There was the briefest of exchanges of greetings between the friends
thus unexpectedly reunited.
“What on earth are you two doing here?” Sam demanded. “Haven’t you any
notion of the worry you’ve made for everybody?”
“Huh! Mind where you’re going!” the Shark cautioned. “Hole in the
floor. We broke through. Rest of it’ll hold, I guess, but I wouldn’t
stamp hard.”
Sam checked his advance in time. He glanced curiously at the fractured
boards, at which the Shark pointed.
“Fell through, did you? Well, it looks as if you did. But I say! What
did you crawl in here for, anyway?”
Before the Shark could answer, Lon spoke. He had remained at the
window, and was studying as best he might the swift tide pouring down
the valley.
“Boys, one o’ them dams up-river must ’a’ gone out! That was the first
wave of the rush that ’most caught us. There’s a lot o’ water still
comin’ along, but ’tain’t quite’s high as ’twas. And so, lookin’ at
things by and large, I guess it was mighty lucky that we happened in
jest as we did. If nothin’ more gives way up above, we ain’t likely to
be any wuss off than we are now; and when things get kind o’ drained
off, as you might say, we can toddle on. Meanwhile”--here he turned and
glanced at the fire--“meanwhile, that heatin’ contraption looks amazin’
good to me.”
Varley threw on some more wood. Sam and Orkney, and then Lon, gingerly
skirted the hole in the floor and took their places at the edge of
the hearth. Lon stripped off his dripping rubber coat; Sam and Orkney
followed the example. The Shark watched these proceedings with a
certain grim approval, but suddenly his brow clouded.
“See here, you fellows! You were hunting for us, as if you thought we
were lost?”
It was half question, half accusation. Sam answered curtly:
“We certainly thought you were.”
“Huh!” The Shark’s tone was scornful.
“If you had to wander off, why didn’t you go back to the Grants’ house?”
“Had something better to do.”
“Here?”
The Shark hesitated. “Why--why, not exactly here. We were looking for
something. We found it. Then we happened to see this house. It was
raining pitchforks, and we decided to come in out of the wet, and wait
for a break. And being here, we made ourselves as comfortable as we
could. You’d have done the same thing, wouldn’t you?”
“What did you suppose we’d think when you didn’t turn up?”
“You ought to have known we could take care of ourselves.”
Sam checked the hot retort that was on his lips. After all, “Safety
First” was a sound rule in the case of words as well as acts. A quarrel
would benefit nobody.
“Well, Shark,” he said quietly, “we feared you might have met an
accident of some sort, and if you had, we wanted to help you.”
“Course you would!” cried the Shark, at once mollified. “And we did
have an accident--little one, that is. Geeminy! if you’d seen us go
kerflop through the floor! Patch of boards just rotted out, and we had
the luck to strike it.”
Sam’s eyes ranged the room. “Old-timer, this house,” he remarked.
“It’s very old,” Varley put in. “We’ve tried to look it over, but it
was too dark to see much. Still, we could make out that evidently
nobody has lived here for years.”
Lon, too, had been making observations. “Boys,” he said, “if I ain’t
way off the track, this is jest the plummest oldest house anywhere in
these parts. It’ll be the old Dominie Pike place, or I’m a hornpout!”
“The Dominie Pike place?” Orkney echoed.
“Yep. His house Mis’ Grant was tellin’ us about--the last one he built.”
Orkney moved away from the fire. Very slowly he made a circuit of the
room, inspecting it with manifest interest, so far as the uncertain
light permitted.
Sam went to the window. The rain was still falling heavily; water
surrounded the house, but the rapidity of the current appeared to have
lessened. As well as he could determine, the top of the foundation was
just above water.
Meanwhile Lon was adding to the fire. He caught the eye of Sam, as the
latter turned back from the window, and winked meaningly.
“Nothin’ like makin’ yourself to hum,” he remarked, “and that there
blaze does go to the right spot--no, to the right spots, by ginger!
for those clothes o’ mine must ’a’ been leakin’ all over. My notion
is, we’re mighty lucky to be right here this minute. Tell you a house
comes in mighty handy when you need one. By the way, Varley”--he paused
briefly--“by the way, I s’pose these boys told you how once this crowd
was amazin’ glad to put up at old Calleck’s shack.”
“I’ve heard something about it,” said Paul, “but not the whole story.”
Lon was grinning reminiscently. “Like this case it was, some
ways--other ways ’twa’n’t. Blizzard caught us that time, and now it’s
a flood. Both times, though, we needed fire and a roof--generally do
in these parts, ’less it may be for a month or so in summer. So old
Calleck’s ruin seemed mighty good to us. This house’s a reg’lar palace
’longside of it. But what’d you expect? Old Calleck was a queer coot,
that went away from other folks to build a place in the woods, while
Dominie Pike cleared his place in the woods to kind o’ encourage other
folks to come in and settle. And some folks do say this must be jest
the spot where the Dominie and the Indian had their big run-in. But
then likely’s not you’ve all heard that yarn.”
“We haven’t!”
“Tell us!”
“Fire ahead!”
Lon grinned again. No doubt he was well pleased to see his plan to draw
the boys’ thoughts from their plight bearing results.
“Wal, way the story’s handed down’s about like this: The Dominie was
an explorer, and he worked in here ahead of the settlers. But for
all he knew the ways of the woods, he was plumb lost when he came to
Sugar Valley. And one reason he’d missed his bearin’s was that for
two-three days he’d been kinder bothered by a notion somebody was
doggin’ his track. Funny part was, he couldn’t be sure--that is, he
couldn’t get a squint at the critter he sensed was after him. And,
bein’ the man he was, the Dominie didn’t let the huntin’ go all on
one side. He turned to and hunted the hunter, which was what we’d
call a sporty proposition, but helped to mix him up. Course, if he
hadn’t been bothered, he could ’a’ found the road back; but bein’ a
lot bothered, he was as good as lost, for the time bein’. And so one
night he was bivouackin’ out in the open, right along here, I guess;
and bunkin’ close to a big tree and keepin’ one eye open and maybe
both ears listenin’--well, after a while, he was surer than ever that
t’other party was mighty clost. Now, the Dominie wasn’t the citizen to
make trouble walk its legs off comin’ to meet him. He started for the
half-way point or better, with his old flintlock primed and ready to do
business. There was a big moon, and when he came to a nat’ral meadow,
he could see ’most as plain as day. And all of a sudden he did see
something. An Injun was stealin’, stealthy like, out of the opposite
edge of the woods. Just as the brave cleared the cover, though,
something else shot like a growlin’ streak off the limb of a tree, and
in a jiffy there was the pootiest Injun-panther fight you ever heard of.
“The Dominie’s gun jumped to his shoulder--that was what you’d call
instinctive, I guess. Then he run forward. Way things were, he didn’t
feel like wastin’ powder and ball--took time, remember, to charge up
them old shootin’ irons. Then something mighty queer happened.
“The big cat was chain lightnin’, but that Injun wa’n’t so slow
himself. He’d half ducked the panther’s spring, though he’d caught a
clawin’ doin’ it; and the cat had overshot, as you might say, and was
crouchin’ for a second spring when it sighted the Dominie. For about a
second it was a three-cornered puzzle, with the Dominie with his gun at
his shoulder, and the Injun trainin’ his artillery for action--yes, he
had a gun, too--and the panther switchin’ its tail and makin’ up its
mind whether it’d jump for the white man or the red. And the brave’s
gun was a-swingin’ as if he wa’n’t quite clear whether he’d better pot
the brute or the white man. Now seein’ these things, as the Dominie
seen ’em, there’s some folks as ’d kept that Injun covered, anyhow,
sayin’ as how the scrap was his to begin with. But that wa’n’t Dominie
Pike’s way. Sot in his notions, the Dominie was; and one of them was
that he’d rather shoot wild beasts than humans. So he put a ball
through that panther’s head, and took his chances o’ the red brother
collectin’ his scalp. Which he didn’t--as this house, which the Dominie
built years afterward, shows.”
Lon paused, but there was a chorus of demands that he go on with the
story. What did the Indian do? Why didn’t he attack the Dominie?
Lon chuckled softly, perhaps more at thought of his success in holding
the attention of the boys away from their predicament than at the
continuation of the anecdote.
“Wall, I wa’n’t there, so I can’t make no affidavits. But the yarn goes
that when that Injun seen the panther drop, he laid down his gun like
a gentleman and a good sport. And the Dominie laid down his--course,
’twa’n’t loaded, but the move showed a friendly, give and take spirit.
And both of ’em took a step forward, and looked each other over in the
moonlight. Then they took another look, and the Dominie said something.
The Injun said something back. His lingo was new to the Dominie mostly,
but some words he could make out. And, after a long while, each got
kind of a line on the other. Each was lost--there’s a funny part of it.”
“But an Indian wouldn’t be lost in the woods,” Sam objected.
Lon shook his head. “Wrong there, Sam. This Injun was lost. Course, if
he hadn’t been bothered, and if his grub held out, he’d have worked his
way back; but, as ’twas, he was a stray from the country he knew. So he
and the Dominie, once makin’ friends, could hit it out fine, both bein’
in the same box. And they did hit it out. Dominie Pike allers got along
fust rate with the Injuns, anyhow. But it was while he was connivin’
with this special Injun that he got acquainted with Sugar Valley and
decided to move in and settle permanent.”
Tom Orkney spoke in the incisive fashion he had. “That story in the
Dominie’s diary, Lon?”
“Reckon so. Not that I ever saw the book, though--remember, don’t you,
what Mis’ Grant told us about its gettin’ lost?”
“I remember,” said Tom.
Lon put another stick on the fire. “How’s the supply of fuel?” he
inquired. “And where might the wood-pile happen to be?”
“I’ll show you,” cried Varley; and, eager to bear his full part, began
to lower himself through the hole in the floor. There was the sound of
a loud splashing, and in an instant Paul, drenched to the knees, was
scrambling back.
“Cellar’s flooded!” he shouted excitedly. “Water’s almost up to the
floor beams!”
“’Twould be, of course,” said Lon coolly.
“Yes, we should have thought of that,” Sam agreed. “Wait a minute,
though, fellows.”
Again he went to the window, and peered out. The darkness was intense;
the rain continued to fall heavily. It was largely guesswork, but his
impression was that there had been a slight rise in the water about the
house since his last observation.
Sam turned to his companions. He was quite aware of the need of keeping
his head.
“Things are no better,” he retorted, “but we could hardly expect them
to be.”
“Not with this rain poundin’ down,” Lon put in.
“Still, they’re not much worse,” Sam added.
“And we’re safe and snug, with a roof over us.”
The Shark grunted. “Huh! It’s a leaking roof. Look there!”
He pointed to a dark patch of moisture on one of the walls.
“Oh, that?” Lon tried to speak lightly. “Guess there may be a few of
the old shingles loose.”
The Shark jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “If you look in the corner,
you’ll find a small waterfall going. I’ve been hearing the splash for
a quarter of an hour. I don’t care a rap, but I do like to have things
stated accurately. The roof must be like a sieve!”
“Oh, well, what are the odds?” queried Sam, as cheerily as he could.
The Shark waved a hand. “I’m not kicking on the facts, but on the
errors of statement--that’s all.”
“Well, state it to suit yourself,” said Sam; but the Shark did not
accept the invitation.
There was a pause in the talk, and it was a long pause. The drip, drip
of more than one little stream was audible, except when the noises from
without rose above all other sounds. The fall of the rain was like
a steady drone; the wind was beginning to rise, and now and then a
squall whipped the branches of an overhanging tree against the house;
at intervals could be heard the harsh grating of ice against ice, as
the floes went drifting by. Twice or thrice floating masses struck the
house blows that made the old structure tremble, and then ground along
the side till the flood carried them clear.
Not a member of the party from Lon down to the Shark but was
considering their situation and its dangers, each in his own way. For
all the conclusion was the same: there was nothing for it but to remain
where they were. If the flood rose no higher, they would not fare
very badly. The house, ancient though it might be, plainly was still
a strong structure, capable of withstanding much battering. Lon, who
broke the silence, phrased the opinion of the group:
“When the old Dominie built, he built for keeps--no jerry work for
him, I tell you! Big beams, heavy timbers--wood was the cheapest thing
outdoors in his times. And wooden pegs to hold ’em together. Why,
boys, I’ve seen folks tryin’ to tear down an old house like this one,
and they pretty nigh had to use dynamite to unjoint the frame. Don’t
believe that? Umph! They had to use a yoke of oxen, then, if that’ll
suit you better.”
“Either story suits us well enough,” said Sam; and with that the talk
languished.
Now and then one or another went to the window, peered out, came
back, hovered over the fire. It was dying down now, and the stock of
available fuel was running short. But already there were warnings that
it would not be long before the fire would be put out in another way.
The water in the cellar had risen to the level of the floor of the
room. From the gap where the Shark and Varley had broken through, a
pool was spreading toward the walls. Through the door, too, a stream
was trickling, a tiny stream at first, but steadily growing in volume.
There was no way to check the rising tide, and the boys silently
watched the water approach the hearth. At last it reached the glowing
coals. There was a faint, hissing sound. A little puff of steam rose,
gleamed white for an instant, faded away. A black border of drenched
ashes was slowly widening and nearing the heart of the fire.
Sam turned to the Shark. “There’s an upper story; there’ll be stairs,
of course. Looked around any, have you?”
The Shark nodded. “We looked. Yes, there are stairs--we didn’t go up.
Pretty dark it was.”
“It’ll be darker now, but we’ll have to try ’em,” said Sam quietly.
Again the Shark nodded. “Figured it would come to that. So I saved
this.” He pulled from within his jacket a piece of pine board. “This
was dry and I guess I’ve kept it so. Lot of pitch in it, too. Ought to
make sort of a torch. Wait a minute!”
Bending forward, he thrust an end of the piece of wood into the flame
still burning at the back of the hearth. There was a sputter, a spark
or two flew. Then a jet of smoke shot out, and a yellow tongue curled
about the end of the pine board.
Protecting the precious flame with his cupped hand, the Shark followed
Sam through the doorway, and into the hall of the old house, wading
through water ankle deep as they went. After them filed the others, Lon
bringing up the rear.