Produced by David Garcia, Janet Blenkinship and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
THE ADVENTURES OF BOBBY ORDE
OTHER BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR
THE CLAIM JUMPERS
THE WESTERNERS
THE BLAZED TRAIL
BLAZED TRAIL STORIES
THE MAGIC FOREST
CONJUROR'S HOUSE
THE SILENT PLACES
THE FOREST
THE MOUNTAINS
THE PASS
CAMP AND TRAIL
THE RIVERMAN
ARIZONA NIGHTS
With Samuel Hopkins Adams
THE MYSTERY
[Illustration: "ALWAYS REMEMBER THAT A TRUE SPORTSMAN IN EVERY WAY IS
ABOUT THE SCARCEST THING THEY MAKE--AND THE FINEST. SO NATURALLY THE
COMMON RUN OF PEOPLE DON'T LIVE UP TO IT. IF _you_--NOT THE THINKING
YOU, NOR EVEN THE CONSCIENCE YOU, BUT THE WAY-DOWN-DEEP-IN-YOUR-HEART
_you_ THAT YOU CAN'T FOOL NOR TRICK NOR LIE TO--IF THAT _you_ IS
SATISFIED, IT'S ALL RIGHT."]
THE ADVENTURES OF
BOBBY ORDE
BY
STEWART EDWARD WHITE
[Illustration]
ILLUSTRATED BY WORTH BREHM
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN
COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1908, 1909,
BY THE PHILLIPS PUBLISHING COMPANY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE BOOMS 3
II. THE PICNIC 36
III. HIDE AND COOP 67
IV. THE PRINTING PRESS 81
V. THE LITTLE GIRL 91
VI. THE LITTLE GIRL (_Continued_) 103
VII. UNTIL THE LAST SHOT 115
VIII. THE FLOBERT RIFLE 140
IX. MR. DAGGETT 150
X. THE SPORTSMAN'S ASSOCIATION 160
XI. THE MARSHES 167
XII. THE TRESPASSERS 209
XIII. THE PLAYMATES 221
XIV. THE SHOOTING CLUB 235
XV. THE UPPER ROOMS 239
XVI. THE THIRD STORY 243
XVII. "SLIDING DOWN HILL" 247
XVIII. CHRISTMAS 262
XIX. THE BOXING MATCH 284
XX. THE PARTNERS 292
XXI. WINTER 298
XXII. THE MURDER 304
XXIII. THE TRIAL 317
XXIV. THE TRIAL (_Continued_) 322
XXV. THE HOLE IN THE CAP 326
XXVI. THE SIXTEEN-GAUGE SHOTGUN 332
XXVII. THE SPORTSMAN 337
THE ADVENTURES OF BOBBY ORDE
I
THE BOOMS
At nine o'clock one morning Bobby Orde, following an agreement with his
father, walked sedately to the Proper Place, where he kept his cap and
coat and other belongings. The Proper Place was a small, dark closet
under the angle of the stairs. He called it the Proper Place just as he
called his friend Clifford Fuller, or the saw-mill town in which he
lived Monrovia--because he had always heard it called so.
At the door a beautiful black and white setter solemnly joined him.
"Hullo, Duke!" greeted Bobby.
The dog swept back and forth his magnificent feather tail, and fell in
behind his young master.
Bobby knew the way perfectly. You went to the fire-engine house; and
then to the left after the court-house was Mr. Proctor's; and then, all
at once, the town. Father's office was in the nearest square brick
block. Bobby paused, as he always did, to look in the first store
window. In it was a weapon which he knew to be a Flobert Rifle. It was
something to be dreamed of, with its beautiful blued-steel octagon
barrel, its gleaming gold-plated locks and its polished stock. Bobby was
just under ten years old; but he could have told you all about that
Flobert Rifle--its weight, the length of its barrel, the number of
grains of both powder and lead loaded in its various cartridges. Among
his books he possessed a catalogue that described Flobert Rifles, and
also Shotguns and Revolvers. Bobby intoxicated himself with them. Twice
he had even seen his father's revolver; and he knew where it was
kept--on the top shelf of the closet. The very closet door gave him a
thrill.
Reluctantly he tore himself away, and turned in to the straight, broad
stairway that led to the offices above. The stairway, and the hall to
which it mounted were dark and smelled of old coco-matting and stale
tobacco. Bobby liked this smell very much. He liked, too, the echo of
his footsteps as he marched down the hall to the door of his father's
offices.
Within were several long, narrow desks burdened with large ledgers and
flanked by high stools. On each stool sat a clerk--five of them. An
iron "base burner" stove occupied the middle of the room. Its pipe ran
in suspension here and there through the upper air until it plunged
unexpectedly into the wall. A capacious wood-box flanked it. Bobby was
glad he did not have to fill that wood-box at a cent a time.
Against the walls at either end of the room and next the windows were
two roll-top desks at which sat Mr. Orde and his partner. Two or three
pivoted chairs completed the furnishings.
"Hullo, Bobby," called Mr. Orde, who was talking earnestly to a man;
"I'll be ready in a few minutes."
Nothing pleased Bobby more than to wander about the place with its
delicious "office smell." At one end of the room, nailed against the
wall, were rows and rows of beautifully polished models of the firm's
different tugs, barges and schooners. Bobby surveyed them with both
pleasure and regret. It seemed a shame that such delightful boats should
have been built only in half and nailed immovably to boards. Against
another wall were maps, and a real deer's head. Everywhere hung framed
photographs of logging camps and lumbering operations. From any one of
the six long windows he could see the street below, and those who passed
along it. Time never hung heavy at the office.
When Mr. Orde had finished his business, he put on his hat, and the big
man, the little boy and the grave, black and white setter dog walked
down the long dark hall, down the steps, and around the corner to the
livery stable.
Here they climbed into one of the light and graceful buggies which were
at that time a source of such pride to their owners, and flashed out
into the street behind Mr. Orde's celebrated team.
Duke's gravity at this juncture deserted him completely. Life now meant
something besides duty. Ears back, mouth wide, body extended, he flew
away. Faster and faster he ran, until he was almost out of sight; then
turned with a whirl of shingle dust and came racing back. When he
reached the horses he leaped vigorously from one side to the other,
barking ecstatically; then set off on a long even lope along the
sidewalks and across the street, investigating everything.
Mr. Orde took the slender whalebone whip from its socket.
"Come, Dick!" said he.
The team laid back their pointed delicate ears, shook their heads from
side to side, snorted and settled into a swift stride. Bobby leaned over
to watch the sunlight twinkle on the wheel-spokes. The narrow tires sunk
slightly in the yielding shingle fragments. _Brittle!_ _Brittle!_
_Brittle!_ the sound said to Bobby. Above all things he loved to watch
the gossamer-like wheels, apparently too light and delicate to bear the
weight they must carry, flying over the springy road.
At the edge of town they ran suddenly out from beneath the maple trees
to find themselves at the banks of the river. A long bridge crossed it.
The team clattered over the planks so fast that hardly could Bobby get
time to look at the cat-tails along the bayous before blue water was
beneath him.
But here Mr. Orde had to pull up. The turn-bridge was open; and Bobby to
his delight was allowed to stand up in his seat and watch the wallowing,
churning little tug and the three calm ships pass through. He could not
see the tug at all until it had gone beyond the bridge, only its smoke;
but the masts of the ship passed stately in regular succession.
"Three-masted schooner," said he.
Then when the last mast had scarcely cleared the opening, the ponderous
turn-bridge began slowly to close. Its movement was almost
imperceptible, but mighty beyond Bobby's small experience to gauge. He
could make out the two bridge tenders walking around and around, pushing
on the long lever that operated the mechanism. In a moment more the
bridge came into alignment with a clang. The team, tossing their heads
impatiently, moved forward.
On the other side of the bridge was no more town; but instead, great
lumber yards, and along the river a string of mills with many
smokestacks.
The road-bed at this point changed abruptly to sawdust, springy and
odorous with the sweet new smell of pine that now perfumed all the air.
To the left Bobby could see the shipyards and the skeleton of a vessel
well under way. From it came the irregular _Block!_ _Block!_ _Block!_ of
mallets; and it swarmed with the little, black, ant-like figures of men.
Mr. Orde drove rapidly and silently between the shipyards and the rows
and rows of lumber piles, arranged in streets and alleys like an
untenanted city. Overhead ran tramways on which dwelt cars and great
black and bay horses. The wild exultant shriek of the circular saw rang
out. White plumes of steam shot up against the intense blue of the sky.
Beyond the piles of lumber Bobby could make out the topmasts of more
ships, from which floated the pointed hollow "tell-tales" affected by
the lake schooners of those days as pennants. At the end of the lumber
piles the road turned sharp to the right. It passed in turn the small
building which Bobby knew to be another delightful office, and the huge
cavernous mill with its shrieks and clangs, its blazing, winking eyes
beneath and its long incline up which the dripping, sullen logs crept in
unending procession to their final disposition. And then came the
"booms" or pens, in which the logs floated like a patterned brown
carpet. Men with pike poles were working there; and even at a distance
Bobby caught the dip and rise, and the flash of white water as the
rivermen ran here and there over the unstable footing.
Next were more lumber yards and more mills, for five miles or so, until
at last they emerged into an open, flat country, divided by the
old-fashioned snake fences; dotted with blackened stumps of the
long-vanished forest; eaten by sloughs and bayous from the river. The
sawdust ceased. Bobby leaned out to watch with fascinated interest the
sand, divided by the tire, flowing back in a beautiful curved V to cover
the wheel-rim.
As far as the eye could reach were marshes grown with wild rice and
cat-tails. Occasionally one of these bayous would send an arm in to
cross the road. Then Bobby was delighted, for that meant a float-bridge
through the cracks of which the water spurted up in jets at each impact
of the horses' hoofs. On either hand the bayou, but a plank's thickness
below the level of the float-bridge, filmed with green weeds and the
bright scum of water, not too stagnant, offered surprises to the
watchful eye. One could see many mud-turtles floating lazily, feet
outstretched in poise; and bullfrogs and little frogs; and, in the clear
places, trim and self-sufficient mud hens. From the reeds at the edges
flapped small green herons and thunder pumpers. And at last----
"Oh, look, papa!" cried Bobby excited and awed. "There's a snap'n'
turtle!"
Indeed, there he was in plain sight, the boys' monster of the marshes,
fully two feet in diameter, his rough shell streaming with long green
grasses, his wicked black eyes staring, his hooked, powerful jaws set in
a grim curve. If once those jaws clamped--so said the boys--nothing
could loose them but the sound of thunder, not even cutting off the
head.
Ten of the twelve miles to the booms had already been passed. The horses
continued to step out freely, making nothing of the light fabric they
drew after them. Duke, the white of his coat soiled and muddied by
frequent and grateful plunges, loped alongside, his pink tongue hanging
from one corner of his mouth, and a seraphic expression on his
countenance. Occasionally he rolled his eyes up at his masters in sheer
enjoyment of the expedition.
"Papa," asked Bobby suddenly, "what makes you have the booms so far
away? Why don't you have them down by the bridge?"
Mr. Orde glanced down at his son. The boy looked very little and very
childish, with his freckled, dull red cheeks, his dot of a nose, and his
wide gray eyes. The man was about to make some stop-gap reply. He
checked himself.
"It's this way Bobby," he explained carefully. "The logs are cut 'way up
the river--ever so far--and then they float down the river. Now,
everybody has logs in the river--Mr. Proctor and Mr. Heinzman and Mr.
Welton and lots of people, and they're all mixed up together. When they
get down to the mills where they are to be sawed up into boards, the
logs belonging to the different owners have to be sorted out. Papa's
company is paid by all the others to do the floating down stream and the
sorting out. The sorting out is done in the booms; and we put the booms
up stream from the mills because it is easier to float the logs, after
they have been sorted, down the stream than to haul them back up the
stream."
"What do you have them so far up the stream for?" asked Bobby.
"Because there's more room--the river widens out there."
Bobby said nothing for some time, and Mr. Orde confessed within himself
a strong doubt as to whether or not the explanation had been understood.
"Papa," demanded Bobby, "I don't see how you tell your logs from Mr.
Proctor's or Mr. Heinzman's or any of the rest of them."
Mr. Orde turned, extending his hand heartily to his astonished son.
"You're all right, Bobby!" said he. "Why, you see, each log is stamped
on the end with a mark. Mr. Proctor's mark is one thing; and Mr.
Heinzman's is another; and all the rest have different ones."
"I see," said Bobby.
The road now led them through a small grove of willows. Emerging thence
they found themselves in full sight of the booms.
For fifty feet Bobby allowed his eyes to run over a scene already
familiar and always of the greatest attraction to him. Then came what he
called, after his Malory, the Stumps Perilous. Between them there was
but just room to drive--in fact the delicate points of the whiffle tree
scratched the polished surfaces of them on either hand. Bobby loved to
imagine them as the mighty guardians of the land beyond, and he always
held his breath until they had been passed in safety.
Shying gently toward each other, ears pricked toward the two obstacles,
the horses shot through with pace undiminished and drew up proudly
before the smallest of the group of buildings. Thence emerged a tall,
spare, keen-eyed man in slouch hat, flannel shirt, shortened trousers
and spiked boots.
"Hullo, Jim," said Mr. Orde.
"Hullo, Jack," said the other.
"Where's your chore boy to take the horses?"
"I'll rustle him," replied the River Boss.
Bobby drew a deep breath of pleasure, and looked about him.
From the land's edge extended a wide surface of logs. Near at hand
little streaks of water lay between some of them, but at a short
distance the prospect was brown and uniform, until far away a narrow
flash of blue marked the open river. Here and there ran the confines of
the various booms included in the monster main boom. These confines
consisted of long heavy timbers floating on the water, and joined end to
end by means of strong links. They were generally laid in pairs, and
hewn on top, so that they constituted a network of floating sidewalks
threading the expanse of saw-logs. At intervals they were anchored to
bunches of piles driven deep, and bound at the top. An unbroken palisade
of piles constituted the outer boundaries of the main boom. At the upper
end of them perched a little house whence was operated the mechanism of
the heavy swing boom, capable of closing entirely the river channel.
Thus the logs, floating or driven down the river, encountered this
obstruction; were shunted into the main booms, where they were
distributed severally into the various pocket booms; and later were
released at the lower end, one lot at a time, to the river again. Thence
they were appropriated by the mill to which they belonged.
Bobby did not as yet understand the mechanism of all this. He saw merely
the brown logs, and the distant blue water, and the hut wherein he knew
dwelt machinery and a good-natured, short, dark man with a short, dark
pipe, and the criss-cross floating sidewalks, and the men with long pike
poles and shorter peavies moving here and there about their work. And he
liked it.
But now the chore boy appeared to take charge of the horses. Mr. Orde
lifted Bobby down, and immediately walked away with the River Boss,
leaving with Bobby the parting injunction not to go out on the booms.
Bobby, left to himself, climbed laboriously, one steep step at a time,
to the elevation of the roofless porch before the mess house. The floor
he examined, as always, with the greatest interest. The sharp caulks of
the rivermen's shoes had long since picked away the surface, leaving it
pockmarked and uneven. Only the knots had resisted; and each of these
now constituted a little hill above the surrounding plains, Bobby always
wished that either his tin soldiers could be here or this well-ordered
porch could be at home.
The sun proving hot, he peeped within the cook-house. There long tables
flanked each by two benches of equal extent, stretched down the dimness.
They were covered with dark oil-cloth, and at intervals on them arose
irregular humps of cheese cloth. Beneath the cheese cloth, which Bobby
had seen lifted, were receptacles containing the staples and condiments,
such as stewed fruit, sugar, salt, pepper, catsup, molasses and the
like. Innumerable tin plates and cups laid upside down were guarded by
iron cutlery. It was very dark and still, and the flies buzzed.
Beyond, Bobby could hear the cook and his helpers, called cookees. He
decided to visit them; but he knew better than to pass through the
dining room. Until the bell rang, that was sacred from the boss himself.
Therefore he descended from the porch, one step at a time, and climbed
around to the kitchen. Here he found preparations for dinner well under
way.
"'Llo, Bobby," greeted the cook, a tall white-moustached lean man with
bushy eyebrows. The cookees grinned, and one of them offered him a cooky
as big as a pie-plate. Bobby accepted the offering, and seated himself
on a cracker box.
Food was being prepared in quantities to stagger the imagination of one
used only to private kitchens. Prunes stewed away in galvanized iron
buckets; meat boiled in wash-boilers; coffee was made in fifty-pound
lard tins; pies were baking in ranks of ten; mashed potatoes were
handled by the shovelful; a barrel of flour was used every two and a
half days in this camp of hungry hard-working men. It took a good man to
plan and organize; and a good man Corrigan was. His meals were never
late, never scant, and never wasteful. He had the record for all the
camps on the river of thirty-five cents a day per man--and the men
satisfied. Consequently, in his own domain he was autocrat. The dining
room was sacred, the kitchen was sacred, meal hours were sacred. Each
man was fed at half-past five, at twelve, and at six. No man could get a
bite even of dry bread between those hours, save occasionally a teamster
in the line of duty. Bobby himself had once seen Corrigan chase a
would-be forager out at the point of a carving knife. As for Bobby, he
was an exception, and a favourite.
The place was enthralling, with its two stoves, each as big as the
dining room table at home, its shelves and barrels of supplies, its rows
of pies and loaves of bread, and all the crackle and bustle and aroma of
its preparations. Time passed on wings. At length Corrigan glanced up at
the square wooden clock and uttered some command to his two
subordinates. The latter immediately began to dish into large
receptacles of tin the hot food from the stove--boiled meat, mashed
potatoes, pork and beans, boiled corn. These they placed at regular
intervals down the long tables of the dining room. Bobby descended from
his cracker box to watch them. Between the groups of hot dishes they
distributed many plates of pie, of bread and of cake. Finally the
two-gallon pots of tea and coffee, one for each end of each table, were
brought in. The window coverings were drawn back. Corrigan appeared for
final inspection.
"Want to ring the bell, Bobby?" he asked.
They proceeded together to the front of the house where hung the bell
cord. Bobby seized this and pulled as hard as he was able. But his
weight could not bring the heavy bell over. Corrigan, smiling grimly
under his white moustache, gave him advice.
"Pull on her, Bobby, hang yer feet off'n the ground. Now let up entire!
Now pull again! Now let up! That's the bye! You'll get her goin' yit
widout the help of any man."
Sure enough the weight of the bell did give slightly under Bobby's
frantic, though now rythmic, efforts. Nevertheless Corrigan took
opportunity to reach out surreptitiously above the little boy's head to
add a few pounds to the downward pull. At last the clapper reached the
side.
_Cling!_ it broke the stillness.
"There you got her goin', Bobby!" cried Corrigan, "Now all you got to do
is to keep at her. Now pull! Now let go. See how much easier she goes?"
The bell, started in its orbit, was now easy enough to manipulate. Bobby
was delighted at the noise he was producing, and still more delighted at
its results. For from the maze of his toil he could see men coming--men
from the logs near at hand, men from the booms far away--all coming to
the bell, concentrating at a common centre. By now the bell was turning
entirely over. Bobby was becoming enthusiastic. He tugged and tugged.
Sometimes when he did not let go the rope in time, he was lifted
slightly off his feet. The sun was hot, but he had no thought of
quitting. His hat fell off backward, his towsled hair wetted at the
edges, clung to his forehead, his dull red cheeks grew redder behind
their freckles, his eyes fairly closed in an ecstasy of enjoyment. He
did not hear Corrigan laughing, nor the gleeful shouts of the men as
they leaped ashore and with dripping boots advanced to the expected
meal. All he knew was that wonderful _clang!_ _clang!_ _clang!_ over
him; the only thought in his little head was that he, _he_, Bobby Orde,
was making all this noise himself!
How long he would have continued before giving out entirely it would be
hard to say, but at this moment Mr. Orde and Jim Denning came around the
corner with some haste. Both looked worried and a little angry until
they caught sight of the small bell-ringer. Then they too laughed with
the men.
But Mr. Orde swooped down on his son and tossed him on his shoulder.
"That'll do," he advised, "we're all here. Lord, Corrigan! I thought you
were afire at least."
"You got to show us up a reg'lar Christmas dinner to match that," said
one of the men to Corrigan.
After the meal, which Bobby enjoyed thoroughly, because it was so
different from what he had at home, he had a request to proffer.
"Papa," he demanded, "I want to go out on the booms."
"Haven't time to-day, Bobby," replied Mr. Orde. "You just play around."
But Jim Denning would not have this.
"Can't start 'em in too early, Jack," said he. "I bet you'd been fished
out from running logs before you were half his age."
Mr. Orde laughed.
"Right you are, Jim, but we were raised different in those days."
"Well," said Denning, "work's slack. I'll let one of the men take him."
At the moment a youth of not more than fifteen years of age was passing
from the cook house to the booms. He had the slenderness of his years,
but was toughly knit, and already possessed in eye and mouth the steady
unwavering determination that the river life develops. In all details
of equipment he was a riverman complete: the narrow-brimmed black felt
hat, pushed back from a tangle of curls; the flannel shirt crossed by
the broad bands of the suspenders; the kersey trousers "stagged" off a
little below the knee; the heavy knit socks; and the strong shoes armed
with thin half-inch, needle-sharp caulks.
"Jimmy Powers!" called the River Boss after this boy, "Come here!"
The youth approached, grinning cheerfully.
"I want you to take Bobby out on the booms," commanded Denning, "and be
careful he don't fall in."
The older men moved away. Bobby and Jimmy Powers looked a little
bashfully at each other, and then turned to where the first hewn logs
gave access to the booms.
"Ever been out on 'em afore?" asked Jimmy Powers.
"Yes" replied Bobby; then after a pause, "I been out to the swing with
Papa."
They walked out on the floating booms, which tipped and dipped ever so
slightly under their weight. Bobby caught himself with a little stagger,
although his footing was a good three feet in width. On either side of
him nuzzled the great logs, like patient beasts, and between them were
narrow strips of water, the colour of steel that has just cooled.
"How deep is it here?" asked Bobby.
"Bout six feet," replied Jimmy Powers.
They passed an intersection, and came to an empty enclosure over which
the water stretched like a blue sheet. Bobby looked back. Already the
shore seemed far away. Through the interstices between the piles the
wavelets went _lap_, _lap_, _slap_, _lap_! Beyond were men working the
reluctant logs down toward the lower end of the booms. Some jabbed the
pike poles in and then walked forward along the boom logs. Others ran
quickly over the logs themselves until they had gained timbers large
enough to sustain their weight, whence they were able to work with
greater advantage. The supporting log rolled and dipped under the burden
of the man pushing mightily against his implement; but always the
riverman trod it, first one way, then the other, in entire
unconsciousness of the fact that he was doing so. The dark flanks of the
log heaved dripping from the river, and rolled silently back again,
picked by the long sharp caulks of the riverman's boots.
"Can you walk on the logs?" asked Bobby of his companion.
"Sure," laughed Jimmy Powers.
"Let's see you," insisted Bobby.
Jimmy Powers leaped lightly from the boom to the nearest log. It was a
small one, and at once dipped below the surface. If the boy had
attempted to stand on it even a second he would have fallen in. But all
Jimmy Powers needed was a foothold from which to spring. Hardly had the
little timber dipped before he had jumped to the next and the next
after. Behind him the logs, bobbing up and down, churned the water
white. Jimmy moved rapidly across the enclosure on an irregular zigzag.
The smaller logs he passed over as quickly as possible; on the larger he
paused appreciably. Bobby was interested to see how he left behind him a
wake of motion on what had possessed the appearance of rigid immobility.
The little logs bobbed furiously; the larger bowed in more stately
fashion and rolled slowly in dignified protest. In a moment Jimmy was
back again, grinning at Bobby's admiration.
"Look here," said he.
He took his station sideways on a log of about twenty inches diameter,
and began to roll it beneath him by walking rapidly forward. As the
timber gained its momentum, the boy increased his pace, until finally
his feet were fairly twinkling beneath him, and the side of the log
rising from the river was a blur of white water. Then suddenly with two
quick strong stamps of his caulked feet the young riverman brought the
whirling timber to a standstill.
"That's birling a log," said he to Bobby.
They walked out on the main boom still farther. The smaller partitions
between the various enclosures were often nothing but single round poles
chained together at their ends. On these Bobby was not allowed to
venture.
"How deep is it here?" he asked again.
"Bout thirty feet," replied Jimmy Powers.
Bobby for an instant felt a little dizzy, as though he were on a high
building. All this fabric on which he moved suddenly seemed to him
unreal, like a vast cobweb in suspension through a void. It was a brief
sensation, and little defined in his childish mind, so it soon passed,
but it constituted while it lasted a definite subjective experience
which Bobby would always remember. As he looked back, the buildings of
the river camp, lying low among the trees, had receded to a great
distance; apparently at another horizon was the dark row of piling that
marked the outer confines of the booms; up and down stream, as far as he
could see, were the logs. Bobby suddenly felt very much alone, with the
blue sky above him, and the deep black water beneath, and about him
nothing but the quiet sullen monsters herded from the wilderness. He
gripped very tightly Jimmy Powers's hand as they walked along.
But shortly they turned to the left; and after a brief walk, mounted the
rickety steps to the floor of the hut where dwelt old man North, and the
winch for operating the swinging boom. Old man North was short, dark,
heavy and bearded; he smoked perpetually a small black clay pipe which
he always held upside down in his mouth. His conversation was not
extensive; but his black eyes twinkled at Bobby, so the little boy was
not afraid of him. When he saw the two approaching, he reached over in
the corner and handed out a hickory pole peeled to a beautiful white.
"The wums is yonder," said he.
Bobby put a fat worm on his hook and sat down in the opposite doorway
were he could dangle his feet directly over the river. Where the shadow
of the cabin fell, he could see far down in the water, which there
became a transparent fair green. Close to the piles, on the tops of
which the hut was built, were various fish. Jimmy leaned over.
"Mostly suckers," he advised. "Yan's a perch, try him."
Bobby cautiously lowered his baited hook until it dangled before the
perch's nose. The latter paid absolutely no attention to it. Bobby
jiggled it up and down. No results. At last he fairly plumped the worm
on top of the fish's nose. The perch, with an air of annoyance, spread
his gills and, with the least perceptible movement of his tail, sank
slowly until he faded from sight.
"Better let down your hook and fish near bottom," suggested Jimmy
Powers.
Bobby did so. The peace of warm afternoon settled upon him. He dangled
his chubby legs, and tried to spit as scientifically as he could, and
watched the waving green current slip silently beneath his feet. Beside
him sat Jimmy Powers. The fragrant strong tobacco smoke from North's
pipe passed them in wisps.
"I'd like to walk on logs," proffered Bobby at last, "It looks like lots
of fun."
"Oh, that's nothin'," said Jimmy Powers, "You ought to be on drive."
The boys fell into conversation. Jimmy told of the drive, and the
log-running. Bobby listened with the envy of one whose imagination
cannot conceive of himself permitted in such affairs. He was entirely
absorbed. And then all at once the peace was shattered.
"Yank him, Bobby, yank him!" yelled Jimmy.
"Christmas! he's a whale!" said old North.
For, without wavering, the tip of the hickory pole had been ruthlessly
jerked below the water's surface, and the butt nearly pulled from
Bobby's hands.
Bobby knew the proper thing to do. In such cases you heaved strongly.
The fish flew from the water, described an arc over your head, and lit
somewhere behind you. He tried to accomplish this, but his utmost
strength could but just lift the wriggling, jerking end of the pole from
the water.
"Give her to me!" cried Jimmy Powers.
"Le' me 'lone," grunted Bobby.
He planted the butt of the pole in the pit of his stomach, and lifted as
hard as ever he could with both hands. His face grew red, his ears
rang, but, after a first immovable resistance, to his great joy the tip
of the bending, wriggling pole began to give. Slowly, little by little,
he pulled up the fish, until he could make out the flash of its body
darting to and fro far down in the depths.
"Black bass!" murmured Jimmy Powers breathlessly.
And then just as his size and beauty were becoming clearly visible, the
line came up with a sickening ease. The interested spectators caught a
glimpse of white as the fish turned.
Bobby let out a howl of disappointment.
"Oh _gee_, that's hard luck!" cried Jimmy Powers.
"Bet he weighed four pounds," proffered North curtly.
But at this instant a faint clear whistle sounded from about the wooded
bend of the river above.
"Boat coming," said North, "Clear out of the way, boys."
He began at once to operate the winch which drew the long slanting swing
boom out of the channel, for the River was navigable water, and must not
be obstructed. In a moment appeared the _Lucy Belle_, a
shallow-draught, flimsy-looking double decker, with two slim
smokestacks side by side connected by a band of fancy grill-work, a
walking beam, two huge paddle boxes and much white paint. She sheered
sidewise with the current around the bend, and headed down upon them
accompanied by a vast beating of paddle wheels. Bobby could soon make
out atop the walking-beam, the swaying iron Indian with bent bow, and
the piles of slabs which constituted the _Lucy Belle_'s fuel. Almost
immediately she was passing, within ten feet or so of the hut. The water
boiled and eddied among the piles, rushing in and sucking back. A fat,
ruddy-faced man in official cap and citizen's clothes leaned over the
rail.
"Well, you made her to-day," shouted North.
"Bet ye," called the man with a grin. "Only aground once."
The _Lucy Belle_ swept away with an air of pride. She made the trip to
and from Redding, forty miles up the River, twice a week. Sometimes she
came through in a day. Oftener she ran aground.
Now Bobby reverted to his original idea.
"I'd like to walk on the logs," said he.
"Well, come on, then," said Jimmy Powers.
They retraced their steps along the booms until near the shore.
"You don't want to try her where she's deep," explained Jimmy Powers,
"'Cause then if you should fall in, the logs would close right together
over your head, and then where'd you be?"
Bobby shuddered at this idea, which in the event continued to haunt him
for some days.
"There's a big one," said Jimmy Powers. "Try her."
Bobby stepped out on a big solid-looking log, which immediately proved
to be not solid at all. It dipped one way, Bobby tried to tread the
other. The log promptly followed his suggestion--too promptly. Bobby
soon found himself about two moves behind in this strange new game. He
lost his balance, and the first thing he knew, he found himself waist
deep in the water.
Jimmy Powers laughed heartily; but to Bobby this was no laughing matter.
The penalties attached both by nature and his mother were dire in the
extreme. He foresaw sickness and spankings, both of which had been
promised him in the event of wet feet merely, and here he was dripping
from the waist down! In any other surroundings or with any other company
he would have wept bitterly. Even in the presence of Jimmy Powers his
lower lip quivered; and his soul filled to the very throat with dismay.
Jimmy Powers could not understand his very evident perturbation. If took
a great deal of explanation on Bobby's part; but finally there was
conveyed to the young riverman's understanding a slight notion of the
situation. To the child the day seemed lost; but Jimmy Powers was more
resourceful. He surveyed his charge thoughtfully.
"You're all right, kid," he announced at last. "Your collar's all right,
and your hair ain't wet. The rest'll dry out so nobody will know the
diff'."
Bobby brightened.
"Won't I catch cold?" he asked doubtfully.
"This kind of weather? Naw!" said Jimmy Powers with scorn. "You rustle
in to the cook shanty and get Corrigan to let you sit by the stove."
Bobby said farewell to his guide, and presented himself to the cook.
"I fell in," he announced, "can I sit by the stove?"
"Sure" said Corrigan hospitably. "Take a cracker-box and go over by the
wood box. Tryin' to ride a log?"
"Yes" confessed Bobby.
"Well, you want to look out for them," warned Corrigan a little vaguely.
He produced the customary cooky. Bobby sat and steamed, and munched and
told about the fish he had almost caught. He liked Corrigan because the
latter talked to him sensibly, without ill-timed facetiousness, as to an
equal. In a moment Duke thrust his muzzle in the door. Bobby looked
hastily down. His clothes were quite dry.
"Don't tell Papa," he begged.
For answer Corrigan portentously winked one eye, and went on peeling
potatoes. After a moment Mr. Orde appeared at the door.
"Bobby here?" he inquired. "Oh yes! Come on, youngster."
Bobby showed himself with considerable trepidation; but apparently Mr.
Orde noticed nothing wrong, and the little boy's spirits rose. The team
was waiting, and they mounted the buggy at once. Duke fell in behind
them soberly. For him the freshness of the expedition was over. It was
now merely a case of get back home.
"Have a good time?" asked Mr. Orde.
Bobby talked busily all the way in. He told principally of the fish,
although the _Lucy Belle_ and Jimmy Powers came in for a share. From
time to time Mr. Orde said, "That's good," or, "Yes," which sufficed
Bobby. Probably, however, the man heard little of his son's talk. His
mind was very busy with the elements of the game he was playing, sorting
and arranging them, figuring how to earn and borrow the money necessary
to permit his taking advantage of a chance he thought he saw in the
western timber lands. He heard little, to be sure, and yet he was in
reality wholly occupied with the child prattling away at his side--with
his fortune, and his business prospects of thirty years hence.
Under the maples the sun slanted low and golden and mote-laden. Bobby
suddenly felt a little tired, and more than a little hungry. He
descended from the buggy with alacrity. The wetting was forgotten in the
home-coming. Only when washing for dinner did he remember with certain
self-felicitation that even his mother had noticed nothing. For the
first time it occurred to him that his parents were not
omniscient:--that was the evil of the afternoon's experiences. For the
first time also it occurred to him that he possessed the ability to meet
an emergency without their aid:--that was the good of it. And the good
far outweighed the evil.
That night Bobby called upon the Lord to bless those dear to him, as
usual; but he offered on his own account an addendum.
"And make Bobby grow up a big man like Jimmy Powers."
II
THE PICNIC
One Saturday, shortly after, everybody was early afoot in preparation
for a picnic up the River. Bobby had on clean starched brown linen
things, and his hair was parted on one side and very smoothly brushed
across his forehead. His mother had been somewhat inclined to the dark
green velvet suit with the lace collar, but to his great relief his
father had intervened.
"Give the boy a chance," said he, "He'll want to eat peaches and go down
in the engine room, and perhaps catch sunfish."
At the wharf, built along the front of the river at the foot of Main
Street, they could see, when they turned the corner at the engine-house,
the single sturdy stack of the _Robert O_ pouring forth a cloud of gray
smoke, while in front of it fluttered the white of the women's dresses.
"We're going to be late," danced Bobby.
"I guess they'll wait for us," replied Mr. Orde easily. "They know
what's in this," he smiled, patting the hamper he was carrying.
At the wharf they were greeted by a chorus of exclamations from a large
group of people. Mr. and Mrs. Taylor were there, the latter sweet and
dainty in one of the very latest creations in muslin; Mr. and Mrs.
Fuller with Tad and Clifford; young Mr. Carlin from the bank; Mr. and
Mrs. Proctor, and their young-lady daughter wearing a marvellous
"waterfall"; Angus McMullen, alone, his father detained professionally;
Mrs. Cathcart and Georgie; young Bradford carrying his banjo, his
wonderful raiment and his air of vast leisure; Welton, the lumberman,
red-faced, jolly, popular and ungrammatical. The women guarded baskets.
All greeted the Ordes with various degrees of hilarity. When the noise
had died down, a massive and impressive lady, heretofore unnamed,
stepped forward. She held a jewelled arm straight before her, the hand
drooping slightly, so that, although she was in reality of but medium
stature, she gave the impression of condescending from a height.
"Good morning, Mrs. Owen," greeted Mrs. Orde, shaking the proffered
hand.
"Good morning, my dear," replied Mrs. Owen regally. She swept slowly
sideways to reveal a woman and a little girl of seven or eight years,
immediately behind her. "Allow me to present to you my very dear friend,
Mrs. Carleton. Mrs. Carleton is from the city, staying at the Ottawa for
a few weeks, and I knew you would like the chance to show her some of
our beautiful River." Mrs. Carleton, a pretty, modish woman, with the
ease of city manner, bowed quietly and murmured her pleasure. The little
girl looked half bashfully through a wealth of natural curls at the
grown-ups to whom she was presented in the off-hand method one employs
with children. She was altogether a charming little girl. Her hair was
of the colour of ripe wheat; her skin was of the light smooth brown
peculiar to an exceptional blonde complexion tanned in the sun; her
mouth was full and whimsical; and her eyes, strangely enough in one
otherwise so light, were so black as to resemble spots. Her dress was
very simple, very starched, very white. A big leghorn hat with red roses
half hid her head. She was shy, that was easily to be seen; but shyness
was relieved from the awkwardness so usual and so painful in children of
her age by the results of what must have been a careful training. She
answered when she was spoken to, directly and to the point; and yet it
could not but be evident that her spirit fluttered.
The combination was charming; and Mrs. Orde fell to it at once.
"Celia, my dear," she said kindly, "come with me, we're going to have a
nice day together; and I have a little boy named Bobby who will show you
everything."
But now the _Robert O_ gave two impatient toots. Everybody ceased
greeting everybody else, and began to pile the shawls and lunch baskets
aboard. The thick strong gunwale of the _Robert O_ was a foot or so
below the chute level from the wharf. The women were helped aboard
soberly by the men. Miss Proctor, however, slipped little slips and
screamed little screams, while young Mr. Carlin, Bradford and Welton,
with galvanized beaming smiles, all attempted to help her. Mrs. Owen
marched down the chute, waited calmly and without impatience until all
the available men were at hand, and then stepped down majestically with
dignity unimpaired.
Long before this, Bobby had quit the altogether uninteresting wharf. The
_Robert O_ he had seen many times from a distance, and once of twice
near at hand lying at the cribs and piers, but this was his first chance
to explore. Accordingly he dropped down to her deck, and, with the
natural instinct to see as far ahead as possible, marched immediately to
the very prow. The deck proved to slope up-hill strangely, which, in its
unlikeness to any floor Bobby had ever walked on, was in itself a
pleasure. The hawser around the bitt interested him; and the glimpse he
had of the sparkling river slipping toward him from the yellow hills up
stream. He could just rest his chin on the rail to look.
Then he turned his gaze aft; and encountered the amused scrutiny of a
man leaning on a wheel in a little house. The house had big windows, and
on top was an iron eagle with spread wings. Two steps led up to a door
on each side; and Bobby without hesitation entered one of these doors.
The inside of the house he found different from any house he had ever
been in before; and possessed of a strange fascination. There was the
wheel, with projecting handles to every spoke, and above it, racks
containing spyglasses, black pipes, tobacco-tins. At hand projected a
speaking-tube like that in the back hall at home, and two or three
handles connected with wires. Behind the wheel was a broad leather seat;
and clothes on nails; and a chart; and a pilot's licence, of which Bobby
understood nothing, but admired the round gold seals.
"Well, Bobby, what do you think of it?" asked the man.
Bobby had not had time to look at the man. He did so now and liked him.
The first thing he noticed was the man's eyes, which were steady and
unwavering and as blue as the sky. Then he surveyed in turn gravely his
heavy bleached, flaxen moustache; his hard brown cheeks; the round
barrel of his blue-clad body; and his short sturdy legs.
"Think you'd like to run a tug?" inquired this man.
"I don't know," replied Bobby; "what is your name?"
"I'm Captain Marsh," replied the man. He glanced out the open door at
the group on the wharf. "If they're going up past the bend to-day,
they'll have to get a move," he remarked. "Here, Bobby, want to blow the
whistle?"
He lifted the boy up in the hollow of one arm. "There, that's it; that
handle. Pull down on it, and let go."
Bobby did so and his little heart almost stopped at the shock of the
blast, so loud was it, and so near.
"Now again," commanded Captain Marsh.
Bobby recovered and obeyed. The passengers began to embark.
Captain Marsh watched until the last was safely aboard; then he set
Bobby gently to the floor.
"If you want to see out, go sit on the bunk back there," he advised.
Somebody cast off the lines. Captain Marsh pulled the other handle. A
sharp tinkling bell struck somewhere far in the depths of the craft.
Immediately Bobby felt beneath him the upheaval and trembling of some
mighty force. The wharf seemed to slip back. In another moment at a
second tinkle of the bell the tug had gathered headway, and the little
boy was watching with delight the sandhills and buildings on one side
and the other slipping by in regular succession.
Captain Marsh stood easily staring directly ahead of him, and paying no
more attention to the child. Bobby sat very straight in his absorption.
New impressions were coming to him so fast that he had no desire to
move. The slow turn of the great wheel; the throb of the engine; the
swift passing of water; the orderly procession of the river banks; the
feeling of smooth, resistless motion--these sufficed. How long he might
have sat there if undisturbed, it would be hard to say; but at the end
of a few moments Angus McMullen looked in at the door.
"What you stayin' here for, Bobby?" he inquired with contemptuous
wonder. "Come on out and see the big waves we're making."
Outside Bobby found all the grown-ups gathered forward of the pilot
house. The older people were seated on folding camp chairs, the
equilibrium of which they found some difficulty in maintaining on the
sloping deck. Bradford, Carlin, Welton and Miss Proctor, however, had
established themselves in the extreme bow. Miss Proctor perched on the
bitts, while the men stood or leaned near at hand. Occasionally, as the
tug changed course, Miss Proctor would utter a little exclamation and
thrust her arms out aimlessly, as though uncertain. All three of the men
thereupon assured her balance for her. With the group Bobby saw the
little girl with light hair.
"Not up there," advised Angus. "This way." A very narrow passage ran
between the thick gunwale and the deck-house. It sloped down and then
gradually up toward the stern. At its lowest point it seemed to Bobby
fearfully near the river; and as he descended to that point he
discovered that indeed the displacement of rapid running appeared to
force the water even above the level of the deck. Bits of chip, sawdust
and the like shot swiftly by in the smooth, oily curve of the liquid.
The wet smell of it came to Bobby's eager nostrils, the subtle cool
aroma of the river.
But, from a little door level with the deck, smoking a pipe, leaned a
negro who greeted them jovially. He dwelt in a narrow place down in the
hull, filled with machinery and the glow of a furnace. The boys hung in
the opening fascinated by the regular rise and fall of the polished
rods; savouring the feel of heavy heated air and the clean smell of oil.
In a moment the negro flung open an iron door whence immediately sprang
glowing light and a blast of heat. Into this door he thrust two or three
long slabs which he took from the deck on the other side of the tug; and
shut it to with a clang.
After gazing their fill, the boys continued their way back. The
deck-house ended. They found themselves on the broad, flat, spoon-shaped
after-deck occupied by the strong towing-bitts and coils of cable.
"Isn't this great?" asked Angus.
They joined the Fuller boys hanging eagerly over the stern. Here the
wake boiled white and full of bubbles from the action of the powerful
propeller necessary to a towing-tug. Along the edges it was light green
shot with blue; and the central line of its down-section waved from side
to side like a snake. On either side long, slanting waves pushed aside
by the bow surged smoothly away; behind followed other round waves in
regular and diminishing succession. Over them the chips and bark rode
with a jolly, dancing motion.