A CRY IN THE NIGHT
In the late afternoon, after the girls and Aunt Betty had taken their
naps, Gerald suggested a jaunt down the mountainside toward the
valley. The suggestion was eagerly accepted by Aurora, Dorothy, Molly
and Jim. Aunt Betty agreed that she would stay with Ephraim to look
after the camp, being unable to do the climbing which would be
necessary on the return.
No Alpine stocks had been brought, but Gerald and Jim again sallied
forth with the hand-ax, the result being that in a short while the
entire party was equipped with walking sticks.
Telling Aunt Betty good-by, and warning Ephraim not to stray away
from his mistress during their absence, they soon were off down the
pathway leading toward the village in the valley.
"I'll tell you, girls, there's some class to this outing," said
Gerald, who, with Dorothy, led the way.
Molly and Aurora, with Jim as escort, were close behind.
"This is one of the most beautiful spots I have ever seen," said
Molly. "The picturesque grandeur of the Rockies is missing, to be
sure, but there is something fascinating about these low, quiet
mountains. It makes one feel as if one could stay here forever and
ever."
"Come--don't get poetical, Molly," warned Jim. "This is a very modern
gathering, and blank verse is not appreciated."
"Nothing was farther from my thoughts than blank verse, Jim Barlow,
and you know it!"
"Sounded like blank verse to me," and Jim grinned.
"You mustn't blame me for being enthused over such sights as these.
If you do not experience the same sensation, there is something sadly
deficient in your make-up."
"That's right, Molly; rub it in," Dorothy said, over her shoulder.
"Jim is entirely too practical--too prosaic--for this old world of
ours. We simply must have a little romance mixed in with our other
amusements, and poetry is naturally included."
"Hopelessly overruled," murmured Jim. "So sorry I spoke. Go ahead,
Molly; sing about the rocks and rills, the crags and--and--"
"Pills?" suggested Aurora.
"Well, anything you wish; I'm no poet."
"You're no poet, and we all know it," hummed Aurora.
"I dare you girls to go as far as the village!" cried Dorothy.
"How about the boys?" Gerald wanted to know.
"They are included in the dare, of course."
"Well, I'll have to take the dare," said Molly. "That village is too
far for me to-day."
"Why, it's only a short way down the valley," Dorothy protested.
"It's several miles, at least," said Jim.
"Oh, come!"
"Why, yes; distances are very deceptive in this part of the country."
Dorothy could not be convinced, so the others decided to keep on
until the girl realized that she had misjudged the distance, and
asked to turn back.
They did not know Dorothy Calvert.
The path led down the mountainside and into a broad road which
followed the bank of a stream. Somehow, when this point was reached,
the village seemed no nearer.
Dorothy uttered no protest, however. But the others exchanged
glances, as if to say:
"Well, I wonder will she ever get enough?"
On they went till at last, at a great bend in the road, where lay a
fallen log, Molly stopped for a rest.
"You folks can go on," said she, seating herself on the fallen tree.
"I'll wait here and go back with you."
"And I," said Aurora, dropping down beside her.
"Guess those are my sentiments, too," drawled Jim, as he languidly
sat down beside the girls.
"Well," said Gerald, "after our journey this morning, and the work I
did in camp, I don't believe I want any village in mine, either."
And he, too, sat down.
Dorothy stood gazing at her friends, an amused expression on her
face.
"I suppose if the majority vote is to be listened to, I lose," she
said. "I thought you all were mountain climbers, and great believers
in exercise on a large scale. But I see I was mistaken. I yield to
the rule of the majority; we will not go to the village to-day."
Dorothy sat down. As she did so, the others burst into a roar of
laughter.
"Well, I don't see anything so funny," she said. "But perhaps that is
because I am lacking a sense of humor."
"No, it's not that," said Gerald. "We are laughing to see how
stubbornly you give up a little whim. Nobody wanted to go to the
village but you, yet you insisted that everyone go."
"Oh, I didn't mean that like you took it, at all, Gerald," protested
the girl, a slight flush creeping over her face.
"We felt that, hence, knowing it could give you no real pleasure to
go farther, and tire yourself and ourselves completely out, so that
we would have to hire a conveyance to get back to camp, we decided to
rebel, and stay here."
"I imagine the fishing is good in this neighborhood," said Molly, who
was looking out over the stream where the water ran gently between
the rocks. It was as clear as glass, and the fish could be seen
swimming about.
"They catch a great many trout in these mountains, I've heard," said
Jim. "Say we get some poles and try our luck before we go back, eh,
Gerald?"
"Surely," responded the person addressed. "I brought plenty of
fishing tackle in the big chest on the back of the machine. I have
also four poles in sections, each fitted with a fine reel and silk
line. I wouldn't come on a camping trip like this without having a
try at the fish, I assure you."
When the party had rested sufficiently, the climb back to camp was
begun, and even Dorothy was thankful that they had not gone to the
village, realizing the truth of Gerald's words, that they would have
needed a conveyance to get them back to their starting point.
It was late afternoon when they reached the camp, to find that Aunt
Betty and Ephraim had supper on the fire. And a fine supper it was,
too--fine for camp life. When it was spread on the ground before them
a short time later, they devoured it ravenously, which pleased Aunt
Betty immensely, for she loved to see young folks eat.
The meal over and the things cleared away, the young folks and Aunt
Betty gathered before the ladies' tent where a fine view of the
valley could be obtained, and for some little time were silent, as
the wonderful glories of Mother Nature unfolded themselves. Before
they realized it, almost, the day was gone--their first day in
camp--and night was upon them. A gray light, mingling with the faint
afterglow of twilight, showed clearly the outlines of the distant
mountains. The stars blinked down from their heavenly dome and the
air was cool and comfortable, thanks to the altitude. To the silent
watchers it seemed that no skies were ever so deep and clear as those
which overspread Camp Breck.
"It would seem," said Aunt Betty, breaking a long silence, "that in
making the stars, nature was bent on atoning in the firmament for a
lack of beauty and brilliancy on the earth."
"How like the Gates of Wonderland I read about when a wee child are
these hills on such a night," said Dorothy reverently.
"Stop!" warned Molly. "If you don't, Jim will soon be chiding you for
becoming poetic."
"No; this is different, somehow," said the boy. "It has gotten into
my blood. I feel much as Dorothy does--a sensation I've never
experienced before, though I've traveled through the Catskills till I
know them like a book. Even the Rockies did not appeal to me in this
way."
"It is not the environment, but the viewpoint, Jim," Aunt Betty said.
"The nights in the Catskills are just as beautiful as here; it
happens that you have never thought of the wonders of nature in quite
the same way in which you have had them brought home to you
to-night. I daresay you will never spend another night in any
mountains, however, without thinking of the transcendent beauty of it
all."
"There is something in the air that makes me feel like singing," said
Gerald.
"Then by all means indulge yourself," Dorothy advised.
"Let's form a quartette," said Molly. "I can sing a fair alto."
"And I can't sing anything--can't even carry an air," Aurora put in
in a regretful voice. "But Gerald has a fine tenor voice, and perhaps
Dorothy can take the soprano and Jim the bass."
In this way it was arranged, Dorothy being appointed leader.
"First of all, what shall we sing?" she wanted to know.
"Oh, any old thing," said Jim.
"No; not any old thing. It must be something with which we are all
familiar."
"Well, let's make it a medley of old Southern songs," suggested
Gerald.
"An excellent idea," said Aunt Betty, while Ephraim was so delighted
at the suggestion that he clapped his hands in the wildest
enthusiasm.
So Dorothy, carrying the air, started off into "The Old Folks At
Home."
Never, thought Aunt Betty, had the old tune sounded so beautiful, as,
with those clear young voices ringing out on the still air of the
summer's night, and when the last words,
Way down upon the Suwanee River,
Far from the old folks at home,
had died away, she was ready and eager for more. "Old Black Joe,"
followed, then "Dixie," and finally "Home, Sweet Home," that classic
whose luster time never has or never will dim, and which brought the
tears to her eyes as it brought back recollections of childhood days.
Then, as if to mingle gayety with sadness, Ephraim was induced to
execute a few of his choicest steps on a hard, bare spot of ground
under one of the big oak trees, while Jim and Gerald whistled "Turkey
in the Straw," and kept time with their hands. The old negro's
agility was surprising, his legs and feet being as nimble,
apparently, as when, years before as a young colored lad, he had gone
through practically the same performance for Aunt Betty, then in the
flower of her young womanhood.
After this the party sought the tents, where, on blankets spread on
the ground, covered by sheets, and with rough pillows under their
heads, each member of the party sought repose.
In one end of the tent occupied by Gerald and Jim slept old Ephraim,
the watch-dog of the camp, who prided himself that no suspicious
sound, however slight, could escape his keen ears in the night time.
The slumber of the party was undisturbed during the early hours of
the night, as, with the tent flaps thrown back, to allow the clear
passage of the cool breeze off the valley, the occupants of both
tents slept soundly.
Sometime after midnight, however, the slumber of all was broken by a
most startling incident. It was a cry of distress coming out of the
night from farther down the mountainside--a cry so appealing in its
pathos that Ephraim was on his feet, listening with open mouth,
before the echoes had died away. Then, as he roused Gerald and Jim,
the cry came again, reverberating over the mountain in trembling,
piteous tones:
"Oh, help me! Help me! Won't someone please help me? Oh, oh-h-h-h!"
The last exclamation, drawn out in a mournful wail sent a thrill of
pity through the hearts of the old negro and the boys.
Dorothy heard the second cry, and she, too, felt the appeal of the
voice, as she awakened the other inmates of the tent.
The cry came again at short intervals.
"What can it be?" someone asked.
"Sounds to me like someone's lost their way," said Jim, as he and
Gerald stood listening outside their tent.
"Oh, Lordy! Maybe it's er ghost!" wailed Ephraim, whose superstitious
fears the passing years had failed to dislodge. "Dat suah sound tuh
me like de cry ob er lost soul."
"Nonsense!" cried Gerald. "There's no such thing as a lost soul. And
stop that sort of talk, Ephy. No matter what you think, there's no
use scaring the women."
"What are you boys going to do?" asked Dorothy, peeking out from
behind the flap of her tent.
"There's only one thing to do, when a voice appeals to you like
that--investigate," said Jim.
"Yes; we must find out who it is," Gerald readily agreed.
"But you boys mustn't venture down the mountainside alone," said
Aurora. "No telling what will happen to you. No, no; you stay here
and answer the voice. Then maybe the person will be able to find his
way to the camp."
"I'm not so sure we want him in camp," said Aunt Betty, grimly.
"Well, the least we can do is meet him half way," was Jim's final
decision.
Dorothy, who knew the boy, felt that further argument would be
useless, particularly as Gerald seemed to agree with everything Jim
said.
"But you have no revolvers," protested Aurora. "It is nothing short
of suicide to venture off into the darkness unarmed."
"That's right; we didn't think to bring any fire-arms with us,"
Gerald said, turning to Jim. "But we'd have a hard time finding
anything to shoot in the dark, so I reckon we may as well get a
couple of stout clubs and see who that fellow is."
Two poles that had been found too short for the purpose of erecting
the tents lay near at hand, and searching these out, the boys bade
Ephraim not to leave the women under any circumstances and started
down the side of the mountain in the direction from whence the cries
had come.
"Help, help!" came the voice again, like a person in mortal terror.
"Hello, hello!" Jim responded, in his deep bass voice which went
echoing and re-echoing down the valley. "Where are you?"
"Here!" came the quick response. "Come to me! Hurry! Hurry!"
"Have patience and keep calling; we're moving in your direction.
We'll find you," replied Jim in an encouraging tone.
At short intervals the voice came floating up to them, getting louder
and louder, until it seemed but a few yards away. The boys realized,
however, that voices carry a great distance on a clear night, hence
knew that they had not yet achieved the object of their search.
Grasping their clubs tightly, they worked their way through the
underbrush. The trees were scattered in places, letting a few beams
of moonlight seep through, though the dark shadows were deceptive and
no objects could be distinguished beyond their bare outlines.
Soon, however, they were in close proximity to the voice, which
appeared to be that of a young boy. Then, suddenly, as Jim called out
again in an encouraging tone to know whom they were addressing, a
form came staggering toward him out of the shadows, and someone
grabbed him in frenzied madness, while great heart-rending sobs
shook his frame.
Startled at first, Jim realized that this was caused by fright, so
instead of casting the person away as his instinct seemed to bid him,
he threw his arms about the trembling form and tried to distinguish
in the darkness who and what he was.
What he felt caused a great feeling of pity to surge over him; for
his hands encountered the slight form of a young lad, not more than
twelve years old. Jim was astonished, and readily perceived why one
so young should be racked with terror at being alone on the
mountainside in the dead of night.
"There, there," he said; "don't cry. It's all right. You're with
friends." He turned to Gerald: "It's nothing but a boy. Scared most
to death, I suppose."
"What, a boy, and alone on the mountain at this hour?"
"Strange, but true."
"I don't understand it."
"Neither do I. I suppose he's lost, or has run away from home. In
either case, the best we can do is to get to camp with him as quickly
as possible."
Jim tried to draw the lad out--to get him to tell something of
himself, but his only answer was more sobs, as the lad still quivered
from fright.
"Well, are you alone?" Jim asked.
There was a hastily murmured:
"Yes."
"Do you want to go with us?"
"Oh, yes, yes--don't l-l-leave m-m-me alone again!"
"We'll not leave you alone. We have a camp near here and you're more
than welcome."
Gerald led the way back up the mountainside, Jim, his arm supporting
the little fellow at his side, following as rapidly as the rough
going would permit.
It was no easy matter, getting back to camp, as they quickly
discovered. As a matter of caution, of course, those at the camp
would not allow any lights, so the boys were forced to pick their way
through the woods with only the stars and a partly-obscured moon to
guide them.
The descent had been comparatively easy, but this was almost more
than human endurance could stand. Several times great rocks impeded
their progress and they were forced to go around them. They paused
frequently to rest on account of the young boy, who seemed all but
exhausted. The frightened lad continued his sobbing at intervals, his
body shaking like one with the ague. He refused to talk, however,
save to respond to an occasional question in a monosyllable.
"Is that the camp, do you suppose?" Gerald inquired, suddenly, after
they had climbed what seemed an interminable distance.
Jim, following the motion of his arm, saw a bright patch of light;
but as he looked this resolved itself into sky. Concealing their
disappointment, they continued the ascent.
At times they were almost tempted to cry out, but thoughts of the
boy, and the fear that he had not been alone on the mountain, caused
them to refrain.
Finally, they reached the road by which that morning they had come
upon the mountain. Now, at least, they were able to get their
bearings, for the mountain to the east, the first one they had
ascended after leaving the foothills in the auto, loomed up
sentinel-like, through the moonlight.
Forming their impressions by their distance from this mountain, the
boys decided that they were nearly half a mile from camp.
"Just think of all the climb we wasted," said Jim. "We might have
been at camp twenty minutes ago had we been able to keep in the right
direction."
"Well, one thing is sure," Gerald responded; "we'll be able to find
it now."
They set off down the road, which, being composed of sand, was
plainly visible in the moonlight, in spite of the deep shadows thrown
by the trees on either side.
Some moments later they made out the tents. This time there was no
mistake, for, as they listened, they heard the murmur of voices. The
girls and Aunt Betty were no doubt discussing their protracted
absence. Probably suspecting that some harm had come to the boys they
were afraid to make their presence known, and were talking in low,
guarded tones.
"Camp ahoy!" cried Gerald, suddenly.
Then everyone screamed, and there was a scramble to strike a light,
as they all crowded around the boys with eager questions. Ephy struck
a light and by its fitful glare the girls saw the pale face of the
lad Jim and Gerald had found on the mountain.
"Here's the result of our trip," said Jim, as he led his burden
forward.
"In heaven's name!" cried Aunt Betty. "Who have you there, Jim
Barlow?"
"Ask me something easy, Aunt Betty. We found him alone on the
mountain, half scared to death. He won't talk. He's been hysterical
all the way back. Perhaps after a good night's rest he will be able
to tell us who he is and where he came from."
"You poor boy!" cried the sympathetic Dorothy.
Then, moved by a sudden impulse, she threw her arms about his neck
and drew him to her--an action which the lad seemed in no way to
resent.
The story of their adventure told, Gerald and Jim again sought their
sleeping quarters, taking their newly-found friend with them.
Before they went to sleep they induced him to tell his name, which
was Len Haley. When they pressed him to know how he came to be alone
so far from home, he shook his head and his lip trembled. That, he
said, he would tell them in the morning.
Fixing a comfortable place for him, the boys waited until he was
sound asleep, before again closing their own eyes. Then, tired from
the exertions of the day and night, they, too, dropped off to sleep,
to the tune of old Ephraim's snores.