UNWELCOME VISITORS
While gathered about the breakfast table--if table, it could be
called--the next morning, the campers heard the boy's story. Len
Haley had by this time thoroughly recovered from his fright, and he
related in a timid, halting fashion how he had come to be alone on
the mountain in the dead of night.
An orphan, living with his uncle, James Haley, near the little
village of Armsdale in the valley, he had worked for years in a truck
garden. Neither James Haley or his wife had experienced any affection
for the lad, but seemed bent only upon making him carry on his young
shoulders the burden of running their little farm.
Len, a willing worker, had accepted his lot as a matter of course.
But when the hours grew longer, and he was forced to rise before
daylight to milk the cows and feed the horses, and was not allowed to
retire until the same services had been performed late at night, with
hours of drudgery in the field, during the intervening time, he had
rebelled, only to be soundly beaten by his uncle, and told to return
to his work under the penalty of being beaten till he was black and
blue.
The boy had stood this as long as he could. Then he resolved to run
away. He kept this purpose to himself, however, waiting for the
proper opportunity to present itself.
The previous night James Haley had gone to the village about eight
o'clock. Mrs. Haley was feeling badly, and it was necessary to fill a
prescription at the drug store. Why Len was not selected for this
mission he could not imagine, for usually his uncle took a keen
delight in rousing him out of bed at all hours of the night.
It had seemed to the boy to be an omen in his favor. James Haley
apparently believed him to be asleep at the time of his departure for
the village. The boy had really gone to bed, but lay there thoroughly
dressed. Soon after his uncle left the farm, the boy had crept softly
down the stairs in his stocking feet, then out of the house. Putting
on his shoes out by the barn he had immediately struck out for the
mountains, not realizing what a terrible thing it was for a boy to be
alone in the woods in the night time.
When finally this realization was brought home to him, he became
frightened. But he gritted his teeth, resolved not to turn back. He
knew full well that the beatings he had received in the past would be
as nothing compared to what the future would hold in store, if James
Haley ever laid hands on him again.
He wandered on up the mountainside as the hour grew late, until,
driven almost into hysterics by the dreadful lonesomeness about him,
he had cried out for help, hoping, he said, to attract the attention
of some people he knew lived in this vicinity.
The first response to his cries had been Jim's "Hello!" So overjoyed
was Len at hearing a human voice again that he had come near
fainting.
Now that the dreadful trip was a thing of the past, and the boy had
an opportunity to think calmly over the matter, he feared that his
cries had been heard in the valley, and it would be only the question
of a few hours until his uncle would be searching the mountain.
The sympathies of the entire party, particularly those of Dorothy and
Aunt Betty, were with the unfortunate boy, and what action was to be
taken to keep him out of his uncle's hands was to all a pertinent
question.
"Don't let them take me back there," Len begged, while they were
discussing the matter. "I'd rather die--honest to goodness, I would!"
"Oh, we just can't let you go back," was Aunt Betty's rather grim
resolve. "It's against all the principles of human nature to stand by
and see a young boy like you abused. You shall stay with us, Len; you
shall be under our protection. We'll find some way to circumvent your
uncle and keep you out of his hands."
Tears came into the boy's eyes, and he flashed her a look of
gratitude.
"We might take Len back to Baltimore with us and find him a
position," said Dorothy.
"There is enough work at Bellvieu alone to keep him busy for many
months," returned Aunt Betty. "Ephraim is getting old, and Metty is
occupied with the care of the horses and cattle. Len shall be our
yard boy for a while, if he desires."
Len did desire, and did not hesitate to so express himself. He would
work hard for Mrs. Calvert, he said, until he was old enough to
strike out for himself.
This part of the matter was soon settled to the satisfaction of all.
It was then decided that Len should remain in the seclusion of one of
the tents during the day, so that he would be out of sight from
anyone approaching Camp Breck from either direction. Aurora had
brought a bundle of reading matter, including several illustrated
papers, and these were placed at Len's disposal. The boy had had
several years of schooling previous to the death of his parents, and
was a fair reader. Like most boys who have been restrained through
one cause or another from reading all the books they desired, he was
ready and anxious to devour anything that came his way.
Jim and Gerald put their heads together, and resolved to circumvent
James Haley should he appear on the scene in search of Len.
"We'll lead him away from the camp," said Jim, "without telling him
any deliberate untruths--send him off on a false scent. Aunt Betty is
right, you know; we can't let him go back to a life like that."
"No," said Gerald; "it would be a pity. If his uncle's treatment was
bad enough to make Len take to the mountains in the night time, it
must have been at least a mild sort of an inquisition."
The boys congratulated themselves later on planning matters out in
advance, for the forenoon was barely half gone when two horsemen rode
out of the woods to the south of the camp and turned their horses in
the direction of the tents.
Jim was the first to see them.
"Don't be startled, folks," he said, "and please don't turn and
'rubber,' for there are two men coming toward camp on horseback."
"Oh!" gasped Molly. "Poor Len!"
"Poor Len, nothing!" Jim returned. "I know it is hard for a girl to
refrain from doing something she's been asked not to, but if you turn
your head, Molly Breckenridge, or let on in any way that you've seen
those horsemen, you need never call me your friend again. We must act
like we haven't seen them, until they hail us. Ephraim, you sneak
into the tent, without looking to the right or the left. Then hide
Len under the cots or somewhere where they won't find him. Gerald and
I will talk to the men when they arrive."
The girls and Aunt Betty kept their presence of mind very well,
considering the fact that they were laboring under no little
excitement.
Ephraim went carelessly into the tent, as Jim had bade him, where he
concealed the runaway lad in a very natural manner under a heavy
quilt. It mattered not that the weather was excessively warm this
time of day; the old negro figured that the exigencies of the case
demanded desperate measures, and as for Len, he accepted his
punishment without a whimper.
By the time the men had drawn rein before the tents, Ephraim was
sitting calmly in a chair, an illustrated paper in his hand, puffing
complacently at his pipe.
"Good morning," greeted the larger of the two men.
"Good morning," returned Jim, pleasantly. Then he and Gerald went
forward to meet them.
One of the riders, a rather pompous-looking individual, with a long,
drooping mustache, dismounted and threw the reins over his horse's
head.
"I'm Sheriff Dundon of this county, boys," he said. "The gentleman
with me is Mr. Haley. We're searching for a boy named Len Haley--Mr.
Haley's nephew, in fact. He left his home down in the valley some
time in the night. We thought perhaps you'd seen him."
Jim and Gerald exchanged feigned glances of surprise, which was part
of the plan they had mapped out to save Len.
"It must have been him we heard cry out in the night," said Jim.
"Yes," Gerald responded. "Too bad we didn't know it was only a boy."
"You heard someone cry out in the night, then?" the sheriff asked,
while the man on the horse eyed them keenly, and flashed curious
glances about the camp.
"Why, yes," Jim returned; "Old Ephraim, our darkey, woke us up in the
night to hear some mournful noises which he said came from somewhere
down the mountainside. We listened and heard someone crying out at
intervals for help. But having no fire-arms, and not knowing whether
it was a drunken man or a lunatic, we were afraid to venture very far
away from camp."
"What time was this?"
"Must have been in the neighborhood of two o'clock."
The sheriff shot a questioning glance at Mr. Haley.
"It was Len; no doubt about it," said that worthy, nodding. "He's
only a kid and I s'pose he got scared when he found himself alone in
the dark."
"You don't know which way he was going at that time?" asked the
sheriff, turning again to the boys.
"It would be hard to say. At one time the cries seemed to be nearer,
then got farther, and finally ceased altogether. We all heard them,
including the ladies, and none of us went back to bed until
everything was quiet."
"Let's see," said the sheriff; "I didn't quite catch your names."
"Mine's Jim Barlow. This is Gerald Blank. We're members of a camping
party from Baltimore. We arrived in the mountains yesterday morning
for a two weeks' stay."
"Blank?" repeated the sheriff. "Blank? Any relation to Blank, the
broker?"
"He's my father," said Gerald.
"That so? Then I'm right glad to meet you." The sheriff extended a
horny hand, which Gerald shook. "I knew him years ago. Didn't realize
he had a boy as old as you. Well, we must be getting on. Sorry you
can't give us a clue to the boy's whereabouts."
[Illustration: "I AM SHERIFF OF THIS COUNTY."
"_Dorothy's Triumph._"]
"It is too bad," said Gerald. "When we last heard the cries they came
from about that direction," and he extended his finger down the
mountainside. "Then they grew fainter and seemed to be moving off to
the east. We'd like very much to help you, sheriff. If we'd any idea
it was only a boy, and a scapegoat, at that, we could have caught
and held him until your arrival."
"Well, I could hardly expect that," returned the minion of the law,
with a good-natured smile. "Come, Haley, let's be off. He can't have
gone far between midnight and now, so we're apt to overhaul him at
some of the farm houses up the valley. Good-by, boys--see you later!"
The men tipped their hats to the ladies out of courtesy for their
presence, and rode away.
"Hope they don't see us later," said Jim, as he stood with Gerald
gazing after their receding forms.
"No; for he might catch us at an inopportune moment. If they ever
found Len in our camp there'd be the very dickens to pay."
"Couldn't do anything to us, Gerald, and I don't believe he'd have
any right to take Len, unless there's some papers filed in the court
of this county, appointing James Haley his guardian. Just merely
because he's an orphan don't give a man a right to take him and hold
him against his will--even if he is his uncle."
"Boys, I really must congratulate you on your presence of mind," said
Dorothy, when the riders had disappeared from view. "You handled the
matter perfectly. Wait till I tell Ephraim to let Len come out from
under cover," and she left them to enter the tent.
Len was nearly roasted when he emerged from beneath the quilt, for
the weather was excessively warm and his clothes were not as thin as
they might have been. But he was smiling bravely through the
perspiration, and rejoiced with the others that he had been so lucky
as to escape being returned to captivity.
"I don't understand how my uncle ever influenced the sheriff to help
him hunt for me," he said. "I know Sheriff Dundon, and he's a mighty
good man. He knows very well the way I was treated, so Uncle James
must have pulled the wool over his eyes some way. Well, I reckon it
don't matter much now. They're gone and I hope they'll never come
back."
"It won't do to take any chances, yet, Len," said Aunt Betty. "You'll
have to spend most of your time in the tent, with someone constantly
on watch outside. It will be pretty hard on you, but better than
going back to the life you left."
"I don't mind in the least, Mrs. Calvert--staying in the tent, I
mean. I'd do anything to escape my uncle. He's certainly the meanest
man on earth."
Aunt Betty's plan was followed during the next few days, but neither
Sheriff Dundon or James Haley put in a further appearance at the
camp. Aunt Betty cautioned Len, however, to keep out of sight until
the end of the trip, at which time he was to be piled into the big
auto and taken with them back to Baltimore.
The party had been in the mountains a week before Jim and Gerald
decided to put into practice their oft-repeated resolve to go
fishing. Dorothy and Molly begged to be taken along, and to this the
boys reluctantly consented.
The trout stream in the valley was the objective point of the
pilgrimage. Here, in the spot where Molly had discovered the fish
swimming about in plain view of those on shore, they would try their
luck.
Aurora, interested in a book, refused to be tempted by the other
girls, and stated her intention of remaining in camp with Aunt Betty,
Ephraim and Len.
With a bundle of sandwiches and their tackle, the fishing party got
away from camp in the early morning, planning to spend the better
part of the day in enticing the denizens of the deep to nibble at
their flies. Then the return to camp could be made in the cool of
the evening between sundown and dark.
By nine o'clock they were seated on the bank of the stream, poles in
hand, and lines cast far out into the stream.
At first the girls kept up an incessant chatter, in spite of the
warning from Jim and Gerald that if they did not stop they would
scare the fish away.
"Nonsense!" cried Molly, laughing aloud at the warning. "Fish can't
hear."
At this Jim and Gerald exchanged glances of amused tolerance.
"Told you we should have left 'em at home," said the latter.
"I knew it," Jim replied. "It was only through the kindness of my
heart that I agreed to let them come."
This statement only served to amuse Dorothy and Molly, and their
laughter rang out over the water so loudly, that Jim and Gerald, with
sighs of resignation, began winding in their lines with the evident
intention of departing.
At first this increased the merriment of the girls. But when they saw
the boys taking their poles apart, and stowing the sections away in
their fishing bags, they realized that they had really incurred the
displeasure of their young friends by what they had intended as a
joke.
"Come," said Dorothy, soberly. "You boys are not going home?"
"Oh, aren't we?" demanded Gerald.
"Yes; we're going home," Jim said, rather curtly. "Where did you
think we were going--to the village?"
"Oh, come! You must have known Molly and I were only joking?"
"Of course, they knew it," Molly chimed in, in a careless tone.
"There's such a thing as carrying a joke too far," said Gerald.
"No use to argue with a couple of girls, Gerald," said Jim. "Let's
take 'em home and come back to-morrow."
"Suits me," responded his chum. "I hate to think we've had this long
jaunt for nothing, but there's an old saying to the effect that we
must learn by experience."
Their poles "knocked down," and stowed away in their canvas cases,
the boys picked up their coats and prepared to move.
"Oh, I say, this is a shame!" cried Dorothy. "I had counted on having
such a good time."
"So had I," echoed Molly--"such a good time!"
"So had we," said the boys in unison.
"But we didn't," Jim added.
"No; we didn't," echoed Gerald.
"Well, it wasn't our fault," said Dorothy.
"We thought you could take a joke," said Molly.
"We can," Gerald replied. "It's a good joke. We're willing to admit
it's on us. You asked to come; we consented. That was our fault, not
yours."
"Yes," Jim put in, "we thought you knew at least the rudiments of
fishing."
Molly shrugged her shoulders.
"Oh, dear, what a fuss over nothing," she groaned. "And to think I
started it all by remarking that fish have no ears. And I'll stand by
my statement. I'm sure I am right."
"No use to argue with a girl," said Jim.
"Not a bit," Gerald replied. "Let's get 'em back to camp."
"I refuse to go!" The fire fairly flashed from Dorothy's eyes. "I
came down here to fish, and fish I shall until I get ready to stop,
and you're a bigger 'it' than I think you are, Molly Breckenridge, if
you let two unruly boys bluff you into doing as they wish."
"Then we'll have to leave you here," said Jim, in the most matter of
fact tone he could muster.
Gerald nodded assent.
Then both boys assumed an independent air, and acted as if they were
going to leave--as much as to say that settled the matter.
"Well, let's be going," said Gerald, casting a sly glance toward
Dorothy, and noticing that she made no move to wind in her line. He
picked up his basket and threw an inquiring glance at Jim.
"Of course, if the girls agree to keep still, it won't be necessary
for us to go," said Jim.
"Too bad we didn't think of that before we wound in our lines,"
Gerald lamented.
"Well, it's never too late to let them out again," Dorothy said,
coolly.
"Will you promise to be quiet, Dorothy?"
"I promise nothing, Jim Barlow!"
"Oh, come now; don't act contrary!"
"It's not me who's contrary, and you know it very well."
"You said you were going back to camp. Why don't you go?" Molly flung
at them, tauntingly.
"Well, by cracky, we should; it would serve you right," Gerald
responded, slightly impatient. "You girls have no right to treat us
this way. We brought you with us to give you a good time, and it
seems that you might respect our wishes a little. No one can catch
fish with a regular gab-fest going on on the bank."
"Go along and don't bother us," admonished Dorothy.
At that instant her floater began to bob fiercely up and down. There
was a strong tug on her line, and the reel began to revolve at a high
rate of speed, as Mr. Fish, evidently aware that in snapping what
appeared to be a nice, fat fly, he had gotten decidedly the worst of
it, made a desperate effort to get away.
"Hold him!" cried Molly, rising on the bank and waving her arms
excitedly.
"Oh, yes, hold him," said the boys, exchanging glances of amusement.
"Hold him?" Dorothy gritted her teeth. "You just know I'll hold him!
We'll show these young gentlemen that fish _can_ be caught when there
is noise on the bank. Oh, we'll show them!"
The reel was revolving more slowly now, and before the end of the
line was reached, had ceased altogether. Then the girl, a light of
triumph in her eyes, began to wind in her prize. It was a slow task
and a hard one, for when the denizen of the river found he had again
encountered resistance, he renewed his struggle for freedom. Once he
nearly jerked the girl off the bank into the water, greatly to the
delight of Jim and Gerald, who had settled in a comfortable nook
under the trees with the avowed intention of being "in at the
finish." That Dorothy would fail to land the fish they were quite
sure, and to be on hand with a hearty laugh when her disappointment
came, would in a measure atone for the trouble of bringing the girls
on the trip.
Little by little the struggling fish was brought nearer, until, with
a quick jerk of her pole, the girl lifted him clean of the water and
swung him over her head to the shore.
So quickly did it happen that Jim was unable to get out of the way,
and the fish, which was a three-pound trout, struck him squarely in
the face, bowling him over in the grass, and causing him to drop the
fishing tackle he was holding in his hands, long enough to brush the
water from his eyes.
Now it was the girls' turn to laugh, and they did not neglect the
opportunity.
"Thought I couldn't catch a fish, didn't you, Jim Barlow?" cried
Dorothy. "Well, I trust you now see the error of your judgment. I
caught him, and you caught him, too, only you caught him where I
didn't--across the face."
At this both girls burst out laughing again, and Gerald, no longer
able to restrain himself, convulsed at the sight of Jim as he went
tumbling backward with his eyes and nose full of water, was forced to
join them. They laughed so loudly that Jim first smiled, then burst
into a guffaw himself. He had been inclined to be angry at the
humiliation imposed upon him by the fish, but now the ludicrous side
of the affair appealed to him. He admitted that Dorothy had all the
best of the argument and wound up by declaring that he intended
trying his luck at the fish again.
Dorothy, in the meantime, had walked over and picked up her squirming
catch, which she detached from the hook and dropped in the basket she
had brought with her for that purpose.
"Here goes again!" she cried, and fastening a new fly on her line,
she cast it far out into the stream. "Better hurry, you people, or
I'll have the record for the day."
Gerald and Jim, thus admonished, began undoing their fishing tackle,
and soon the quartet were fishing as if their lives depended on what
they caught that afternoon. And the strangest part about it was that
nobody--not even the girls--said a word! Silence reigned supreme. So,
although Dorothy had triumphed in showing the boys the folly of
keeping absolutely silent, the boys had also won their point in
getting the girls so interested that neither cared to talk.
The fish began to bite with unusual frequency, and soon each member
of the party had a fine string in the basket. Lunch was forgotten, so
eager was each to beat the other's record, and so nearly equal were
the numbers of fish caught by each, they were afraid to stop to count
them for fear they would be losing valuable time.
But finally, when the declining sun told them that the afternoon
would soon be gone, with the pangs of hunger gnawing at their
stomachs, a general agreement caused all to wind in their lines.
The fish were counted and it was seen that Dorothy had made the best
record with seventeen trout of various sizes. Gerald came a close
second, having sixteen, while Molly and Jim followed in the order
named with fourteen and twelve respectively.
Lunch was eaten--or rather devoured, for they were ravenously
hungry--in the shade of the big trees on the bank before preparations
were made for the return to camp.
"Wish those fish were up the mountain," sighed Jim.
"Oh, it will be easy to carry them," said Molly.
"Yes; easy for you, because Gerald and I will have to carry all
you've caught as well as our own."
"How clever of you to guess that," Dorothy said, laughing. "You're a
bright boy, Jim."
"Yes; a little too bright sometimes," he returned. "Next time I come
fishing I hope I shall be bright enough not to invite you girls."
"You did not invite us; we invited ourselves," said Molly with some
spirit.
"And they should be well satisfied," said Dorothy. "If it had not
been for us they would have gone back to camp before the fish
commenced to bite, and then we would have had none."
"Pooh, pooh!" said Jim.
"And again pooh, pooh!" said Gerald.
Then, without further ado, the boys picked up their loads and the
climb back to the camp was begun.
They reached their destination tired from the exertion of the climb
and generally weary from the day's strenuous outing, but soon the
odor of fried fish made them glad they had taken the trip and that
the results had been so satisfying.