“You made me come, and you’ve got to get me home!”
“The truth is, we may as well prepare for the worst!” George said,
deliberately and with seeming sincerity. But the grin on his face
belied his words. He was only waiting for a fit time to pronounce his
opinion--the most extravagant of all.
“George, how long could a fellow live on the water without any food?”
Steve inquired, not at all awed by George’s lugubrious asseveration.
“Oh, how long?” said George, so pleased to have an opportunity of drawing
on his extensive and miscellaneous reading that he lost track of his own
pet theory. “Well, boys, a shipwrecked sailor once lived twenty-two days
without food; but he was a fat old fellow--a captain, I think he was.
Now, in our case--”
“Don’t talk nonsense, George;” Will interrupted at this point. “We are
not going to experiment in that way; for _on the lake_,” with significant
emphasis, “we shall not have a chance to see how long we can live without
food, as it’s either saving or drowning with us. Look at those clouds
again. It will rain in a few minutes. But cheer up! I think we shall be
safe at home within three hours; and then this storm will be an episode
in our lives as long as we live. If we could only let the folks on shore
know, they’d soon come along.”
“Yes, if we could open up communication with the people at home!” Charley
sighed.
“Boys,” said Marmaduke, with great animation, “I can tell you how to do
that; tie a handkerchief, or something else, to one of the sculls!”
“Good for you, Marmaduke!” Charles cried, with delight. “You are a
genius!”
“Yes, Marmaduke, you’ve hit on the very thing!” said Steve. “Now, whose
is the largest?--Mine is;” and two minutes later Steve’s handkerchief was
fluttering as a flag.
“I--I was just thinking about that, too;” Jim stammered.
A hearty laugh--the first since they had left their swimming-place--burst
from the boys at this.
The little white flag on the oar was romantic; it inspired hope in them;
they became fearless, even merry. Each one was sufficiently susceptible
of romance to place the greatest confidence in the saving powers of that
little handkerchief. It was medicine to Jim’s troublesome disorder, while
to Marmaduke it was everything. He sat bolt upright, devouring it with
his eyes, his heart going at high pressure. Environed with romance, with
danger on every side, he made an idol of the little square of linen,
which, but for his sapience, would not have left its owner’s pocket. What
did he care for danger? Though they should float for hours, this would
eventually save them. Thus he sat, gazing eloquently and lovingly on the
white flag.
Did we say _white_? Alas! it was not white! Two days previous to this,
Steve had made it serve him for a towel.
Meanwhile, the breeze increased to a gale, and the punt was tossed about
in a manner to make even Steve fidgety, while it made pigeon-hearted Jim
draw groans expressive of unutterable agony. The sinking sun was hidden
by black clouds; the storm was upon them. In fact, their situation was
really becoming desperate.
“Why is it so dark, boys?” Jim articulated faintly.
“Why, surely enough, it’s so dusk, so _hazy_, that we can hardly see the
harbor!” George said.
“My stars, boys, it’s an eclipse!” cried Steve, forgetting his peril
in the excitement of his astounding discovery. “An eclipse! The
down-rightest eclipse that ever was! George,” banteringly, “don’t
you wish you’d brought in something about this eclipse when you were
foretelling the weather!”
The Sage experienced some of the emotions of a huffish philosopher when
floored by a hulking lout from the copper regions.
George’s words had directed Charley’s attention towards the harbor. “Oh!
Look! look!” he cried. “They’re coming! coming at last!”
“Where? where?” cried the others eagerly, stretching over the gunwale of
their crazy craft and peering into the darkness.
The water-loving boatmen soon descried a long-boat drawing towards them.
“Help at last!” Will ejaculated thankfully. “And it will reach us barely
in time to save us.”
“The signal has done it, boys,” Marmaduke observed with complacency.
“Let us yell!” said Will.
How they shouted! Their pent-up woes found vent, and they shouted till
hoarseness necessitated them to forbear.
But the manager of the signal had not shouted, and when the voices of the
others finally died away in a discordant murmur, he said snappishly, “You
needn’t yell like an hobomokko; this flag will guide them to us.”
“Yes; but it’s better to yell,” Steve panted. “In fact, I couldn’t help
it!”
“I wish we could stop this punt till they come up with us,” Will said,
“for we are drifting farther from them all the time,” sighing to hear the
water plunk against the punt with remorseless and dreary monotony.
“Well, we can’t anchor; but they’re rowing hard and coming fast,” Charles
replied.
“Will, it’s your fault that we came; you proposed it;” Jim said.
“That may be, Jim,” the standard-bearer replied; “but I think we all
had a hand in it--except, of course, you. But _I_ am the one who has
saved you, and saved us all. This signal of distress has been sighted,
and then immediately they made ready to rescue us,” and he looked
triumphantly at the boys, defying a denial.
“Oh, yes; I know it’s all right; I ain’t afraid;” Jim said quickly.
Stephen spoke next. “How everybody will laugh at us!” he said,
elaborating a dolorous sigh and putting on a hideous grimace.
Now that succor was at hand, this thought began to depress his mind.
The approaching long-boat was a fascinating sight to all, to Marmaduke
especially. As it drew nearer, the latter suddenly and most unwarrantably
struck the improvised flag and stuffed it into Stephen’s coat-pocket.
Had he become ashamed of it? Could he be so base? No! no! but it was not
needed now!
In good time the long-boat came within hailing distance.
“Hollo there, you lubbers!” a voice bellowed. “You’re a pretty lot of
fellers, ain’t you?”
“Why didn’t he say, ‘Ship, ahoy!’ or ‘Boat, ahoy!’” Marmaduke murmured.
“You mean, why didn’t he say, ‘Punters, ahoy!’” Steve corrected.
George felt it incumbent on him to make some reply, so he called back
feebly, “All right!”
Each boy now began to “feel like an idiot,” as Steve put it. Each one
experienced the feeling that any boy, caught in a similar predicament,
would experience. The writer has suffered in that way, and consequently
knows how to pity those miserable boys.
The long-boat was soon alongside. It contained several men,--among them,
Will’s and Jim’s father, overjoyed at this happy meeting,--and the sailor
whom Steve had questioned concerning the weather appeared to be leader.
The rescue came about in this way: When the storm was seen approaching,
the boys were found to be missing, and inquiries for them were at once
instituted. For some time these were fruitless; but at length Mr.
Lawrence, guessing shrewdly that they would be on the water at such a
time as this, went down to the wharf, and came upon and interrogated
the old sailor. “Well,” said the latter, “one of ’em asked me about the
weather, and I expect they all went off on the lake, but I don’t know; I
saw ’em poking around for a boat, I guess it was, and then I went into
the hold of the schooner, and didn’t see ’em any more. We can overhaul
them, Sir, but it will be a long and hard pull.”
This clue was sufficient; a good glass was procured, and the boys were
descried far out on the lake. Then a boat was manned in hot haste, and
put off to the rescue.
“Well, younkers,” said the old sailor, “you must hurry up, for there’s
no time to be idled away.” Then, with a sportive wink, (which the gloom
made invisible) he added, “I guess you fellers will believe me next time
I warn you to look out for blows.”
“Yes, boys, you’ve done a foolish thing, but your mothers will be so glad
to see you that they’ll forgive you,” a good-natured sailor observed.
The transfer from the punt to the long-boat was soon made, and then one
of the rescuers demanded, “What about this craft? Shall we cast it off,
or tow it into harbor for another set of boys to drown in?”
But a practical man, who made it an established principle of his life
never to lose anything that came in his way, passed his dictum that the
punt must be preserved at all risks.
“Of course this will be a warning to all the boys,” he said, “and it
would be a sin to lose a ship-shape craft like this. Just see how well
it floated them! No boy is so wrong-headed that he won’t profit by
experience.”
So, much to the chagrin of the boys, who now regarded the punt with
deadly hatred, it was hitched to the long-boat, and the flotilla set sail
for home.
“Speaking of experience,” spoke up a furrow-faced rower, who plied his
oars lustily, “I never knew but one boy that profited by experience, and
he never did it but once, when he couldn’t help himself, so to speak.”
“What are the details of the particulars, Tom?” asked one.
“Well, the boy went fishing with a tinker, against orders.”
“And he profited--?”
“’Cause he caught cold, and died of too much cough-syrup and remorse.”
“Boys,” said Mr. Lawrence, seriously, “you have risked your lives for
a moment’s pleasure, and even yet we are in some peril. I do hope, I
sincerely hope, that _you_ will profit by this lesson.”
The boys turned pale. A second time they realized their danger, and they
breathed a silent prayer of thankfulness for their deliverance.
“What were you doing to help yourselves?” Mr. Horner inquired.
“We were trying to steer the punt as well as we could,” Will answered.
“What?” cried the furrow-faced sailor in astonishment. “Steering? how?
where? why? whew! where on earth were you steering to?”
“Well, we thought we’d keep it as straight as we could,” Will said,
apologetically.
“Well,” gasped the sailor, not at all awed by the presence of Messrs.
Lawrence and Horner, “that beats me! To think of a pack of noodles trying
to save themselves by steering, when their craft is going the wrong way!”
To return to the punt. When Jim saw help approaching, he did not bale
the punt so carefully; consequently, at the time of starting for home,
there was considerable water in it. Fuller and fuller it became; not
only did the water leak in through the cracks, but volumes of it poured
in over the stern. When almost filled, the lumbering and water-soaked
craft quivered a moment on the surface of the waters, then suddenly sank,
snapped the rope by which it was tacked to the long-boat, and disappeared
forever.
The practical man sighed meekly: the sailors grinned; the rescued heroes
chuckled audibly.
So trifling an incident may seem a blot on these well-written pages, but
it is related because it discovers the characteristics of boys.
Will and Jim, awed by the parental presence, said but little during
the voyage homewards. Stephen, however,--whose spirits neither strange
gentlemen, nor blustering seamen, nor chilling rains, nor raging seas,
could damp,--soon recovered his sprightliness, and demanded:--
“Why didn’t you come for us in the steamboat there at the wharf? It would
have taken so much less time to reach us.”
“The steamboat!” echoed a sailor, wondering more than ever at these
boys. “Well, that beats all! A steamboat! You must be a goose! You live
beside the lake, and I’ve seen you poking about the vessels and steamers,
as smart and pert as a homeless peanut boy; and yet you ask me such a
question! Don’t you know, from watching the engineers, how long it takes
to get on a good head of steam? And, s’pose we had come for you in the
steamboat--why, it would have knocked you and your ragamuffin’s punt
endwise!”
Steve fetched a hollow and piteous sigh, and mumbled something about
knowing something.
“Yes, of course; but if you had brought along a few gallons of oil,”
suggested the sage, rejoicing in the opportunity afforded for holding up
his knowledge, even in so hopeless a cause, “you could have calmed the
water, stopped the steamer, and picked us up without any trouble.
“Exactly--_if you had been worth a few gallons of oil_!” was the crusty
blue-jacket’s cutting reply.
“The life-boat is the right thing to go and save people in,” Marmaduke
commented.
“Yes, of course it is;” the sage hastened to observe. “I only made the
remark.”
“I think you are very remark-able boys,” put in Mr. Lawrence.
“What made you think we were on the lake?” Will inquired.
“I suppose you caught sight of my--_our_, I mean,--signal of distress?”
Marmaduke said placidly.
“Your what? ‘Signal of distress?’ Well, that knocks everything else on
head: that is most extraordinary!” the scandalized tar ejaculated.
Poor fellow! The boys’ observations and inquiries had kept him in a state
of continual bewilderedness. It was he who had expressed his astonishment
so huffishly every time.
“Yes,” rejoined Marmaduke, “the handkerchief on the oar. That brought
you, didn’t it?”
“I don’t know anything about any handkerchief on any oar; and you must
be crazy to think we could see one in this darkness,” was the depressing
answer. “But, to be sure,” the sailor added, “I did notice that a pole
with a rag on it seemed to be lowered just before we came up to you; was
that the signal?”
“Boys, I knew how fond you are of endangering your lives, and when
you were nowhere to be found, I shrewdly suspected that you had found
your way out into the storm--and surely enough, you had!” Mr. Lawrence
explained.
“Marmaduke, don’t meddle with romance again!” Charles whispered.
“I never did like sailors, except in stories,” Marmaduke muttered; “they
are always a mean and sneering set of fellows, except on the ocean.”
“I never knew such fellows,” muttered the sage; “I--I shouldn’t be
surprised if they turn out to be ex-pirates!”
“I’ll bet they are!” said Steve, who took kindly to this brilliant idea.
“Jim, I say, Jim,” he whispered slyly, “it’s too bad you’re in your good
clothes; for you’ll have to change ’em for the old ones! Now, _we_ can
change for our best.”
“Let me row!” he said suddenly to the furrow-faced rower, so coaxingly
that the row-locks creaked in sympathy.
“No, I came to save you, and I’ll be hanged if I don’t,” the man said
roughly. “You did the punting; just leave me alone for the rowing.”
Poor Stephen! He longed to take a turn with the sailors in rowing, but
this crushed him, and he was mute.
“They’re not a bit like sailors,” he mumbled to himself, drawing his
water-soaked hat down over his gleaming eye-balls.
The men’s surliness, on this occasion, was because they were disgusted
with the worthies whom they had come so far to save.
Soon afterwards they reached the wharf, where a knot of people had
assembled to welcome them. A hearty hand-shaking followed, and then the
six, mighty heroes, in _their_ eyes, were marched off home in triumph.
At least six families were made happy and thankful that night, for the
boys had had a narrow escape.
_Chapter XI._
A TALENTED LECTURER.
A few weeks later, the holidays, like all other good things, came to an
end, and the six returned to school.
On the opening day a certain great man--great in his own estimation,
at least--was to deliver a speech to the school children. This notable
gentleman bristled with facts and figures; but, alas! he had acquired
so much erudition that he had lost all sense of the fitness of things.
Having learned all that is possible for one mortal to know, and yet live,
he now made it his pursuit to journey through the country, delivering
lectures at the different colleges, and sometimes, as in this instance,
at the public schools. There was nothing wicked about this most peculiar
man; but, with all his learning, he lacked one thing--practical wisdom.
He was of “slender bulk,”--that is, short and gaunt--saffron-faced,
and had a pugilistic and threatening manner of poising himself while
speaking, his hands, meantime, describing geometrical curves that were
picturesque in the extreme. His eyes were sharp and prominent; his nose
followed suit: and his cane, which was stout and elaborately ornamented,
was worth, to descend to a hackneyed comparison, an emperor’s ransom.
He employed the same technical terms that he did when addressing the
most polished audiences; and, for that reason, the younger children
looked upon him as a sort of hero, while to George and Marmaduke he was
a full-fledged demi-god. The former (George) listened attentively to the
lecture, and took mental note of the big words, with a view to explain
their import to his less learned schoolfellows, should an opportunity
offer for doing so without too much ostentation. But, alas! poor youth,
many words which were strange to him rolled glibly from the professors
tongue.
Here we pause--not to make a “digression,” but a vulgar harangue.
The writer has the temerity to hazard the assertion that there might
be, in some lone corner of the world, an English-speaking romancer, as
familiar with a foreign language as with his own, who could write a tale
about people speaking that language, and yet have his tale so purely and
thoroughly English that the most neuralgic critic could not cavil or
repine. But this is only a rash surmise, and is probably fanciful.
Or is it only those who have acquired a smattering of another language
that are so eager to lug in words and phrases peculiar to that language?
When will the mediocre writer of English come to understand that his
meanest, as well as his sublimest ideas, may be manifested with as much
force in English as in any other language? Alas, never! Instead of
saying “such a man is a sharper,” he says, “such a man is a _chevalier
d’industrie_.” What could be more expressive than “he is a devil of
a fellow?” And yet our learned penmen prefer to say, “he is _uomo
stupendo_!” It is a notorious fact, that whatever language a writer is
most conversant in, he draws upon oftenest. Happily, the reading public
are not much bored with scraps from the Esquimau.
But, protests the reader, there are certain terms, and entire phrases,
that are not yet Anglicized, but that are in everybody’s mouth.
Very true; against the proper use of such terms and phrases, _in
moderation_, no objections can be raised.
Having thus prated nonsense enough to incur the deadly hatred of every
sentimental scribbler to the weeklies of rural towns, this interesting
argument may be dropped, particularly as it only heads up to the
following observation:--
Our circumforaneous holderforth was one of those who cannot make a speech
without “borrowing from the classics;” but (for the best of reasons,
gentle reader) we kindly suppress his redundancies in that respect.
After a few introductory remarks, he cleared his throat, and in sonorous
tones began to speak of--hydrophobia! Why he should pitch on that as a
subject of discussion is as great a marvel as the man himself. Possibly,
he had been bitten by an exasperated mad dog at some period in his
life, and could not overcome the temptation of speaking of it now. But
the probability is that he considered himself the fountain-head of all
sciences and theories, of physics and etiology. At all events, whatever
the wiseacre’s motive may have been, it is certain that he spoke of
hydrophobia.
“My dear little children,” he began, affectionately, “it is of the
utmost importance that you should be made acquainted with the latest
discoveries that science has made with regard to that most subtle
distemper, learnedly called lycanthropy. To those among you who intend to
become physicians on attaining majority, this subject will be absorbingly
interesting. It is not my purpose to trace this dread distemper from the
first mention we have of it down to the present time, but merely to give
you a concise description of its operations in the human system, from
its incipient stages to the final paroxysms, and also to touch upon the
various methods of treatment in repute among those who have conquered
immortality by their researches in that field.
“Probably none of you ever beheld a rabid canine. When fleshed in the
blood of his victims, he presents one of the most appalling sights that
the imagination can conjure up, and rivals in ferocity the fabulous
monsters of the ancients. But in good time I shall discourse more at
large on his appearance; for the present it is sufficient that I make
apparent the--But,” breaking off abruptly, “it is well that there should
be a thorough understanding between a speaker and his auditors.”
Then, with that benevolent smile, peculiar to instructors of juveniles
when propounding their knotty questions, he demanded, “Little ones, can
you define _hydrophobia_ for me?”
The “little ones” stared stolidly and helplessly, but said nothing.
The teacher, Mr. Meadows, looking encouraging--then, beseeching--then,
mortified--then, irritated--then, wicked. Still the “little ones”
maintained silence, both the scholastic and his lecture being
unintelligible to them.
He repeated his question; and George--who, although he did not wish to
be ranked with the “little ones,” yet feared that the learned man might
consider him equally ignorant if he did not speak--rose prepared to give
a precise and lengthy definition.
This strikes the key-note to the Sages character.
But a mischievous little gum-chewer, who doubtless could have answered
with tolerable correctness, if he had chosen to do so, forestalled him by
shouting, at the top of his voice: “Burnt matches and water, Sir!”
Now, it is probable that the juveniles had a chaotic idea of the
signification of the word, though unable to define it; and as the
youngster just cited was generally correct in his answers, they jumped to
the conclusion that he was correct this time; therefore, with a deafening
shout, some fifty “little ones” yelled: “BURNT MATCHES and WATER, SIR!!!”
Poor Teacher Meadows! The emotions with which his bosom glowed, were
written on his face; and he hitched uneasily in his seat, with that look
of grave displeasure supposed to be peculiar to aggrieved persons.
The professor, probably seasoned to such rebuffs, soon recovered his
equanimity, and turning to the older scholars, asked, “Cannot _you_ give
me a satisfactory answer? Come! Anyone! What is hydrophobia?”
Again an answer quivered on Georges lips; but now Charles forestalled
him. Taking his cue from the gum-chewer, Charley said, “Excuse me, sir,
but you addressed the little folk, and we, quite politely, left it for
them to answer. We know what it means, sir. Hysterphostia is a sort of
influenza that yellow dogs catch when they’re fed on too much picnic
victuals and spoilt molasses. Then they’re turned loose, with tin cans
on their tails, for policemen to shoot at; and everybody that sees them
rushing along the street is sure to inhale quinine hyster--”
At this point the speaker’s voice was drowned by roars of laughter from
the astonished and delighted boys and girls, and he sat down “amid
thunders of applause.”
They, at least, appreciated his absurd reply, his pretended ignorance,
and his unblushing effrontery in thus wantonly insulting the august
professor. They had evidently taken a dislike to the scientific
gentleman, who was altogether too knowing for them, and, idiot-like,
rejoiced to see him thus grossly insulted.
The teacher looked stern and furious, and endeavored in vain to stop the
hubbub. Was his noble patron to be thus shamefully treated by a mob of
ignorant and good-for-nothing school-children, supposed to be under his
training and control? Must not the offenders be made to smart for it?
The professor himself was electrified. However, he had too much
self-respect to regard anything that a school-boy might say, and after
shooting Charles a look of calm contempt, he resumed his discourse, and
proceeded to enlighten Teacher Meadows’ brazen-faced blockheads. He spoke
long and earnestly on all things relevant to canine madness, and mad
dogs, and at length ventured to propose another question.