From closets and sheds and attics Mrs. Grant produced an amazing supply
of rubber coats and boots, oilskins and sou’westers.
“Here, now, boys, fit yourselves out,” she directed. “Or, if you can’t
fit yourselves, come the nearest you can. Most of these things Mr.
Grant has used one time or another, but they’ll turn water more or
less. And looks won’t count--there’ll be nobody to see you. And you’ll
find the other boys, of course, and when you do, bring ’em right here.
And then we’ll have a good, hot supper, and everybody’ll feel better.”
This was spoken bravely enough; but it was clear that Mrs. Grant was
worried, if not greatly alarmed, by the absence of Varley and the
Shark. Sam and his friends made haste to equip themselves. In two or
three cases high overshoes were esteemed sufficient protection for the
feet, but the other boys were glad to turn to boots. Every boy found
something in the shape of a rain-coat; for the downpour out-of-doors
made all possible covering desirable. Some of the garments were
grotesquely large for the wearers, but nobody made a joke of this.
In fact, the club was quite of opinion that real work lay before the
searchers.
Sam noticed that while Mr. Grant sent a farm-hand to the barn with
orders to harness a horse, the farmer himself proposed to accompany the
party on foot. There was a little consultation on the porch.
“We ought to scatter, of course,” Mr. Grant declared. “Some can scout
up the road, and some down. Others can strike across lots to the sugar
camp and spread out from there. Then, if need be, I can send down to
the foot of the valley for news. A rig’ll be ready to go.”
Nobody made answer for a moment. A trip to the foot of the valley would
mean that there was reason to believe the Shark and Varley had fallen
into the river and been carried down-stream.
“I--I hope that won’t be necessary,” Sam said at last, unsteadily.
“I don’t think it will be,” Mr. Grant encouraged. “I’ve been figuring
on this business, and it seems to me the chances are that those
youngsters strayed away from the camp, lost their bearings, and when
the rain increased took to any shelter they could find. With the
weather as thick as it is, it wouldn’t be hard for them to miss their
way. Of course, if they kept their heads, they’d steer for higher
ground, knowing that sooner or later they’d come to a road. But boys
will be boys--and there’s the river, of course. We can’t forget that.”
Sam nodded. “We’re not forgetting it, sir. And as for keeping their
heads--well, one of those fellows is a stranger to all this sort of
thing, but the other’s as cool as they make ’em. That’s the part that
sets me worrying most: the Shark’s not likely to go wool-gathering
unless he gets interested in some of his calculations.”
“He’d have trouble in finding a slate to do his ciphering out yonder.”
“Oh, the Shark wouldn’t need slates or paper. His head’s good enough
for him. But--but don’t you think we’d better start, sir?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Grant briskly.
It was left to Sam, as the recognized leader of the club, to allot the
tasks. Poke and Step he told off to follow the road up the valley, with
instructions to make inquiries at each house on the way. The Trojan
and Herman Boyd were to scout down the road. Mr. Grant went with Lon,
Orkney and Sam himself to the sugar camp.
The tramp across the fields gave plenty of evidences of the rapidity
with which the thaw was progressing. The lowlands were fairly afloat,
and the line of march led through pools, some of which were more than
ankle deep.
Arriving at the camp, Sam shouted lustily, but there was no response.
Again heads were put together for a consultation. It resulted in a
scattering of the party through the maple grove, each of the searchers
looking for tracks in the melting snow.
In this several difficulties were encountered. To begin with, Mr. Grant
and his helpers had been busy about the place for some days, and near
the building footprints were only too numerous. Then, too, the heavy
rain made it hard to tell fresh tracks from old. It was Lon Gates who
suggested an improvement in their method of search.
“This ain’t gettin’ us nowhere, folks. We’re like fellers in one o’
them mazes you read about, that’s jest a puzzle and bewilderment. Let’s
get out of it, and skirmish round the edges o’ things. If the boys
scooted off, they scooted somewhere; and we ought to be able to pick up
the trail where it ain’t all tangled up with half a dozen others and I
dunno how many more.”
Following this suggestion, they made a circuit of the “Island.” It
revealed no less than four trails, any one of which might be the one
they sought.
One led down the valley; two others toward the river; the fourth
headed up-stream. With the drive of the rain sharp outlines had been
obliterated.
Lon studied the impressions closely.
“I ain’t no Apache tracker, and I dunno’s it would help things much if
I was; but if you want my guess, it’s that more’n one feller went this
way.” He nodded at a trail leading toward the river.
Mr. Grant inclined to believe that the down-valley trail was more
promising. The boys hesitated, frankly unable to form an intelligent
opinion.
“Well, we can try both,” said the farmer. “I’ll take this chap”--he
nodded at Orkney--“and you two can go the other road.”
Nobody else had a better plan to offer. Mr. Grant and Orkney plodded
off down the valley, and Lon and Sam headed for the river.
For a little way the marks they followed were fairly plain. That is, it
was quite evident that one or more persons had passed that way, though
how long before was pure guesswork. Then, presently, they came to a
low, swampy tract; and here among hummocks and pools and dense patches
of bushes the trail lost itself.
“No use, Sam!” Lon growled, as he stumbled over a root, and barely
escaped a fall. “If those two young idiots were steering for anything
in partic’lar, it’d be the river. Come on! We’ll try for a short cut.”
With that he broke through the thicket, and Sam pressed after him. In
a few minutes more they were on the bank of the stream, peering eagerly
about them.
So heavy was the pouring rain that it was hardly possible to make out
clearly the fringe of trees along the opposite side of the river. The
swift current was racing along, its surface dotted with masses of ice
and now and then a floating log.
“Umph! Gettin’ up, Sam, gettin’ up this brook is!” quoth Lon. “And
somebody up-river’s losin’ his cord-wood. And I say now--jest look at
that, will ye?”
Sam looked. He made out the object at which Lon was pointing, but at
first was uncertain what it might be.
“Chicken coop,” Lon explained. “And that thing bobbin’ up and down
yonder’s a packin’ case, or I miss my guess. Bet you they’re havin’
doin’s up above!”
Sam was doing his best to master every feature of the scene; but most
of all he was seeking traces of his missing friends.
“I can’t see anything--anything of the boys,” he complained. “I don’t
believe they came this way.”
Lon grinned wrily. “Don’t see why they should ’a’ wanted to, if they
had the wits they was born with. And if we’ve got ours left, there
ain’t no jest cause and impediment why we shouldn’t move on.”
“Which way?”
Lon considered briefly. “My notion is we might as well go back to the
camp, and pick up another of the trails. There’s nothin’ to show that
those fellows strayed here. But what in time made ’em drift away from
the rest of the crowd, anyway?”
Sam couldn’t offer reasonable explanation. Lon grunted:
“Ugh! Been a boy myself, and had the benefit of your society, Sam, to
keep my hand in, but hanged if I can make out why boys’ll do things
that wouldn’t get a vote at an election in a lunatic asylum! But that
ain’t gettin’ us nowhere or nohow. Let’s go back!”
They splashed through the puddles, plowed through the snow where it
still lay deep, broke a way through the swampy thickets. Both, it may
be, were in hopes of seeing Mr. Grant and Orkney at the camp, but
nobody was in sight near the building.
Lon now turned attention to the trail leading up the valley.
“I dunno’s this is more promisin’, but I can’t say it’s any less. Maybe
it’s fresher--must say, though, they all look a lot alike to me. And
when you don’t know anything about a thing, why----”
“Hullo!” Sam broke in. “Here comes Orkney!”
Tom was hurrying along at the best pace he could make in his big,
borrowed rubber boots. There was a look of anxiety on his face, but he
spoke quietly when he joined Sam and Lon.
“Mr. Grant told me to look you up. No; I’ve no news--that is, we didn’t
find anything. But when we got a look at the river, Mr. Grant decided
he’d send his man down to the foot of the valley at once. So he made a
short cut for the house, and I started to hunt you up. I’ll work with
you.”
“Then----” Sam began unsteadily.
“Don’t jump to the conclusion that Mr. Grant thinks Varley and the
Shark have been carried down-stream. Only the river is a lot higher
than he expected to find it, and the current’s swifter. So he is going
to send his man down to the bridges. But he thought it might be well
for you to scout the other way. I’ll help. I suppose he’ll follow us
later.”
“Umph! Can’t be much later if he means to ketch up with us before
dark,” Lon observed.
There was point to the remark. The gloomy afternoon was shading into a
twilight which gave promise of a pitchy night to follow. The rain still
fell in undiminished volume. At any other time Sam might have laughed
at the picture made by his companions. Lon’s “slicker” and Tom’s heavy
mackintosh ran little streams in every wrinkle, while others dripped
briskly from the brims of their head-gear.
“Come on!” Sam said impatiently.
This time they were on the right trail, though, of course, none of the
three could know it. It was easily followed until it brought them to
the point on the river bank where Varley and the Shark had halted for a
time; but there they lost it. The drenched thickets hid footprints, and
the growing darkness was a steadily increasing handicap.
Lon frowned in perplexity. “I swan, but I don’t like this!” he
declared. “This river’s practically bank full and sloppin’ over. Look
there!” He pointed to a little stream which was finding its way across
a low spot on the shore. “This is goin’ to be jest one big frog pond
before long, or I’ll eat my hat.”
“Let’s go a little farther, anyway!” Sam urged.
“With you there, Sam!” cried Lon readily enough.
“Of course--only thing to do,” said Orkney curtly.
They went on, following the bank. As a matter of fact, the footing
there was better than it was at a greater distance from the stream;
for here was one of the low-lying, swampy patches, which were actually
lower than the dike-like ridge along the river. At the best, though,
progress was slow. There were tangles of brush; there were gullies, now
turned into channels for the water; there were spots where the snow had
given place to a sticky and treacherous mire.
Now and then one or the other of the searchers shouted lustily. It can
hardly be said that an answer was expected, but after each hail there
was a halt, in which the three strained their ears. Perhaps this was
because their eyes could pierce the gloom for but a little way.
How far this slow and difficult march continued it would have been hard
for any of the little party to estimate. They might have covered a
mile; it might not be a half-mile.
Lon, who was in the lead, suddenly pulled up.
“Boys,” he said, “I hate to give up, but is there any use holdin’ on
longer? It’s gettin’ powerful dark; the rain’s wuss than ever; we
dunno but Varley and the Shark are this minute toastin’ their toes by
Mis’ Grant’s fire. Besides, we’ve got to have lanterns if we’re goin’
to poke around this way. ’Tain’t altogether a question now of findin’
somebody else; it’s gettin’ to be a question o’ keepin’ ourselves from
gettin’ lost. What say, Sam?”
Sam hesitated, glancing at Orkney. What Lon had said was true enough.
Still, he was extremely reluctant to abandon or even to interrupt the
hunt. Orkney, too, appeared to be of this opinion, if Sam interpreted
rightly the look on his face.
“Well, Lon,” Sam began doubtfully; “of course----”
There he broke off, abruptly; clapped a hand to his ear; bent forward,
listening eagerly.
“What’s that sound? Catch it? Something mighty queer about it.”
Sam’s voice had been shaking with excitement. Orkney’s answer was not
free of the same note:
“I hear it. I--I never heard anything else just like it. ’Tisn’t just
like a rustle, or a rumble, or--or I don’t know what to call it. But I
make it out fast enough!”
“Umph! So do I--now,” said Lon sharply.
The sound, by this time, was clearly to be distinguished from the
steady and monotonous beat of the rain, and from the grating of ice
floes in the river and the splash of waves on the bank. In a way it
suggested the approach of a heavy train--and a train coming on at high
speed.
Lon’s arm shot out. His hand closed on Sam’s arm.
“Come on!” he shouted to Orkney. “Hustle for all you’re wuth!”
The boys were close behind him as he crashed through the bushes,
straight away from the river. They ran as for their lives, while the
rumbling sound grew in volume. They splashed through a pool, the water
of which came to their knees. They crossed a little ridge, waded
another small pond, gained higher ground. Here were some trees of
considerable size, and Lon paused an instant as if meditating taking
shelter among them.
The rumbling now had grown to a roar, in which the other sounds of the
storm were lost. And whatever was causing it was drawing very near the
spot where the three stood. Lon peered hard up the valley, then turned
toward the trees.
“May be a climbin’ job!” he sang out. “Look lively, both of you! What’s
comin’ is goin’ to be a-plenty, and it’s ’most here.”
Sam, too, had been making swift observation, and his eye had caught
something which had escaped Lon’s vision. A patch of light, faint,
glimmering, half hidden by intervening branches--so much he made out.
Then it was his turn to shout, “Come on--quick!” He broke into a run,
and with Tom and Lon at his heels hurried toward the light, which,
feeble though it might be, was like a friendly beacon.
The rumbling roar was thunderous as they burst into a clearing and
made out the dim mass of a building, from which the light glimmered.
Instinctively they dashed for the door. Lon tore desperately at the
boards which barred it, but Tom and Sam turned to the window. From the
lips of each burst an exclamation of amazement.
By the light of the fire on the hearth they made out two figures. They
recognized the missing pair. Both Varley and the Shark appeared to have
been dozing on the floor, and just to have been awakened by the ominous
tumult without; for the one was starting to his feet, and the other,
on hands and knees, was peering dazedly through his spectacles at the
window.
But this was a time for swift action and not for pause for inquiries.
Lon, abandoning the door, sprang to his companions. He caught Sam, and
swung him to the ledge of the window, which still luckily was open;
seized Tom and raised him to the same position of comparative safety.
Then as the boys dropped to the floor of the room, he climbed with all
speed after them. Sam, turning, laid hold on his arm, dragging him over
the ledge, just as the thunder seemed to be rolling all about them,
and just as a wave, palely crested with white foam, went swirling down
the valley, crashing viciously on the foundations of the old house and
rising to the top of the stout masonry.