THE ESCAPE
Mr. Dunston Porter had been down to Carpen Falls for a walk and to get
the mail. He returned late that evening, bringing several letters with
him. He was of course much surprised to learn of the capture of Link
Merwell, and listened with interest to the details concerning the
affair.
Among the letters which his uncle had brought along was one for Dave,
which he read with deep interest. It was from Nat Poole, who evidently
had not yet heard anything regarding his missing uncle.
"I want to tell you of what has happened here lately,"
(wrote Nat). "I have received two visits from a young fellow
named Ward Porton, who is, I believe, a moving-picture
actor, and the same fellow that you helped to rescue from a
burning steam yacht. This fellow was in town once with Link
Merwell, and then came here alone. He has been visiting a
number of people who are well acquainted with you, and also
visited the poorhouse here and talked to several of those in
authority, and those who used to have the running of the
poorhouse years ago, when you were an inmate there. This
Ward Porton acted as if he had something of great importance
on his mind, but what it was he would not tell, but he did
let slip that it was something concerning you--that there
was a big surprise in store for you. He also let slip that
he, too, had been in a poorhouse when he was a little boy,
and that he had never been able to learn where he had really
come from.
"I am writing this to put you on your guard in case he
should show himself either at your camp or at the Wadsworth
mansion after your return. I must confess that I don't like
the fellow's manner, and I rather surmise he is laying pipes
to play you some trick."
Dave read this letter over several times, and was much perplexed. He had
not forgotten what Link Merwell had said to him shortly after being
captured, nor had he forgotten the fact that he had seen Link and Ward
Porton in Crumville at the old Potts farm.
"Those fellows are certainly up to something," our hero told himself.
"Link said that I was not Dave Porter. Now, what did he mean by that?
Those fellows must be hatching up some plot against me."
"Dave, you look rather worried," remarked Phil, as he caught the youth
reading the communication for the third time. "No bad news I hope?"
"I can't tell whether it is or not, Phil," was the reply. And Dave
handed the letter to his chum.
"Phew! This looks like a mystery," was the comment of the shipowner's
son. "Dave, do you think this had anything to do with what Link Merwell
said when we caught him--that you were not Dave Porter?"
"That's the way it looks to me, Phil."
"But that's rank nonsense. We all know you are Dave Porter."
"Well, I've always thought I was Dave Porter, ever since I met my Uncle
Dunston out in those South Sea Islands."
"Why of course you are! Don't you look just like your Uncle Dunston?
This is some game, Dave."
"I think so myself."
"What are you fellows confabbing about?" asked Roger, walking up.
"We're talking about a letter I just received," answered Dave. And then
the senator's son also read the communication.
"Say, this is a mystery and no mistake!" was Roger's comment. "And so
Nat thinks that Ward Porton is mixed up in it, eh? That is strange."
"What do you suppose he has to do with it, Roger?" questioned Phil.
"I am sure I don't know. But come to think of it, he did look like----"
And then Roger broke off in confusion.
"Look like what, Roger?" asked Dave, quickly.
"Oh, never mind, Dave, let's drop the subject and talk about what we are
going to do with Link Merwell."
"I think I know what you were going to say," went on our hero, and he
tried to speak calmly although his heart gave a sudden jump. "You were
going to say that Ward Porton looked like my Uncle Dunston and like me."
"Well, if you must know it, Dave, that is what did come into my mind. I
don't think he resembles you quite as much as he resembles your uncle,
to be really honest."
"Oh, say, Roger, drop that!" interposed Phil, hastily. "I think Dave
looks a good deal more like his uncle than Porton looks like Mr.
Porter."
"It's a queer mystery, that's certain," returned Dave, slowly. "I don't
like it, I must say," and his face showed more concern than it had for a
long while.
"Don't you take this too seriously, Dave!" cried Roger. "I believe at
the most it's only some game gotten up by Link Merwell. Now that we
have him a prisoner and can send him to jail for that robbery, more than
likely you won't hear anything further about it."
"I sincerely hope you speak the truth," was our hero's sober reply.
After a plain but substantial meal, Link Merwell was taken to the
woodshed and told he would have to remain there until morning. Then the
boys cast lots to find out who should go on guard first.
"I'm number one," announced Phil, after drawing one of a number of slips
of paper placed in a cap.
"And I follow you," announced Luke.
"I'm guard number three," came from Ben, and the other boys announced
what slips they had drawn.
Usually the woodshed was dark, but now a lantern had been hung on a nail
to illuminate the place. There were two doors, one connecting with the
bungalow proper, and the other leading into the backyard of the place.
There was also a small window, over which in times past several stout
wooden bars had been nailed to keep out prowling wild animals.
"Think I'll run away, eh?" remarked Link Merwell, as he sat down on the
couch which had been placed in the woodshed.
"You'll not get the chance," returned Phil, who had armed himself with
one of the double-barreled shotguns. "If you try to get away, Link,
you'll get a dose of shot in you, just as sure as fate."
"Humph! I don't think I'll want to run away," grumbled the prisoner.
"There is no place to run to in this forsaken section of the country.
What you folks can find here to make it pleasant is a mystery to me."
The door leading to the outside had been closed and bolted. The other
door leading to the bungalow proper was left open for ventilation, and
Phil sat on a low stool beside it, with the shotgun across his knees.
"Are you quite sure you can manage him, Phil?" questioned Mr. Wadsworth,
as he came to the doorway after the others in both bungalows had
retired.
"Yes, I can manage him easily enough," returned the shipowner's son.
"I've got this, you see," and he tapped the shotgun suggestively.
"Well, don't have any shooting unless it becomes absolutely necessary,"
answered the jewelry manufacturer; and then he, too, retired.
For a short while Link Merwell lay down on the couch and turned over as
if to go to sleep. But he was restless, and presently, when all was
quiet, he turned over again and sat up.
"What are you going to do with me when you get me to Carpen Falls?" he
questioned.
"We are going to hand you over to the authorities."
"Is Dave Porter going along to the Falls?"
"I don't know about that. That's for Mr. Wadsworth to say," answered
Phil. "By the way," he continued, "what did you mean by telling Dave
that he was not Dave Porter?"
"Never you mind, you'll find out soon enough," grumbled the prisoner.
"Very well, Link, if you don't want to tell me you don't have to. Just
the same, if you are trying to hatch out some plot against Dave, I warn
you to be careful. He has stood about as much as he intends to stand."
"This is no plot; this is something real," grumbled Link Merwell. "Just
you wait, that's all," and then he lay down on the couch once more and
pretended to go to sleep.
At the proper time Luke came to relieve Phil, and was followed by Ben,
and then by Shadow.
"Say, it's cold to-night," remarked the former story-teller of Oak Hall,
as he took the shotgun and sat down on the stool. "If this weather keeps
on, before long we'll have frost up here, and we'll all be thinking of
going home."
"Better put on an extra coat; here is one," answered Ben, and passed the
garment over. Then he returned to the other bungalow, for he was tired.
Shadow had expected to have quite a talk with the prisoner, but in this
he was disappointed, for Link appeared to be asleep, and he did not have
the heart to awaken the prisoner. He sat on the stool, thinking over
several of the stories he had told from time to time, and trying to
invent one or two new ones.
In the midst of his revery a sound from outside startled him. It was the
hooting of an owl, and so close that the mournful sound made Shadow
shiver.
"I'd like to shoot that owl," he told himself, as the hooting continued.
"If I brought him down I could have him stuffed," he thought, with some
satisfaction.
Shadow looked at the motionless form on the couch, and then arising from
the stool, tiptoed his way into the big living-room of the bungalow. One
of the windows was wide open, and he looked out of this to see if he
could locate the owl. The hooting was now closer than before and seemed
to come from a tree not twenty-five feet away.
"Say, there's a chance for a shot," murmured the youth to himself. "If I
could only spot that owl I'm sure I could----"
Thump! Shadow received a staggering blow in the back of the neck, and
then felt himself hurled to one side, while the shotgun was wrenched
from his grasp. Then, before he could recover from his astonishment, a
figure leaped through the open window and dashed across the moonlit
dooryard.
"Hi! Stop!" yelled Shadow, as soon as he could recover his breath.
"Stop! Help!"
"What's the racket?" The cry came from Roger, and then he and Dave burst
into the room, followed by Phil.
"Merwell! He's escaped! He got the gun away from me, and jumped through
the window!" panted poor Shadow. "Oh, what a fool I was to think he was
asleep!"
"Where did he go?" questioned Dave, and at the same time bounded back
into the bedroom, to don his shoes and part of his clothing.
"He jumped out of the window with the gun. That's all I know about it,"
answered Shadow.
"Didn't you have a fight?" questioned Phil.
"No, I came to the window to look at an owl that was hooting around
here. Link came behind me and gave me a fierce crack in the neck. Then
he grabbed the gun and went through the window like a flash. And I
thought he was asleep!"
By this time Dave had returned, partly dressed, and catching up another
one of the fowling pieces in the bungalow he, too, leaped through the
window, followed by Shadow. A few seconds later the other boys joined
them.
"Have you any idea which way he went?" questioned our hero.
"I don't know exactly, Dave, but I think he went that way," and the
former story-teller of Oak Hall pointed with his hand.
"Let's scatter a little," ordered Dave, and while he passed in the
direction pointed out, the other boys separated to both sides of him.
All advanced to the edge of the woods and there came to a halt. While
the moon made it fairly bright in the open space surrounding the
bungalows, beneath the trees it was dark, and consequently little could
be seen.
"Might as well look for a pin in a haystack," grumbled Roger. "If he got
into these woods it's good-bye to him. We might search all night and not
get a trace of the rascal."
"I guess you're right, Roger," answered Dave, "but let's search around a
little anyway."
Long before this the alarm had become general, and now Dunston Porter
and Mr. Wadsworth appeared, followed shortly by Mrs. Wadsworth and Mrs.
Basswood and the girls.
"Let us take the flashlights and lanterns and see if we can't get on the
track of him," ordered the jewelry manufacturer. "We must capture him if
it is possible to do so."
And then the search began in earnest.