A SAILING ADVENTURE
John Ellison, a youth of about fifteen, but of a sturdy build and manner
that might lead one to suppose him older, stood by the gateway of the
Ellison farm, looking down across the fields towards the mill. It was
busy grinding and, as its monotonous tones came up to him, the boy shook
his head sadly. An expression as of anger overspread his manly young
face, and his cheeks flushed.
"It's wrong," he exclaimed, speaking his thoughts aloud; "I'll bet
there's some trick about it. Father always said we should run the mill
some day. It makes me mad to see old Witham sneaking about, afraid to
look any of us in the face; but I suppose there's no help for it."
He went up the driveway to the house, got an axe from the woodshed and
began splitting some pieces of sawed oak and hickory from a great pile
in the yard. It was a relief to his pent-up feelings, and he drove the
axe home with powerful blows. He was a strong, handsome youth, with face
and arms healthily bronzed with work in the open air. He laid a big junk
of the oak across the chopping-block, swung the axe, and cleft the
stick with a single blow that sent the halves flying in either
direction.
"That was a good stroke--a corker," exclaimed a youth who had entered
the yard and come up quietly behind him. John Ellison turned quickly.
"Hello, Henry," he said. "Where'd you come from?"
"Just had a swim," replied Henry Burns. "I see where you get all that
muscle, now. That's good as canoeing, I guess."
"Well," responded John Ellison, looking rather serious, "I reckon I'll
do more of it from now on than canoeing; though I've done my share of
work all along. I'm running the farm now--that is, what we've got left.
Witham's got a good part of it. I suppose you know, don't you?"
Henry Burns nodded. "It's a shame," he said. "But perhaps it'll come out
right in the end."
"I don't see how," said John Ellison. "Witham's got the mill, and the
big wood lot where we used to cut most of the wood we sold every fall,
and the great meadow up opposite old Granny Thornton's, with the
hayfield in it. We've got enough left close by here to keep us from
starving, all right; but it isn't what it ought to be. We've had to sell
half the cows, because we can't feed them."
Henry Burns whistled. "It's tough," he said, and added, doubtfully, "How
about that week up at the pond? Can you go?"
John Ellison looked downcast. "I'd forgotten all about that," he said.
"We did plan for a week at Old Whitecap, didn't we? I'm afraid it's all
up for me, though. There's haying to be done, a lot of wood to be cut,
and chores. I guess you'll have to count me out. I might let Jim go for
a couple of days, though," he added, speaking as though he were a dozen
years older than his brother, instead of only one.
"No, you're the one that was going," responded Henry Burns; "you could
go if the work were done, couldn't you?"
"Perhaps," replied John Ellison; "but there's enough there to take us
more than a fortnight. Benny don't count for much; he's too lazy."
"Well, we'll get the work done, all right," said Henry Burns; "and then
we'll take you with us."
John Ellison laughed. "You city fellows wouldn't like farm work, much, I
guess," he said.
He hardly took Henry Burns seriously, especially as the latter spoke but
little more about the project; but, the next day, looking up from his
work, at the sound of wagon wheels, he saw a cart coming up the hill,
laden with baggage and a party of boys. Tom Harris was driving, and
beside him on the seat were Bob White and Henry Burns. In the body of
the cart were Jack Harvey and Tim Reardon. These two were seated amidst
a pile of camp stuff.
"Well, we're here," said Henry Burns, laughing, as the boys piled out of
the cart. "Hope you've got something for us all to do. You'll find us
green, but we won't shirk."
John Ellison stared at them in amazement. "You better go on out to the
pond," he said. "I don't want to keep you fellows. Perhaps Jim and I can
get out for a couple of days before you come in. Besides, you want to
look out for Benny," he added, winking at Henry Burns. "He says he's
going to thrash you some day."
"Oh, I'm all right," laughed Henry Burns. "I've got Jack here to help me
out now. What'll we do, John? Come on, we're losing time."
"Well, if you really want to," replied John Ellison, somewhat
reluctantly, "two of you can go down in the haying field and help Jim;
and there's this wood's got to be split, and the corn and potatoes to be
hoed." He pointed, as he spoke, to two great fields of the latter.
"We'll set Tim catching potato bugs," he added, smiling.
"I'll catch 'em," responded Tim, heartily. "I wonder what kind of bait
they'd make for trout."
They divided up then, Tom and Bob, equipped with pitchforks, starting
off for the haying field; Henry Burns and Tim following John Ellison
into the garden; while Harvey, his waist stripped to a faded sleeveless
jersey, attacked the woodpile with a strength and energy that made up
for his lack of familiarity with the work.
He was busily engaged when Mrs. Ellison looked out at the kitchen door.
"Why," she said, in surprise, "I didn't know we had a new hand. Oh, I
see, you're one of the boys' friends."
Harvey explained.
"Well, I call that good of you," exclaimed Mrs. Ellison, her pleasant,
motherly face beaming. "Let the boys go after it's done? Why, of course.
They can both go. Benny will help me through the week, all right, won't
you, Benny?"
The youth thus addressed, who had just put in an appearance, his gun
over his shoulder, assented, though not with much heartiness. He scowled
at Harvey, and made no offer to be friendly.
"I suppose you want to go on the pond, too," said Mrs. Ellison,
sympathetically.
Benny Ellison glanced sullenly at Harvey. "Not with those city chaps,"
he replied.
The "city chaps," sneeringly referred to by Benny Ellison, proved
themselves good workmen, however. Unused to farm labour, as they were,
their muscles were, however, far from being soft and easily tired. Tom
and Bob, who excelled at athletics, surprised Jim Ellison with the
amount of hay they could stack up into cocks, or, again, the amount they
could spread and scatter; and they were tireless in following him
through all the broad field. Henry Burns and Little Tim were of the wiry
sort that never seemed to weary; while Harvey made the pile of split
wood grow in a way that made Mrs. Ellison's eyes stick out.
Then, at noon, when the big farm dinner-bell rang, there was a great
table spread for them in the long dining-room, fairly creaking with an
array of good things to eat; with plenty of rich milk and doughnuts and
home-made gingerbread to finish up with. Little Tim's thin face seemed
to be almost bulging when he had done; and he ate his sixth doughnut in
gallant style.
He was nearly wild with delight, too, late that afternoon, when he got
permission to fish the famous Ellison trout pool; and he came back in
time for supper with a fine string of the fish, brilliantly spotted
fellows, which Mrs. Ellison fried to a crisp for the crew of boy farmers
when their day's work was over.
There came a little knock at the door when they were eating supper, and
Bess Thornton, come for a pitcher of milk, looked in at the group of
merry youngsters.
"My, what fun!" she exclaimed, and speaking half to herself added, "I
wish I lived here too. Gran' said--"
"What's that? Why, I wish you did live here," exclaimed Mrs. Ellison,
stepping back with the pitcher in her hands at the girl's words, and
looking into her bright, eager face with eyes that suddenly moistened.
"I wish you did," she repeated. "Why don't you ever come in, when you
come for the milk? Come in now and have some supper with the boys?"
But the girl started back, almost timidly.
"Oh, I can't," she said, "I didn't think what I was saying. Gran' says
never to stay--to hurry back. She doesn't like to have me come for the
milk, but she can't come, herself."
And, true to her instructions, she departed promptly, when she had
received the pitcher, well filled--almost double what the money she had
brought would usually buy.
"She's a queer little sprite," was Mrs. Ellison's comment, as she
watched her go down the path; "but there's something fine and brave
about her. Who wouldn't be queer, living all alone with old Granny
Thornton?"
The two weeks' farming that John Ellison had reckoned on was through
with in five days, thanks to the energy of the volunteer crew. They
enjoyed it, too; the work in the bright fields; the jolly meals at the
Ellison table; the nights in the big hay-barn, with blankets spread in
the mow; the evening's swim in the stream just before supper.
And, on the sixth day, John and James Ellison went away on the wagon,
with clear consciences and light hearts, and with Mrs. Ellison waving a
farewell to them from the door of the shed. It was cramped quarters for
them all in the wagon, with the camping equipment, jolting along the
country roads; and they walked most of the hills. But the journey was a
jubilant one, and they welcomed the first gleaming of Whitecap pond with
whoops of delight.
Whitecap pond seemed to return the welcome, too; for it twinkled all
over in the light of an afternoon sun, as they set up the two tents that
were to house them; and it sent in its light ripples dancing merrily
almost to the very door of the tents; a splash now and then in the still
waters told them of fishing delights to come. The white, fine sand of
its shores was soft as carpet to their feet, as they ran races along
the shore, and took a swim by moonlight before they turned in for the
night's rest.
They liked the wildness of the loon's weird hullo, coming in at the open
flaps of the tents from afar; and the clumsy fluttering and flapping of
great beetles against the canvas, attracted by the lantern light that
shone through. The cawing of crows just above their heads awoke them
early next morning.
They were out for perch and bass before the sun was high, and were in
luck, for the fish were plenty; and the perch chowder that Bob, who was
an old and experienced camper, made for the noon meal was a wonderful
achievement, and reminded them of old times in Samoset Bay.
But there was one drawback--at least, for Henry Burns and Harvey, who
were hankering for the grip of a tiller and the thrill of a boat under
sail. There wasn't a sailboat to be hired on the pond. There were not
many, and they were all engaged. Coombs, who owned the slip and the
boats, said he hadn't done such a business in years. He could only let
them have two rowboats. Yet they came into the use of one, two days
later, through an adventure.
It was early in the afternoon, and Henry Burns and Harvey and Little Tim
stood on the float at Coombs's landing, looking at a sailboat that lay
at its berth alongside. It was not exactly a handsome craft; with too
great length for its beam, and its lines drawn out so fine astern that
it bade fair to be somewhat cranky. It had no cabin, and there was
seating room for a large party--a design calculated more for profit than
safety.
The boat was in evident poor condition, lacking paint, and its rigging
frayed, a not uncommon condition with boats to let in small waters of
this sort. Somewhat crude lettering on the stern spelled the name,
_Flyaway_.
"Looks as though she might fly away with somebody, all right, if he
didn't look out," remarked Harvey, grinning at his companions. "Wish we
had her, though, for a week. We'd take a chance, eh, Henry?"
Henry Burns nodded. "Let's see 'em start off in her," he said.
They waited about, and presently there appeared on the landing the
present claimant of the _Flyaway_. He was a big, bluff, hearty man,
florid face, loud of voice, a free and easy manner, and he was dressed
for the occasion in yachting clothes of unmistakable newness. He eyed
the _Flyaway_ with an assumption of nautical wisdom and experience.
"That's a good-looking boat, Captain Coombs," he said, in tones that
could be heard far away. "She's all right; just what I want. I like a
boat with plenty of room for the ladies to be comfortable."
"Well, I reckon she's the best boat on Whitecap pond," responded the
man, while his small eyes twinkled shrewdly. "Just humour her a bit, and
I reckon she'll go where anything of her size will. She's seen some
rough times on this pond."
The appearance of the _Flyaway_ seemed to bear out this statement.
"Sure you can handle her all right, are you, Mr. Bangs?" added Captain
Coombs, eying his customer with a quick, sidelong glance.
"Well, I reckon," was the bluff reply.
Captain Coombs, possibly not all assured, gave an inquiring look toward
a man who was busy cleaning a rowboat close by, and who seemed to be an
interested party of some sort, probably a partner. The man drew his
right eye down in an unmistakable wink, and glanced up at the sky. Then
he nodded, shrugging his shoulders at the same time, as though he might
have said, "There's no wind; we'll take a chance."
There was, indeed, scarcely a breath of wind blowing, and there was no
present prospect of any.
Mr. Bangs's party began now to arrive: a somewhat fleshy, and withal
nervous and agitated lady, who proved to be Mrs. Bangs; two young girls,
an angular lady carrying a fat pug dog in her arms, and a small boy.
"Aha, we're all here," cried Mr. Bangs, joyfully. "Let's get aboard and
be off. Splendid day for a sail, eh, Captain Coombs?"
"Couldn't be better," replied Coombs, dryly. "Are those oars in her,
Dan?"
"Why, you don't suppose I'm going to row her, do you?" laughed Mr.
Bangs.
"We sometimes has to, when we doesn't want to," said Coombs
laconically. "No fun staying out all night if the wind dies out."
"Oh, yes, of course," responded Mr. Bangs. "Get aboard, ladies."
"I don't believe you know how to sail a boat, Augustus," said Mrs.
Bangs, eying her husband doubtfully. "Are you sure you do?"
"Nonsense!" snorted Mr. Bangs. "Don't be getting nervous, now. Don't you
know I was elected commodore of the Green Pond Fishing Club only two
weeks ago?"
Mr. Bangs refrained from communicating the fact that the principal
occupation of the members of the Green Pond Fishing Club was the mixing
of certain refreshing liquids in tall glasses, and sipping them on the
verandah of a clubhouse.
The party therefore embarked. Mrs. Bangs was not wholly at ease,
however.
"Supposing there isn't any wind by and by, Augustus, and you have to
row. Why don't you take somebody along, to help? We've got lots to eat."
This idea, at least, seemed to strike Mr. Bangs favourably. He glanced
to where Henry Burns and his companions stood.
"Hello," he called, "want to go out for a sail? Got room enough. Take
you along."
The three boys stepped toward the boat.
"Not scared of the water, are you?" queried Mr. Bangs.
"Not unless it gets rough," replied Henry Burns, with a sly wink at
Harvey.
The three jumped aboard, and Coombs, with something like a grin at his
partner, shoved the boat's head off. He had got the jib and mainsail up,
and they caught what little breeze there was stirring. The _Flyaway_
drew away from the landing. To Bangs's embarrassment, however, the boom
suddenly swung inboard, swiped across the stern, causing him to duck
hastily, and almost knocking the bonnet off the lady with the pug dog.
Mr. Bangs had jibed the boat, greatly to his surprise. But no harm had
been done, as the wind was light.
Mr. Bangs laughed loudly. "Meant to tell you that was coming," he said.
"She'll sail better this way. Ever been on the water before, boys?"
Harvey nodded. "A little," he said.
"Well, the more you are used to it, the better you'll like it," said Mr.
Bangs. "Don't mind if she tips a little, if we get any wind. She sails
that way. Funny that jib flutters so. Better haul in on that rope there
and--and trim it."
Henry Burns, soberly following orders, did as requested. But it was
noticeable that the trimming did not seem to accomplish the result
desired by Mr. Bangs. In fact, as the _Flyaway_ was going dead before
the wind, it was quite apparent that no amount of trimming would make
the jib draw.
"It keeps on fluttering just the same, Augustus," said Mrs. Bangs, eying
the offending sail suspiciously. "Hadn't you better tie it some way?"
"Of course not," responded Mr. Bangs, loftily. "They will act that way
sometimes. Isn't that so, my lads?"
"Oh yes," replied Henry Burns. "I've seen 'em do it, haven't you, Jack?"
But Harvey was looking the other way.
They went slowly up the pond, with Mr. Bangs holding the tiller and
watching the sail critically. He was in buoyant spirits, and entertained
them with stories of the thrilling adventures of the Green Pond Fishing
Club, in which he seemed to have figured prominently.
The wind freshened a little and the _Flyaway_ drew ahead somewhat
faster. There was just the suspicion of a ripple along the sides, and it
was pleasant sailing. Two miles up the pond they dropped the sail and
anchored; got out the fish lines and tried for bass. After which, Mr.
Bangs, a generous host, opened up a huge hamper and spread out a
luncheon that made Little Tim's mouth water.
"Nothing like sailing to give one an appetite," exclaimed Mr. Bangs,
heartily. "Pitch in, boys. There's plenty of grub. I believe in having
enough to eat, I do."
He was so busily and pleasantly engaged in eating that he paid no heed
to the aspect of the sky. Nor, indeed, was there anything of very
serious import in its changes. But Henry Burns, alert as ever, saw
certain signs of wind in some light banks of cloud that began to gather
in the western sky, in the direction of Coombs's landing.
"We won't have to row home," he said presently, addressing the skipper
of the _Flyaway_, who was absorbed in the enjoyment of a huge slice of
meat pie.
"Eh, what's that?" he inquired. "What do you mean?"
"We're going to have some wind," replied Henry Burns.
"Well, that's what we want, for sailing," laughed Mr. Bangs. "You aren't
anxious to row, are you?"
"Not particularly," replied Henry Burns. "We won't have to, anyway. It's
going to blow some. We'll take some spray in over the bows beating
back--"
"What's that?" exclaimed Mrs. Bangs. "Augustus, do you hear? Let's start
right away. We don't want to get wet."
"Ho!" sniffed Mr. Bangs. But just then a quick gust of wind swept over
them, such as comes without warning in pond waters, bordered by hills.
Mr. Bangs seemed to take the hint it conveyed. "Guess we'd better
start," he said.
The boys sprang to the halyards; the sails were hoisted and the anchor
got aboard. With Mr. Bangs at the tiller, the _Flyaway_ started on the
beat of two miles down the pond. The wind continued to freshen, coming
now and then in flaws, as the light clouds overspread the sky.
Henry Burns, noting the style of Mr. Bangs's yachtsmanship, and
observing the freshening of the wind, and the fact that the craft was
not being worked to windward anywhere near what it would go, slipped
astern beside Mr. Bangs.
"Like to have me tend that sheet for you?" he asked, carelessly.
Mr. Bangs waved him back. "Don't touch that, my lad," he cried. "You
might upset us in a minute. Never let a boy fool with a sheet--hello!"
A sharper and heavier flaw caught the big mainsail with full force; and
then, as Mr. Bangs in his excitement threw the tiller over and headed
the yacht farther off the wind, instead of up into it, the _Flyaway_
heeled dangerously, taking water over the side and causing the pug dog,
which got a drenching, to howl dolorously. Mrs. Bangs gave a slight
scream.
"Oh, it's all right. Don't be alarmed," said Mr. Bangs, assuringly. He
failed to notice that prompt action on the part of Henry Burns, who had
started the sheet at the critical moment, had saved them from a spill;
and seemed to think that somehow he had righted things himself. However,
as he observed that youth calmly trimming the sail again, despite his
admonition to let the sheet alone, he seemed to have undergone a change
of heart.
"That's right," he said, in a tone of not quite so much confidence, "you
just run that thing, while I do the steering."
It began to get rough now, and the _Flyaway_ did not seem to justify
it's owner's praise. It threw the water heavily--partly by reason of its
clumsy build and partly because Mr. Bangs did not meet the waves with
the tiller. One might have observed, moreover, that Mr. Bangs wore an
anxious expression, and his hand shook slightly as he pressed the
tiller.
A moment more, and he seemed almost dazed as the tiller was snatched
from his grasp by Henry Burns, who put the _Flyaway_ hard up into the
wind, just in time to meet a squall that threw the lee rail under again.
The craft stood still, almost, with the sail shivering. Then Henry Burns
eased her off gently, getting her under headway again. Mr. Bangs was
deathly pale. The spray had dashed aboard freely and drenched him.
"We've got to reef, and be quick about it," said Henry Burns, addressing
the shivering skipper. "What do you say? It's your boat."
"What's that--eh, do you think so?" stammered Mr. Bangs. "Reef her? Yes,
that'll stop her tipping, won't it? Oh my! can you do it?"
His knees were wabbling, and he allowed himself to be pushed aside,
sinking down, pale and trembling on the seat.
"Here, you take her, Jack," said Henry Burns. "Tim and I'll reef her. We
can do it quick."
He relinquished the tiller to Harvey, who threw the boat up into the
wind, while Henry Burns and Tim seized the halyards and lowered the sail
sufficiently to take in a double reef. Henry Burns had the tack tied
down in a jiffy; whereupon Harvey drew the sail aft, hauled out on the
pendant and passed a lashing. Henry Burns and Little Tim had the reef
points tied in no time. Before Mr. Bangs's wondering eyes the sail was
hoisted, the topping lift set up, and the boat got under way again
before he had had hardly time to think what had happened.
It was surprising to see how easily the craft went along under competent
management. The spray flew some and the water came aboard, wetting the
party to the skin and causing alarm; but there was little danger. The
_Flyaway_ no longer took the brunt of the waves, but headed into them a
little, keeping good headway on. What was better, she was making time,
going to windward and approaching the landing.
Mr. Bangs gradually regained his colour, and took courage.
"Guess you've sailed some before," he said, with a sickly smile. "You go
at it like old hands."
"We've got a boat of our own," replied Harvey. "She's down in Samoset
bay. We got a big price for her for the summer, so we let her."
Mr. Bangs looked a bit sheepish.
"I'm glad you came along," he said; and added with a glance at Mrs.
Bangs, and in a lower tone, "I haven't sailed very much, to tell the
truth. We do--er--mostly rowing in the Green Pond Fishing Club."
They came up to the landing in sailor fashion, and the party stepped
out.
"Glad to see yer back," remarked Coombs. "Got just a bit worried about
you. You came in nicely, though."
Mr. Bangs smiled good-naturedly.
"Well," he said, "the fact is, I've got a crew. They are old sailors.
You ought to have seen them reef her quicker'n scat. They're going
along with me after this, for the rest of their stay--and their friends,
too. My wife says she's got enough sailing."
"I should say I had," said Mrs. Bangs.