When that whistle sounded I wasn’t startled particular and I wasn’t much
surprised. I just says to myself, “Here she comes,” meaning trouble. I
looked at Mark, and maybe you won’t believe me, but he actually looked
tickled. Like you would be if you got good news.
“Well?” says I.
“See what it is,” says he.
“I know,” says I; “it’s the feller with the vest. Come on.”
George Piggins looked some put out, and sort of startled-like and
flabbergasted. Things was happening too rapid to make George happy. He
wasn’t what you’d call _quick_ at any time, and right now he was about
seven minutes behind events without any chance of ever catching up. The
last I see of him for a spell consisted mainly of open mouth, for Mark
and I made a jump toward the shore.
When we got there Mr. Man was half-way across in some kind of a boat he
had picked up.
“We kin hold him off,” says I; “there hain’t but one of him.”
“Maybe,” says Mark. “Scoot back and git that l-l-long pole layin’ near
George.”
I done so and got there when Mr. Man was about fifty feet off, and then
we all stood up and looked at him and waited. He had his back toward us
and didn’t see us till he turned around to take his bearings, and then
he turned ’way around and squinted and says, “Good mornin’.”
“Good mornin’,” says Mark.
“Campin’?” says the man.
“Not exactly,” says Mark.
“Anybody on the island?”
“We b-b-be,” says Mark.
“See a man sneakin’ around?”
“One in a rowboat,” says Mark, “with a f-f-fancy vest on.”
“Meanin’ me?”
“Calc’late so.”
“Say, young feller, you’re about the size and weight of somebody that
sat on my stummick last night. By any chance was you him?”
“I was,” says Mark.
“You’ll excuse me for not recognizin’ your face,” says the man,
cheerful-like, “but we was in the dark.”
“We hain’t in the dark now,” says Mark, like he meant more than he said.
“Meanin’, I s’pose, that you’ve found that Piggins feller? I hain’t
clear what you want with him, nor why you’re mixin’ into private
business, though I was warned to look out for a fat kid that stuttered.”
“Um!” says Mark.
“I’m comin’ ashore,” says the man.
“I hain’t sure you be,” says Mark.
“Jest watch,” says the man, and he began to row again.
I waited till he got close enough to reach with the pole and then I give
him a good shove that made his rickety boat rock like the mischief. He
turned sort of green and let out a bellow like a calf that seen some
kind of a beef ghost.
“Hey! quit that! Want to drownd a feller?” he yelled.
“F-f-figgered on givin’ you a little swim,” says Mark.
“Gosh! boy, I can’t swim a stroke! Go easy there!”
“Um!” says Mark. “Can’t swim, eh? I want to know. Sure you can’t swim?”
“Give you my word. Honest Injun. Cross my heart.”
“Um!” Mark sat down on the mud bank and thought a second. “Let him
l-l-land,” says he to me, which I done, not willing, but because a
fellow has to obey orders even if he don’t agree with them.
Mr. Man got out on shore, and quick as a wink Mark jumped up and give
his boat a shove out into the current. It went swinging off out of
reach, and the man looked after it like somebody had just up and stole
his best friend. He was mad, too.
“Say, what you mean, anyhow? How be I goin’ to git off’n this island?”
“Why,” says Mark, grinning friendly and cordial, “you kin w-w-wait till
winter and walk off on the ice.”
“Hain’t there another boat?”
“There is,” says Mark, winking at me, “but there won’t be long.”
I got what he meant in a jiffy and off I scooted. It wasn’t five seconds
before George’s boat was floating off down-stream and everybody on that
island that couldn’t swim was marooned.
“Now,” says Mark, “let’s be c-c-comfortable.”
“Comfortable!” says the man. “What I want to know is what you mean by
this, anyhow? What you mean by shovin’ my boat off? What for do you want
to shut me up on this island?”
“Well,” says Mark, “we g-g-got important b-business goin’ on, and it
looked like you might muss it up. You can’t muss up much so long as
you’re right here, and right here you’re goin’ to stay, if we can m-make
you, till our business is done.”
“Then Piggins is here?” says the man.
“Maybe so and maybe not. That’s s-somethin’ you’ll have to find out for
yourself.”
“I got it in mind to make all of you kids find out what it feels like to
get a blamed good thrashin’,” says the man, getting madder than ever.
“’Twouldn’t f-fetch your boat back,” says Mark.
“How long you calc’late on keepin’ me?”
“Hain’t got no idee—plenty long, though.”
“How do we eat?” says the man.
Mark looked at him and then at me, and then he winked. “You’ll have to
l-look out for your own eatin’,” says he. “We don’t undertake to pervide
food.... Now, fellers, this gentleman most l-likely wants to set down
and f-figger. Let’s walk away and leave him be and not disturb him.
Maybe he’ll want to move around himself and look for George Piggins.”
The man sat down and looked kind of miserable. We walked off.
“We got to keep him and George apart,” says Mark, “till I’m ready.”
“Ready for what?” says I.
“Oh,” says he, “I got a sort of a kind of a s-scheme.”
He said it with that kind of a way he has that means he ain’t going to
tell and there’s no use to ask him. All of us knew him well enough not
to waste breath on questions. So we went along till we came to George
Piggins, still gaping at the money Mark gave him and staring every
little while at the shore as if he had something on his mind and didn’t
know just exactly what.
“Man just l-landed,” says Mark.
“Who?” says George.
“Detective feller,” says Mark.
“Eh?” says George. “What’s that? What you tryin’ to tell a feller?
What’s a detective a-doin’ on this island, I want to know? Eh? Say.”
“He let on he was interested in hogs,” says Mark.
“Sufferin’ boozle-jams!” says George. “S’pose he’s a-lookin’ for me? Eh?
Got any idea I’m the feller he’s detectivin’ around after?”
“He asked if we’d seen you,” says Mark.
“What you tell him? You didn’t go and give me away, did you? You didn’t
tell on pore old George Piggins?”
“I should s-s-say not. Why, hain’t we here to pertect you from the
consequences of that hog? Hain’t we agreed you should go free and clear
of that, and be allowed to come back home jest l-l-like there wa’n’t
never no hog at all? Sure we have. And we’re a-goin’ to. And now we’re
warnin’ you about that f-feller, and advisin’ you to keep out of his
way.”
“Thankee,” says George. “I’ll remember it of you, I will. I hain’t
calc’latin’ to fergit sich friends as you be, and I’m a-goin’ to hide
me. I know a place and that there detective kin look for me till he
turns pink all the way from his chin to his ears before he finds me.”
“Kin you s-swim?” says Mark.
“Swim? Naw. What I want with swimmin’? Ketch me workin’ like that! What?
You hain’t got no idee how swimmin’ tires a feller! No, sir, I hain’t
never learned to swim, and I don’t figger I ever will.”
Mark sort of scowled. “B-better hide quick, then,” says he, and off
scooted George. Then Mark says to us: “Too much l-laziness is a dum’
nuisance. I f-figgered we’d git George and swim ashore and leave that
man to set and watch us. It would have f-fixed everything all right. We
could have taken George right to his sister’s and got her to sign that
option, and found some witnesses, and then we wouldn’t have had any
worry, but now here we be, shut up on an island with George and the
detective, and jest at this minnit I don’t see how we’re ever goin’ to
git off it with what we want. But we will,” says he, and he snapped shut
his jaws. “I hain’t a bit d-discouraged. Jest watch and see. I’m a-goin’
off to think it out.”
“If we jest had that witness,” says I, “we could swim off and leave both
of ’em.”
“Um!...” says Mark. “Um!...” Then he turned perty sudden and walked over
to a board and sat down.
“Wish I knew how the mill was gettin’ along,” says I to Tallow. “Maybe
it’s busted by this time.”
“Bet it hain’t,” says he.
“Anyhow, I wisht we had this thing over and was back to work. I kind of
liked workin’ around that mill.”
“Huh!” says he. “Only ones of us four I ever see workin’ was Binney and
me.”
“Oh, that!” says I. “Anybody can do what you was doin’, but it takes
brains to work the way Mark and me did.”
“If it does,” says he, “then neither of you done anything.”
“Let’s walk around,” says I.
We started off around the edge of the island, and I noticed we didn’t
see anything of Mr. Man. He wasn’t in sight any place, and it kind of
worried me. Then I happened to look across the river, and down-stream,
maybe a hundred yards, was our boat stranded on a bar. I made up my mind
I’d remember that and tell Mark. It might come in handy. We fussed
around maybe an hour and went back, but Mark was still pulling at his
cheeks and thinking. Just as we got there he started in to whittle, and
says I to myself something or other’s going to happen now perty quick.
“Seen Mr. Man?” says I to Mark.
“No,” says he.
“He’s disappeared,” says I.
“F-f-find him, then,” says Mark, sharp-like, and off he went to
figgering and whittling again.
So we started off to hunt for Mr. Man, and pretty quick we heard him
moving around among the bushes in the middle of the island. We went over
cautious where we could see him, and in a minute you could tell he was
searching. He was looking behind every log and under every hanging bush
and up into every tree.
“Huntin’ for George,” says I. “Figgers on beatin’ us even if he is
stranded on a desert island.”
“What if he finds him?” says Binney.
“Hain’t no idee,” says I.
We followed along, keeping out of sight. Mr. Man was working nearer to
the old clearing, when all of a sudden he let out a yell, and we could
hear something busting, and in the shake of a lamb’s tail he popped out
of sight. And right there I heard one of the loudest bellers I ever
heard in my life.
There wasn’t any use to hide any more, so all of us rushed out to see
what had happened. It didn’t take long to find out. Mr. Man had gone
along looking for George so busy he forgot to look out for himself,
which hain’t a good plan, by any means, and he went and stepped onto
some rotten boards that covered an old shallow well that had once been
used when the dance-hall was doing business. Yes, sir, he stepped right
on those boards and they busted under him, and down he went. When we got
there he was standing about up to his waist in muddy water, and his head
was just so far below the edge of the ground that he couldn’t reach up
to it to climb out. He was in a nice mess, and he acted like he didn’t
enjoy it. If ever a man was in a hole that man was in one, and there
wasn’t the least chance in the world of his getting out of it unless
somebody helped him. And the way he bellered! You would have thought he
was being scalped. It wasn’t comfortable, of course, but he wasn’t in
any danger as I could see. The trouble was he couldn’t get out and he
was scared.
“Go tell Mark,” says I to Binney.
Binney ran off, and I leaned over and says to Mr. Man:
“Hello down there, mister.”
“Oh! Wow! Get me out of here! I’m drowndin’! I bet there’s snakes in
here! Git me out quick! Please help me out!”
“Wait a minute,” says I.
But he wasn’t willing. He kept up yelling and howling until Mark got
there. Mark leaned over and looked at him, and says, with a chuckle:
“Looks like you got into t-t-trouble somehow.”
“Stop gabblin’,” says the man, “and git me out.”
“Workin’ for Amassa P. Wiggamore, hain’t you?” says Mark.
“Yes. What’s that got to do with it? You hain’t goin’ to see a man
drownd, be you?”
“Has he sunk m-much since you first saw him?” says Mark to me. “You know
there’s quicksand on this island.”
Mark winked hard. I knew there was quicksand on the island, but it was
’way at the other end and not anywheres near that well.
“Looks some lower ’n he did awhile back,” says I.
“Um!...” says Mark. “Now look here, mister. Us boys started out to run a
square, h-honest business. We’re operatin’ a novelty-mill. Your boss is
t-tryin’ to bust our mill because he wants our dam and won’t p-pay for
it. You’re helpin’ him. That’s why you’re after George Piggins. Now we
didn’t put you in that well, and you can’t do us no harm while you’re
down there. I guess the b-best plan for us is to l-leave you there.”
Mr. Man began to blubber and bleat and roar, but Mark didn’t pay a bit
of attention.
“Let’s go to town,” says he. “I don’t f-f-figger there’s much danger of
his sinkin’ out of sight. Come on, fellers.”
We pertended to start off, but before we had got more than an inch he
hollered so loud we was afraid he would bust something, and Mark says:
“Couldn’t f-figger on makin’ a deal with us?”
“No,” says he. “You get me out of here. I’ll settle with you when I git
out.”
“Now,” says Mark, “that hain’t no argument to offer. ’Tain’t l-likely
we’d help you out for the s-sake of gittin’ a lickin’. We just want a
little thing of you. You’re safe and can’t do no harm, so we kin tell
you what it is. We found George Piggins, and we got an option from him
to that land Wiggamore’s got to have. If you’ll sign it as a witness,
we’ll let you out.”
“No,” says he, and he got stubborn and kept quiet. We just sat down and
waited and had a good time.
It began to get toward noon. Mark dragged out his lunch and motioned us
to come closer to the well. We did and started to eat, talking loud
about how good the things were. There were sandwiches and cake and
bananas and pickles and pie and a lot of stuff. Mark leaned over and
hoped the man wasn’t hungry. He said something real hot back. Then,
after a minute, he started in to argue and get real sorry for himself.
Then he mentioned how hungry he was, and how uncomfortable, and then he
began to beg, and all the time we was spilling crumbs on his head and
talking about our grub. I guess it was more than he could stand.
“Gimme a sandwich,” says he. “I’m ’most starved. Jest one sandwich.”
“We got lots,” says Mark, “but maybe we’ll have to stay here quite a
s-s-spell. If you was to see reason and sign your name alongside of
George’s, we m-might do somethin’ for you.”
But he wouldn’t. Not then. We talked some more about food and quicksand
and snakes, and dropped crumbs on his head, and all to once he sort of
caved in.
“Gimme a sandwich,” says he, “and I’ll sign anything.”
“Honest?” says Mark.
“Honest,” says he.
“Maybe,” says Mark, “but we’d rather you s-s-signed first. First sign,
then eat, then we’ll help you out.”
“Anything,” says he. “Send along your paper. Anything to get out of this
hole.”
“Wiggamore won’t like it,” says Mark.
“Don’t I know it? Well, I hain’t goin’ to tell him. I’m a-goin’ to light
out of this town quick. Wiggamore won’t never see me again. I’ve got
enough. I’m through with this business. There hain’t no good luck in
it.”
“You’ll sign sure?”
“Sure.”
“Get George,” says Mark.
I scooted off and began hollering for George, and pretty soon he
hollered back, and when he was sure it was me he came out, and I told
him what had happened.
“Mark wants you,” says I.
“Is it safe?”
I told him it was, and he came along. When we got back Mark took his
pen, and a note-book to write on, and the option, and talked to the man
a minute, and passed them down.
“Is that your signature, George?” says Mark.
“Yes.”
“You want this man to witness it?”
“Yes,” says George, and down in the well Mr. Man signed his name the
best he could.
“Tallow,” says Mark, “swim over and git that b-b-boat Plunk saw
stranded. We kin m-manage to git him out of the hole!”
Tallow went crashing off, and we let down the bough of a tree and pulled
the man out. He was a sight. Honest, he was the muddiest, bedraggledest
thing you ever saw, and he was tame. I never saw a grown man quite as
tame as he was. He hadn’t any fight left in him, and all he wanted to do
was to rest and get dry. We built him a fire to dry by, and by that time
Tallow came back. Mark motioned to us and we sneaked off as unsuspicious
as we could, taking George along. We all five went quick to the boat and
got in and rowed off.
“What’s the idee?” says I to Mark. “What we maroonin’ him for?”
“I won’t f-feel safe till George’s sister has signed this p-paper, too,”
says he, “and if he got ashore he might change his mind and spoil things
somehow.”
“Going to leave him there forever?” says I.
“We kin git him to-night,” says he.
So we rowed ashore and went into town. George was a little afraid,
especially when we saw the sheriff on the street, but the sheriff just
nodded to George and said, “Howdy?” so _that_ was all right.
We headed straight for Miss Piggins’s, and, what with her deafness and
her ambition to give George a licking with a broom for all the trouble
he’d made her, we had quite a time to get her to sign the option; but
she did. Then we started for the mill.
None of us was very easy in our minds, and we wanted to know what had
happened since we left. When we got there there wasn’t a sign of life.
The mill was as shut down as if there never was and never would be any
work done in it.
“Now what?” says I.
“Goodness knows!” says Mark. “But we’ll find out q-q-quick.”
Which we did.