[Illustration: WITH A SCREAM OF RAGE AND PAIN, THE BEAST LAUNCHED
ITSELF INTO THE AIR.]
Tom Fairfield in Camp
Or
The Secret of the Old Mill
BY ALLEN CHAPMAN
AUTHOR OF “TOM FAIRFIELD’S SCHOOLDAYS,” “TOM FAIRFIELD AT SEA,” “FRED
FENTON ATHLETIC SERIES,” “DAREWELL CHUMS SERIES,” “BOYS OF PLUCK
SERIES,” ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
BOOKS FOR BOYS
BY ALLEN CHAPMAN
=TOM FAIRFIELD SERIES=
12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.
TOM FAIRFIELD’S SCHOOLDAYS
TOM FAIRFIELD AT SEA
TOM FAIRFIELD IN CAMP
TOM FAIRFIELD’S PLUCK AND LUCK
=FRED FENTON ATHLETIC SERIES=
12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.
FRED FENTON THE PITCHER
FRED FENTON IN THE LINE
FRED FENTON ON THE CREW
FRED FENTON ON THE TRACK
=THE DAREWELL CHUMS SERIES=
12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.
THE DAREWELL CHUMS
THE DAREWELL CHUMS IN THE CITY
THE DAREWELL CHUMS IN THE WOODS
THE DAREWELL CHUMS ON A CRUISE
THE DAREWELL CHUMS IN A WINTER CAMP
=BOYS OF PLUCK SERIES=
12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.
THE YOUNG EXPRESS AGENT
TWO BOY PUBLISHERS
MAIL ORDER FRANK
A BUSINESS BOY’S PLUCK
THE YOUNG LAND AGENT
CUPPLES & LEON CO. PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
Copyrighted 1913, by
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
TOM FAIRFIELD IN CAMP
Printed in U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. TOM GETS A LETTER 1
II. THE STORY OF THE MILL 12
III. TOM’S CHUMS ARRIVE 21
IV. OFF TO CAMP 28
V. LAUNCHING THE BOAT 36
VI. A BIG FISH 45
VII. A MIDNIGHT VISITOR 53
VIII. OLD ACQUAINTANCES 60
IX. AT THE OLD MILL 68
X. A CURIOUS CONFERENCE 75
XI. AN ANGRY HERMIT 84
XII. THE PIECE OF PAPER 89
XIII. A SHOT IN TIME 98
XIV. TOM’S SCHEME 106
XV. ALMOST CAUGHT 113
XVI. STRANDED 122
XVII. AN ANXIOUS SEARCH 129
XVIII. BACK IN CAMP 138
XIX. STRANGE DISAPPEARANCES 148
XX. LONELY DAYS 156
XXI. TOM MAKES PLANS 165
XXII. TOM’S DISCOVERIES 171
XXIII. THE CALLING VOICES 179
XXIV. THE SECRET ROOM 187
XXV. THE HIDDEN TREASURE 193
TOM FAIRFIELD IN CAMP
CHAPTER I
TOM GETS A LETTER
“Say, Dick, just throw that forward switch in; will you?”
“Sure I will, Tom. Going any place in particular?”
“Oh, just for a run down the river, and on my way back I guess I’ll
stop and get the mail.”
“Can I go along?”
“Certainly. Did you see anything of Will to-day?”
“No, he’s gone fishing, I guess,” and Dick Jones, one of the best
chums of Tom Fairfield, threw in the connecting switch of the latter’s
motorboat, and the craft was ready to run.
“Now I wonder if she’ll start easily, or if I’ve got to break my back
cranking her?” murmured Tom.
“What’s the matter?” asked Dick. “Hasn’t she been behaving herself
lately?”
“Oh, yes, but you never can tell. One day she’ll run like a sewing
machine, and the next I can’t seem to get her started. She’s like all
the other motorboats, good at times, and off her feed occasionally.
That’s why I called her the _Tag_. I never know whether I’m ‘it’ or
whether she is. However, here’s for a try.”
Tom revolved the fly wheel vigorously, but there was only a sort of
sigh from the engine, as if it did not like to be disturbed from the
rest it had been taking.
“One strike,” murmured Tom whimsically as he looked at the engine to
see if all attachments were in their proper place. “Here goes for
another spasm.”
Once more he whirled the heavy wheel around. But, save for a more
pronounced sigh, and a sort of groan, there was no result.
“Let me try,” suggested Dick.
“I’m afraid to. This engine is like a balky horse at times, and if
anyone but the regular trainer monkeys with her she just sulks all day.
I’ll get her going yet.”
Again came an attempt to make the motor do its work, and again there
came a sigh, accompanied by a cough.
“Three strikes, and I’m out!” exclaimed Tom, sinking back on the seat
rather exhausted. “But she’s speaking better than at first. Didn’t you
think you heard her sort of talking back at me, Dick?”
“Yes,” laughed his chum. “But say, are you sure you’ve got any
gasolene?”
“I put in five gallons last night, and didn’t run two miles.”
“Are you sure it’s turned on?”
“Of course I am!”
“Have you adjusted the carburetor?”
“Foolish question number twenty-six!” exclaimed Tom. “Say, you’re as
bad as a chap at Elmwood Hall--George Abbot. We call him ‘Why,’ because
he’s always asking questions. Don’t you get in that habit, Dick.”
“I won’t, but I wanted to be sure you’d done everything you ought to to
make the boat go.”
“Don’t worry. Nobody can do all he ought to do in running a motorboat.
The best authority that ever was would get stuck once in a while, and
then some greenhorn could come along, scatter a little talcum powder on
the cylinder head, and off she’d go. And the funny part of it is that
no one would know why.”
For a moment Tom sat looking at the refractory engine, as though trying
to read its mind, and then, with a sigh himself, he once more cranked
up. This time there was hardly a murmur from the engine.
“Hum! Gone to sleep again!” commented Tom. “I can’t understand this.”
Taking off his coat he made up his mind that he would go systematically
over every part of the engine, from the batteries and magneto to the
gasolene tank and vibrator coil. He started up in the bow, and, no
sooner had he looked at the switch which Dick had adjusted, than he
uttered an exclamation.
“There it is!” he cried.
“What?” asked his chum.
“The trouble. Look, that one wire is loose, and even though the switch
was connected I didn’t get any spark. It’s a wonder you didn’t see it
when you turned it on.”
“Say, I’m not a motorboat expert,” declared Dick. “All I can do is to
steer one.”
“I guess that’s right,” agreed Tom with a laugh. “It’s my fault for not
looking there first. I must have jarred that wire loose when I came in
last night. I hit the dock harder than I meant to. But I’ll soon have
it fixed.”
With a screw driver he presently had the loose wire back in place on
the switch connection. Then, with a single turn of the flywheel, the
_Tag_ was in operation, and Tom steered out into Pine river, on which
was located the village of Briartown, where our hero lived.
“She’s running fine now,” commented Dick, who, at a nod from Tom, took
the wheel.
“Yes, as slick as you’d want her. She’s making good time, too,” and Tom
glanced over toward shore, watching the trees seemingly slip past.
“Hey, Tom, wait up, will you?” This came as a hail from the shore, and,
following it, Tom and Dick saw a lad running along the river bank,
waving his hand at them. “Wait!” he cried.
“It’s Dent Wilcox,” said Dick Jones.
“Yes, and he’s running--that’s the strange part of it,” commented Tom.
“I wonder how he ever got out of his lazy streak long enough to get up
that much speed.”
“It _is_ a question,” agreed Dick, for Dent Wilcox was known as the
laziest lad in Briartown. “Probably he wants a ride badly enough to
chase after you,” added Tom’s chum.
Once more came the hail:
“Hey, Tom, give me a ride; will you?”
“What for?” called back our hero.
“I’ve got to go down to Millford for a man. I’ve got a job,” answered
Dent.
“Then you’d better walk,” answered Tom. “It’s good exercise for you.”
“Aw, say, stop and take me aboard,” begged Dent.
“Not much!” shouted Tom. “I’m not going to take any chances on stopping
this engine now, just when it’s going good. You walk!” and as Dick
steered the boat out from shore Tom opened wider his gasolene throttle
to increase the speed of the boat, which he had checked when Dent
hailed him.
“Aw, say, you’re mean!” charged the lazy lad as the craft got farther
and farther from shore. “You wait; I’ll get square with you yet!”
“Think he will?” asked Dick, glancing anxiously at his chum.
“Of course not. In the first place he won’t dare, and in the second
he’s not smart enough to think up something to do to me, and if he is,
he’s too lazy to carry it out after he’s planned it. Dent can’t worry
me.”
The two chums kept on down the river toward the main part of the town,
for Tom’s home was on the outskirts.
“I want to get a new set of batteries,” explained the owner of the
_Tag_. “I always carry two sets so I can run on one even if some of
them give out, and one set I’ve got now is running pretty low. This
motor won’t start on the magneto, for some reason, so I have to start
on the batteries and then switch over.”
They soon reached the town, and Tom tied his craft at a public dock.
Having purchased the batteries, and some other things he needed, he
went to the post office.
There were several letters in the Fairfield box, and as Tom looked them
over he found one for himself.
“Hum, I ought to know that writing,” he murmured. “If that isn’t from
Jack Fitch I’m a cowbird. I wonder what’s up? I thought he was in
Europe, with his folks, this vacation.”
Tom quickly opened the missive. As he glanced through it he gave
utterance to an exclamation of delight.
“What is it?” asked Dick, who stood near his chum.
“Why it’s great news,” explained Tom. “It seems that there was some
slip-up in the plans of Jack’s folks, and he didn’t go to Europe after
all. And now here it is, just at the beginning of the summer vacation,
and he writes to know what my plans are. He says he’d like to go
somewhere with me.”
“Why don’t you go traveling together?” asked Dick.
“We might, that’s a fact,” agreed Tom. “Hello, here’s another page to
Jack’s letter. I didn’t see it at first. Well, what do you know about
that?” he cried.
“More news?” asked Dick.
“I should say so! Bert Wilson--he was my other chum with Jack, you
know, at Elmwood Hall--Bert will come with Jack and me if we go
somewhere, so Jack says. By Jove! I have it!” cried Tom, with sparkling
eyes.
“What’s the game?”
“We’ll go camping! We talked of it this spring, just after I got back
from Australia, but we couldn’t seem to make our plans fit in. Now this
will be just the cheese. Jack, Bert and I will go off camping together
in the deepest woods we can find. It will be great sport.”
“It sure will,” said Dick enviously.
Something in the tone of his chum’s voice attracted Tom’s attention.
“Say, look here!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Wouldn’t you like to go
camping with us, Dick?”
“Would I? Say, just give me the chance!”
“I will! Do you suppose your folks’ll let you?”
“I’m sure they would. When can we start?”
“Oh, soon I guess. I’m glad this letter came at the beginning of the
summer, instead of at the end. I’m going home, tell dad and mother, and
see what they say. Maybe dad can suggest a good place to go.”
Tom’s motorboat, though making good time on the home trip, did not go
half fast enough to suit him, as he was anxious to get back and tell
the news. But finally he did reach his house, and, while Dick hurried
off to see what arrangements he could make with his family, Tom sought
his parents.
“Go camping; eh?” mused Mr. Fairfield when Tom broached the subject to
him. “Why of course. That will be a good way to spend the summer. Where
will you go, the seashore or the mountains?”
“Mountains, of course!” exclaimed Tom. “It’s no fun camping at the
seashore. Mountains and a lake for mine! I thought maybe you might know
of some good place.”
“Well, I’ve done some camping in my time,” admitted Mr. Fairfield,
“and come to think of it, I don’t know any better place than up in the
northern part of New York state. It’s wild enough there to suit anyone,
and you can pick out one of several lakes. There’s one spot, near a
little village called Wilden, that would suit me.”
“Then it will suit us,” declared Tom. “Tell me all about it. Were you
ever camping there?”
“No, but I used to live near there when I was a boy. So did your
mother. It’s a beautiful country, but wild.”
“Then I’m for Wilden!” cried Tom. “I’ll write to the fellows at once.
I’m going to take Dick Jones along with us. Hurray for Wilden!”
Mrs. Fairfield came into the room at that minute, and at the sound of
the name she started.
“Wilden!” she repeated. “What about Wilden, Tom?”
“Nothing, only I’m going camping there, mother.”
“Camping at Wilden! Oh, Brokaw, do you think that’s safe for Tom?” and
the lady looked apprehensively at her husband.
“Safe? Why shouldn’t it be safe?” asked Tom quickly.
“Well--Oh, I don’t know but--Oh, well, I suppose it’s silly of me,”
his mother went on, “but there’s a sort of wild man--a half insane
character--who roams through the woods up there, and you might meet
him.”
“How did you hear that?” asked Tom.
“I had a letter from a lady with whom I used to go to school in Wilden
years ago,” explained Mrs. Fairfield. “She wrote me the other day, and
mentioned it. I told you at the time, Brokaw.”
“Yes, I remember now. Old Jason Wallace. Let’s see, didn’t Mrs.
Henderson say he stayed part of the time in the old mill?”
“Yes, he’s trying to solve the secret of it, Mrs. Henderson said, and
that’s one reason why he acts so strange, as if he was crazy. Oh, Tom,
I wish you’d go camping some other place!” finished his mother.
“What, mother! Pass up a place like that, with all those attractions--a
wild man--a mysterious old mill? I guess not! What is the secret of the
old mill, anyhow?”
“Ask your father,” advised Tom’s mother. “He knows the story better
than I do.”
“Let’s have it, dad,” begged our hero. “Say, this is great! A mystery
and a wild man in camp! Maybe the boys won’t like that! I must write
and tell ’em to hurry up and come on. Oh, I can see some great times
ahead of me this summer, all right!”