A CHARGE OF BIRD SHOT.
It was late afternoon. Dick and several of his friends were enjoying a
brief holiday after the football season. The sun had dropped below the
line of forest trees, but its golden rays slanted through the naked
ranks of oak and chestnut and hickory, casting long, grotesque shadows
on the mottled blanket of dead leaves which covered the earth. Here and
there a white birch gleamed with startling distinctness against a dark
background of spruce or pine.
The few remaining leaves rustled crisply in the sharp breeze which came
from the distant Sound. Now and then one of them, loosened from its
hold, sailed slowly and silently downward in many erratic circles,
coming to rest at length on the thick carpet of red and yellow and
golden brown.
The tang of autumn was in the air. The sense of nature’s decay was
evident everywhere. The very smell of fall, subtle and impalpable, but
nevertheless unmistakable, was in the nostrils of the five men who
rustled, single file, along the scarcely perceptible path which wound
through the trees.
Even Lysander Cobmore, the lean, wrinkled, weatherworn farmer who led
the way, felt it in his blood, though he was not, perhaps, so acutely
conscious of it as were the four Yale men who followed him. He viewed
the coming of autumn with more or less mixed feelings. It heralded the
approach of a long season of rest and hibernation which would be welcome
after the strenuous work of the past summer. But it also meant snow and
ice and many days of bitter cold when one would not venture far from the
glowing kitchen stove. However, the crops had been successfully
harvested and were under cover, and he was content to take things easy
until the coming of the spring should start the ball rolling again.
To Dick Merriwell and his three college mates, Brad Buckhart, Eric
Fitzgerald, and Teddy Baxter, there was almost a feeling of intoxication
in the crisp, cool air which sent their blood racing through their
veins; in the delightful, earthy, leafy smell of everything; even in the
gaunt, wintry look of the naked trees through which one could follow so
easily the whirring flight of the partridge, or the swift, low scurry of
a covey of quail.
They had escaped the trammels of work for a few days’ shooting, and were
like a party of schoolboys as they left Dick’s car, the _Wizard_, in one
of Cobmore’s barns and followed their guide with springy steps and
eagerly sniffing nostrils through the rustling woods toward the spot
where they proposed to make their headquarters.
“The house hasn’t been vacant very long, then?” Dick remarked presently.
“Three weeks gone ter-morrer since old man Hickey was buried,” returned
Cobmore, without glancing around. “Fur all he lived so long alone, you
folks’ll find everythin’ neat’s a pin. I’ve bin over twice sence young
Lawrence give me charge of it, an’ thar ain’t a thing out of place.”
“Is that Barry Lawrence?” Merriwell asked quickly.
“Yep. Know him?”
“Yes; he’s a Yale man. You remember him, don’t you, Brad? He graduated
three years ago.”
“You bet I do,” returned the Texan promptly. “Didn’t he play end on the
varsity? Nice chap, too.”
“What relation was he to Mr. Hickey?” Dick inquired.
“Nephy. Folks was sorter surprised when Hickey left everythin’ to him
an’ cut out his darter’s husband, Andy Jellison, but I kinder smelled a
rat myself, knowin’ that they wan’t on speakin’ terms sence the darter
died three years ago come next spring. They do say he treated her like a
dog, an’ she wan’t in her grave two months before he up an’ married
another woman. Andy done his best to make up with the old man, but it
wan’t no use. Reckon he was thinkin’ o’ the spondulicks the old man
would leave—he had a tidy little pile besides the place—an’ I s’pose he
was arter his share.
“Well, I remember the first time he come for a visit arter the darter
died. He driv over to my place from the village an’ put his team up in
the barn. Had a couple of grips with him an’ I nachurally thinks he’d
want help to git ’em over, but don’t you believe it. Said he’d go by
himself. I wan’t so surprised when I happens to lift up one o’ the grips
an’ finds it light’s a feather. Couldn’t have bin nothin’ in it at all,
though why he wants to lug two empty grips three miles through the
woods, goodness knows.
“Howsomever, that was his business, an’ I didn’t ask no questions,
though I couldn’t help wonderin’. He starts off about five o’clock, an’
drat my buttons if he wan’t back about sundown, cussin’, swearin’ mad.
He was a turrible profane man, was Jellison, but that night he beat the
record. He calls Hickey all the names on the calendar, and got so bad I
had to shet the kitchen door so Maria wouldn’t hear him, she bein’ a
good church member an’ pious.
“When he calms down a bit I finds that the old man wouldn’t let him in
the house. Said he never wanted to set eyes on him ag’in, an’ told him
to go to the hot place, I reckon. Andy had to stop with me that night,
an’ next mornin’ he went back to the city, where he works in a bank.
“Well, sir, all that summer he kep’ tryin’ to make up with old Hickey.
‘Bout every two weeks he’d show up for another try, but it wan’t any
use. I could ‘a’ told him he was wastin’ his time, fer when the old man
made up his mind, he stayed sot. But it wan’t none o’ my business, so I
jest let him keep on ‘till he found out hisself. As I says, he kep’
comin’ all summer long, an’ then, about this time two years gone, he giv
it up, an’ I ain’t seen him sence. I allus wondered though why in time
he kep’ packin’ them empty grips along with him; but I ain’t never
discovered it, an’ don’t reckon I ever will.”
Merriwell smiled at the old fellow’s tone of regret.
“Maybe he had left some clothes, or something like that, in the house,
which he wanted to take away,” he suggested.
Lysander Cobmore considered this for a moment in silence. Then he shook
his head slowly.
“That don’t seem nachural, some ways,” he returned. “Old man Hickey was
that set agin’ Jellison he’d ‘a’ throwed anythin’ he owned outer the
winder.”
“On account of the way he behaved to the daughter, I suppose?” Dick
mused.
Cobmore wagged his stubby chin whisker emphatically.
“That’s what,” he returned quickly. “Some said he took to runnin’ with
this other woman, an’ that’s what killed her. Waal, I ain’t sorry the
way things has turned out. Jellison ain’t the sort of man I like to have
dealings with. Tew cantankerous, you know. Now Lawrence is a nice,
pleasant-spoken young feller, an’ lets me make what I kin, lettin’ the
house to folks as is out huntin’ like you boys. ’Tain’t likely Jellison
would——”
He broke off abruptly as the crash of a gun sounded with startling
distinctness from the silent woods. The next instant came a pattering
shower of fine shot which cut the twigs and branches of the near-by
bushes, and caused each man to duck instinctively.
Merriwell was the first of the party to recover his presence of mind.
“Stop that, you lunatic!” he shouted, his face dark with anger.
“Came mighty near losing an eye,” growled Buckhart, wiping away a drop
of blood where one of the shots had grazed his face.
“Come out here and show yourself!” cried Fitzgerald, replacing the soft
felt hat which had been knocked off.
“Yes, consarn ye!” exclaimed Lysander Cobmore, shaking a lean fist
toward the woods. “What in time d’ye mean?”
There was no reply, but Merriwell’s keen ear caught a faint rustling
among the leaves.
“I’m going to see who the idiot is,” he said, in a low tone. “If we’re
to stay around here, we can’t be running the risk of being shot in the
back any minute.”
Without waiting for a reply, he darted through the undergrowth and
disappeared. Brad was at his heels, and a moment later the remainder of
the party heard a smothered exclamation, followed by the sound of
talking, in which they distinguished the tones of a strange voice.
Then the crashing through the bushes was resumed, and presently three
figures appeared in sight. Fitzgerald chuckled suddenly.
“Pipe the willie-boy, Teddy,” he said, in a low tone. “Wouldn’t that
frost you! Bet he took us for deer.”
“He looks like the kind that would,” Baxter returned, with a grin.
They watched with considerable curiosity the approach of the stranger,
who walked between Brad and Dick and was talking in a high-pitched,
excited voice.
He was small and undersized, with stooping shoulders and a rather
insignificant face. He was dressed from head to foot in khaki, which was
very palpably brand new and made him ludicrously resemble one of the
wooden dummies which tailors use to show off their goods.
Apparently he had gone into a sporting-goods establishment and purchased
everything the clerk offered, even to a revolver which hung in a leather
holster at one side of the broad belt, and a large hunting knife stuck
into the other. In one gloved hand he held a double-barrel,
sixteen-gauge shotgun which he clasped by the end of the barrel, letting
the stock drag through the leaves behind him.
“Grathious thakes!” he lisped excitedly, as he came up to the path. “I
was never tho dithurbed in all my life. I give you my word I thought ith
wath a deer, or I thould never have fired in thith world.”
Brad looked at him contemptuously.
“I should think any fool would know the difference between a deer and
five men!” he snapped. “Besides, there aren’t any deer around here; and
if there were, how in thunder did you expect to hit one with that gun?”
The stranger’s eyes widened with surprise.
“You don’t thay tho!” he exclaimed in a distressed tone. “Why, I thought
there were deer all over.”
“Did you expect to kill one with a sixteen-gauge shotgun?” Dick asked, a
twinkle in his eyes.
The hunter looked puzzled.
“What’th the matter with it?” he asked. “Theemth to me the bulletth are
big enough to kill anything.”
Fitzgerald shrieked with laughter.
“Bullets!” he cried hysterically. “He don’t know the difference between
shells and bullets!”
Merriwell and Baxter smiled broadly. In spite of his anger, the Texan
could not repress a grin. Even Lysander Cobmore chuckled dryly.
The stranger glanced from one laughing face to another, and then drew
himself up with a comical expression of dignity.
“I can’t thay I thee the point,” he remarked stiffly. “Thomthing theems
to thrike you gentlemen ath very funny.”
Fitz looked at his face and went off into another peal of laughter.
“Do you really mean to say you thought the shells you put into your gun
consisted of a single bullet?” Dick asked quietly.
“Why, I thuppothed tho,” the small man answered shortly. “I don’t know
that I thought much about it.”
He rested one hand over the barrel of his gun as if it were a walking
stick.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Merriwell said quickly. “That gun’s
loaded, isn’t it?”
“Why, no. I jutht thot it off.”
“Didn’t you have two shells in it?” Dick asked.
The stranger suddenly snatched his hand away with a look of horror.
“Bah Jove!” he cried excitedly. “You’re wight about that. Mercy thakes!
I might have thot a hole wight through my hand.”
The thought of his narrow escape seemed to trouble him considerably more
than anything which had yet occurred. Dick reached forward, and, picking
up the gun, broke it and extracted the shell.
“That’s the safest way,” he said quietly. “It’s much better not to walk
through the woods with your gun loaded.”
Holding the shell in his hand, he took out a knife and slit the
pasteboard across, exposing the contents.
“There’s what’s inside of it,” he explained, handing it to the stranger.
The latter took it gingerly and inspected it with much curiosity.
“Well, well,” he commented. “Tho thatth what it ith. A lot of little
bulletth. Quite a cute idea, ithn’t it? Giveth a chap more chance to hit
thomething, I thuppothe.”
Fitzgerald threatening another outburst, Dick abruptly changed the
subject.
“Are you stopping near here, Mr. ——”
He paused significantly.
“Jobloth,” supplied the stranger promptly. “Perthy Jobloth, of
Commonwealth Avenue, Bothton. No, I jutht came up for the day, but I
thuppoth there will be no trouble getting accomodations in the village
hotel.”
Merriwell glanced at Cobmore rather dubiously.
“Thar ain’t no hotel,” returned the farmer with twinkling eyes.
Joblots looked aghast.
“No hotel!” he gasped. “Grathiouth thaketh! Whatever thall I do? It’th
much too late to get back to the city.”
“Yep,” Cobmore said with a distinct relish. “Ain’t no train now till
mornin’. You should hev took the five-ten.”
He seemed to be extracting considerable amusement out of Mr. Percy
Joblots’ predicament.
The latter was most distressed.
“That’th what I meant to do,” he explained sadly; “but I got tho
interethted in my thooting, and the woodth looked tho lovely, that I
mithed it. My goodneth grathouth! I don’t know what to do. Whoever would
think there wath no hotel!”
He looked so utterly woebegone and crestfallen that Dick felt sorry for
him. Of course they could take him in for the night, but he wasn’t
particularly anxious to have a stranger around who was apt to be a
damper on their fun. Still the man could not stay out in the woods all
night, and it seemed foolish to insist on his going back to Lysander
Cobmore’s when their own destination was so close at hand.
He glanced questioningly at his three friends. They had quite as much
say as he had.
Buckhart shrugged his shoulders indifferently; apparently it made no
difference to him what became of Mr. Joblots. Fitz nodded emphatically,
a broad grin on his expressive face. Evidently he saw possibilities for
mirth in the presence of the stranger. Baxter seemed not to care one way
or another.
At least it would only be for one night, Dick reflected, turning to the
dapper little fellow.
“You’d better come along with us, Mr. Joblots,” he said. “We are on our
way to a farmhouse which we are going to make our headquarters for a few
days. I imagine there will be room enough for you to stay to-night.”
He glanced inquiringly at the farmer, who nodded.
“Room an’ to spare,” he said tersely, “an’ you gents had better be
gittin’ on if you want to git thar before dark.”
Percy Joblots was overjoyed.
“That-th extremely kind of you,” he said gratefully. “It relievth me
from a motht unpleathant prediciment. I really don’t know what I thould
have done but for you, bah Jove!”
“Well, that’s settled,” Dick said shortly, “and we’d better get on. My
name is Dick Merriwell, and these are my friends, Brad Buckhart, Eric
Fitzgerald, and Teddy Baxter, all of Yale.”
“Delighted, I’m thure,” murmured Joblots, as the party resumed their way
along the path. “Of Yale! Dear me! How many dear friendth I have had
from New Haven.”
“You didn’t graduate from there yourself, by any chance, did you?”
inquired Fitz.
“No, I—er—wath educated at home by—er—tutorth,” returned the little
fellow hastily.
“Perhaps you know some one who is there now,” persisted Fitzgerald.
“Well, no, I think not. Motht of my friendth have graduated. Let me
thee, though. Do you know a chap named McCormick?”
“Yes, of course,” returned Fitz quickly. “Archie McCormick. Dandy
fellow, he is, too. Know him?”
Joblots hesitated.
“Why, I——”
He broke off abruptly as they emerged from the thicket into a wide
clearing which sloped gently down from the forest to the shores of a
beautiful little lake, whose waters, ruffled by the brisk breeze,
reflected the riotous crimson and gold of the autumn sunset until it
seemed almost like a radiant opal.
A little way down the slope to their right loomed the spreading bulk of
a commodious, weatherworn farmhouse, with big, hospitable, chimneys and
many small paned windows, each one of which reflected the sunset in
flaming crimson until it looked as if the whole house was ablaze.
“Waal, boys,” remarked Cobmore. “Here we be. This is Cranberry Lake, an’
old man Hickey’s house still stands. I reckon you feel like gittin’ a
fire started an’ cookin’ grub. It’s nigh onto supper time.”
“You’re right, there,” Fitzgerald said, smacking his lips. “This air has
given me such a thundering appetite I could pretty near eat the soles of
my shoes.”
The farmer chuckled.
“Ain’t quite that far gone, I expect,” he said. “You got somethin’ a bit
tastier than that to fall to on. Let’s git around to the front door.”
The house faced the lake, and on that side was a narrow veranda which
ran the full width of the building. As they turned the corner they were
surprised beyond measure to see a tall figure rise from the steps and
look inquiringly toward them.
The next instant Buckhart gave a sudden exclamation.
“By thunder! If it isn’t Mac! What the mischief are you doing here, old
fellow?”
------------------------------------------------------------------------