go into the
building and find them. That is all now. You will certainly get them.
The spirits are gone. They will not come back again to-day."
The voice became silent; and Colonel Witham sat sheepishly in his chair.
Then he arose and walked slowly to the doorway. Had he been fooled? He
did not know. It was certainly strange: how the voice had described his
hotel--a big house with a porch--and he looking out--and the other
man--the man that had hidden the papers. No, there was something
remarkable about it all. He would surely get them. Colonel Witham
emerged from the tent.
A chorus of three young voices greeted him:
"Hello, Colonel Witham, been having your fortune told? Tell us what the
witch said, will you, colonel?"
The colonel, gazing at the grinning faces of Tim and Joe Warren and
Allan Harding, flushed purple and raised his cane, wrathfully.
"You little ras--" he began, but bethought himself and halted. "Ho, ho,"
he said, looking half ashamed. "That was only a joke. Just took a
notion to see how funny it was. Here boy, give these lads some peanuts."
The colonel produced a dime from his trousers pocket.
"Say, Tim," said Joe Warren some moments later, "I guess the colonel is
in love, after all. Ten cents' worth of peanuts! My, he's got it bad.
Let's go tell Henry Burns."
A day or two following, toward the end of a pleasant afternoon, Tim
Reardon and his friend, Allan Harding, sat by the shore of Mill stream
watching a small fleet of canoes engaged in active manoeuvring. It was
at a point on the stream opposite the scene of the execution of the
great Indian chief, where the small cabin stood. Back from this a few
rods was an old barn, of which the boys of Benton rented a small section
for the storage of canoes and paddles.
There were four canoes now upon the stream, each containing two
occupants. The eight canoeists were stripped for the work, showing a
gorgeous, if somewhat worn, array of sleeveless jerseys. The boys were
bronzed and healthy looking. Back and forth they darted across the
stream from shore to shore; or again, tried short spurts up and down
stream.
"What are they going to do, Tim?" inquired his companion.
"Don't you know?" queried Tim, by way of reply. "Say, it's going to be
the dandiest race ever. Start to-morrow morning right after breakfast
from in front of the cabin, and go straight up stream all day long. Only
when Jack blows the horn at noon everybody's got to stop and go ashore
and eat something. Then they start again when Jack blows for 'em to. And
paddle like everything all the afternoon till six o'clock. Then stop
again when Jack blows, and leave every canoe just where it is.
"Then they get together and pitch tents and camp all night, and race
back next day. And everybody has got to come up to where the first canoe
is before they turn back. Henry Burns, he got it up. I'll bet he and
Jack win the race, too."
"What'll you bet?" demanded Allan Harding, who had been eying the
canoeists sharply.
"Thousand dollars," replied Tim, promptly, shoving his grimy hands into
pockets that contained several marbles, a broken-bladed knife and other
valuables.
"Well," replied Allan Harding, cautiously, "mebbe you're right, but I
guess those fellows in the green canoe stand a good chance. Look how
strong they are. Say, who are they, anyway?"
"Hm! Jack Harvey's stronger'n any of them," asserted Jim loyally, eying
his stalwart friend, as a canoe passed containing Harvey and Henry
Burns. "Those other chaps are Jim and John Ellison. They live up on the
farm above here. That's what makes 'em strong. But you know Jack. Didn't
he make us stand around, aboard the _Surprise_?"
"Well, who's going to win, Tim?" called Tom Harris, as he skilfully
turned the canoe paddled by himself and Bob White, to avoid collision
with one which held George and Arthur Warren.
"'Spose you think you are," answered Tim, "because you and Bob know how
to paddle best. Look out for Jack, though."
Tom Harris laughed. "You'd bet on Jack if he had a broken arm," he said.
"Count us last, I guess," said George Warren, good-naturedly. "We're
pretty new at it. Going in for the fun of it. Hello, who's this coming?"
"Look out, Jim, it's Benny," exclaimed the elder of the Ellison
brothers.
"I don't care. I won't stand any nonsense from him," replied his
brother, a handsome young fellow, athletic, but slightly smaller than
the other.
Just what he meant by this remark was best explained when Benjamin
Ellison, strolling lazily down to the shore, paused in the process of
devouring a huge piece of molasses cake and said, in a sneering tone:
"My, Johnnie, don't you and Jim look fine though, with city chaps?
What'll Uncle Jim say when I tell him--"
He didn't get much further, for a canoe shot in to shore, and from the
bow of it sprang John Ellison. He seized his cousin by the shoulder.
"You will tell tales, will you?" he cried.
"Let me alone," replied the other, striving to shake off John Ellison's
grasp, but failing. Then he added, as the other canoes came in to shore
and the boys stepped out of them. "Can't you take a joke?"
"No, not when you've done the same kind of a thing before," exclaimed
John Ellison. "Come on, fellows, in with him."
Ready for any kind of a rough joke, several of the canoeists laid hands
on the unfortunate Benjamin.
"Most too many against one," remarked Henry Burns, quietly. "Better let
him go."
"No, he's got to be ducked," insisted John Ellison, whose anger was
aroused.
"Well, only a little one," assented Harvey, grinning good-naturedly. So
they held the luckless youth heels over head and plunged his head
beneath the surface up to his coat-collar. He was sputtering wrathfully
as they lifted him out again.
"Going to tell on us?" cried John Ellison.
Benjamin Ellison glared at his cousin, doubtfully.
"Once more," said John Ellison; and they put the victim's head under
again.
He wasn't hurt and his clothes were still dry; but he was whining, and
he begged for mercy after the second ducking.
"I won't tell," he said.
"Honest?"
"Honest Injun!"
They let him go, and he departed hastily up through the field.
"Tell, will he?" queried Harvey, as Benjamin departed.
"Guess not," replied John Ellison. "He's got enough. He'd like to,
though. He don't like you city fellows any better than father does. He
hasn't got anything against you, either. He's too lazy to paddle. Come
on, Jim, let's follow him up. Well be on hand to-morrow, if there's no
trouble."
The brothers took up their canoe and left the party.
"They're all right, those Ellison chaps," said Harvey; "all except
Benny. He's no good. Come on, fellows, let's lock up, and no walking in
to town, remember. Running's good for the wind. Coming along, Tim?"
"No, I'm going to sleep in the cabin," replied Tim Reardon, "and see the
start in the morning."
"Guess I will, too," said Allan Harding. So the two remained, while the
troop of canoeists set off soon after, on the run back to Benton.
The following morning, the first of a double holiday, came in bright and
clear. Little Tim and his companion were early astir, and cooking a mess
of oatmeal from the cabin's scanty stores over a cracked sheet iron
stove.
"There they come," cried Tim presently, as the sounds of fresh, boyish
voices came from outside. "Hooray! I wish 'twas a yacht race, though.
Wouldn't I go along?"
By nine o'clock the four canoes were fully equipped, drawn up in line
off the cabin, and the canoeists, paddles in hand, arms bared, and
sweaters tied around the thwarts, were ready to start. Jim and John
Ellison were there, a sturdy pair of farm lads; Jack Harvey, apparently
much over-matching his mate in physique, but with something in the
slighter figure of Henry Burns that indicated resource and staying
powers; Tom and Bob, old and hardened canoeists; and George and Arthur
Warren, clean-cut and athletic.
"Ready for the horn!" called Harvey, holding his paddle in his right
hand and a long, tin horn in the other.
"All ready!" sang out the canoeists.
Harvey put the horn to his lips and blew a loud, full blast. The paddles
struck the water with a vigour, and the race was begun.
The three canoes shot ahead of Harvey's at the start, owing to the
slight delay caused him in dropping the horn.
"Let them lead, Jack," said Henry Burns, quietly. "It's a two days'
race. Take it easy."
"That's so," said Harvey, half pausing in a stroke in which he had
started to exert his strength to the utmost. "Lucky I've got you. You
always keep cool. How do you manage to do it?"
Henry Burns smiled, but made no reply. Instead, he pointed ahead to
where the Ellison brothers, putting their strength into their work, were
showing several rods of clear water between them and the two nearest
canoes, which were going along side by side.
"They've got the race won in the first five minutes," said Henry Burns.
"See Tom and Bob take it easy till they get limbered up."
The two thus indicated were, indeed, setting an example worthy to be
followed. They had started off at an easy, regular stroke, one which
they could keep up for hours and increase when they should see fit. They
were paying no attention to the leading canoe, but were exchanging a
word or two with the Warrens, who were striving to imitate their course
and pace.
The first mile and a half that intervened between the starting point and
the Ellison dam was quickly covered. The Ellison boys, still leading,
were out on shore and carrying their canoe up the bank when the others
were still some rods away. It was a steep pitch of the shore, and Tom
and Bob, when they came to it, took it leisurely, saving their wind. The
others followed, in like fashion. Harvey and Henry Burns were the last
to make the portage.
Once around the dam, on higher level, the canoes were launched again,
and the race continued.
A little way up the shore from the dam, Tom and Bob and the Warren boys,
some distance ahead of the rear canoe, saw an odd little figure swinging
and swaying in the top of a birch tree overhanging the water. The
Ellison boys had passed her unnoticed. Her bit of skirt fluttering, and
her hair waving, showed that the occupant of this novel swing was a
girl.
All at once, to their horror, she seemed to slip and fall. Down she came
from her perch, struck the water with a splash and sank beneath the
surface.
Tom and Bob, driving their paddles into the water with desperate energy,
darted on ahead of the Warren boys, who bent to the paddles and shot
after them. The two canoes fairly flew through the water, while the four
occupants gazed anxiously ahead over the surface for signs of the girl's
reappearance.
To their amazement, a laughing voice hailed them most unexpectedly, from
shore. They looked toward the bank, where, just emerging, dripping wet,
the girl was waving a hand to them.
"How was that for a dive?" she called, pushing her wet hair back from
her eyes, and looking at them roguishly.
"Bully!" exclaimed George Warren, wiping the drops of perspiration from
his forehead. "We thought you had fallen. My, but it gave me a scare."
The girl's eyes danced with merriment. Then espying the other canoe
coming up, she called, "Hello, you back again? Look out Ellison don't
catch you."
"It's Bess Thornton," said Henry Burns, and the two boys called out a
greeting to her.
"Say, do you know Tim Reardon?" she asked abruptly.
"Why, yes," answered Henry Burns. "Should say we did."
"Well," said Bess Thornton, "tell him you saw me dive from the tree,
will you? He didn't think I dared, when I told him." Then she added,
laughing, "Don't get rained on again. But if you do, remember the mill."
And she danced away, wringing the water from the hem of her short
skirt.
"Confound her!" exclaimed Harvey. "Look at the start Jim and John have
got. Come on, Henry."
They pushed on again, Tom and Bob soon taking the lead of the three rear
canoes, with a strong steady stroke that meant business. The first canoe
was by this time a quarter of a mile ahead.