Lon’s floor-board gave material for three rough-and-ready paddles,
short, awkward to handle, yet more or less serviceable. Lon himself
kept one, Orkney took another, and Varley laid claim to the third.
“I’ve got to keep my blood circulating,” he explained. “Thought I was
pretty well dampened before that last go, but now--whew! Say, I’d like
to be run through a clothes wringer just as I stand. Next best thing’ll
be working at something.”
Sam also had stretched out a hand for the third paddle, but Lon ruled
in favor of Paul.
“Varley, you can have anything I’ve got!” he said warmly. “That
leap-for-life, floatin’ trapeze stunt you done was amazin’ good
medicine for this crowd; for my notion is, the old river ain’t got
done risin’, and it ain’t got to do much more comin’ up in the world to
clean swamp that garret. Good, quick action o’ yourn, son, good quick
action, I tell you!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Paul modestly. “It--well, it just seemed to be
a good idea. I--I hated, somehow, to lose the boat; though maybe the
flood won’t go much higher.”
“No; Lon’s right.” It was the Shark who spoke, with all his customary
brusqueness. “Liable to be ten feet more of a rise. How do I know? How
do you know anything? Figure it out, don’t you? Just what I did! If the
mouth of the valley is dammed--must be, or the river would have behaved
better--the water’ll keep on rising till it’s over the top of the dam.
And from the levels as the map gave ’em, and the height of the bridge
piers, as I recalled ’em----”
Sam caught him by the shoulder. “Look here, Shark! Do you mean you’d
figured all that out, and then didn’t tell us?”
The Shark wriggled free. “Huh! What’d have been the good of telling?
Just would have worried you fellows some more--wouldn’t have helped
anything or anybody. You’re all right in your way, but you don’t seem
to be able to get any comfort out of calculations that go into three or
more figures. So if I’d said anything, you’d have wanted to know why
I said it, and when I tried to explain, you wouldn’t have understood.
But if you’re so set on having me say something now, I’ll tell you that
we’d better make shore. Current’s taking us down-stream, and I won’t
guarantee how long the ice dam will hold. Don’t want to go over it, or
through it, do you? Well then!”
“Jumpin’ Jupiter, but that’s sense!” ejaculated Lon, and fell to
paddling.
Orkney and Varley followed the example. Step and Poke found the pieces
of the broken thwart and added their mite. The Shark stared ahead. Sam,
for a moment, was without occupation, but then he pulled off his cap
and began to bail out some of the water in the boat. With the increased
number of passengers a leak or two had developed.
There is no craft more difficult to manage than a flat-bottomed,
square-ended punt, deep in the water, and in the grasp of a strong
current. Naturally enough, the attempt was made to steer for the
nearer bank, the one on which was the Grant farmhouse. It resulted in a
sort of diagonal drift, in which a dozen feet were made down-stream for
every foot of approach to land. Sometimes the boat was fairly across
the current, sometimes her nose pointed almost directly down the river.
More than once collision with floating débris threw her off her course.
In short, she might have been compared to a crippled and bulky-bodied
beetle, struggling with broken legs to swim to the shore of a stream
into which it had fallen. But as the beetle, by virtue of hard work,
draws nearer the land, so the big punt edged away from the swifter
current of mid-stream. Presently she was scraping through the boughs
of a young grove, the trees of which were submerged to their tops. The
Shark, playing lookout man, sang out his news:
“Hullo! There’s the Grants’ house! We’re just about abreast of it.”
The paddlers toiled harder than ever, but Sam paused a moment in his
bailing. The light had strengthened; he had no trouble in making out
the house and the big barns near by. As well as he could determine,
the flood had not invaded the homestead, though it seemed to have
reached the road in front of the place.
Lon and his crew tried to arrest the drift down-stream; observing
which, the Shark spoke oracularly:
“Don’t try too hard to hold her on the mark! Keep her going, and see if
we don’t strike an eddy pretty soon. My guess is we will.”
Step had little breath to spare, but he used some of it in speech.
“What’s that?” he gasped. “You ‘guess’? Thought math-mathematicians
never guessed, but always were sure!”
Round whipped the Shark, bristling. “Mathematics nothing! This is just
common sense. I’m counting on the chances of being right about an ice
jam down below. If it’s damming up the water, you’ll find some of the
surplus that can’t get through or over the obstruction forced back
along the edges, while the freshet keeps on pouring more water down the
middle. Seen how the water whirligigs in a bowl, haven’t you, when you
turn on the faucet? Well, then?”
Step might have made answer, but Poke thumped him on the back.
“Cut it out!” the plump youth advised. “This is no debate; it’s a job!”
Step grunted, and fell to paddling again. The Shark shrugged his
shoulders, and resumed his observation; thought it was his privilege,
very speedily, to utter the words the most self-restrained of mortals
can’t deny themselves sometimes:
“There! What did I tell you? We’ve hit an eddy!”
It was true, and true beyond question. The lateral motion of the boat
was now up-stream rather than down; and there was no longer difficulty
in keeping the house over her square bow. Moreover, in the slack water
the pace of the heavy craft seemed to increase. And again the Shark
gave tidings:
“Say, fellows, I can see folks! They’re waiting for us--right by the
edge of the road just below the house. Mr. Grant’s there--and there’s
another man--and hurrah! Herman and the Trojan! They’re both on deck,
so all our crowd’s accounted for! And oh, I say! There’s Mrs. Grant
hustling down from the house and waving a shawl or something like all
possessed!”
With such good news ringing in the ears of the crew, the big boat
appeared fairly to jump forward. There was a mighty splashing along
both sides, but what the paddlers lacked in art they made up in energy.
From the shore came cries of welcome and eager query, but everybody on
the punt was too busy to make reply. Then there was more splashing, as
the Trojan and Herman, with Mr. Grant close behind them, dashed into
the water to meet the voyagers. They caught the gunwale of the boat and
dragged the craft forward till she grounded. And then the Shark laid
hold upon Mr. Grant.
“There is an ice jam, isn’t there?” he demanded. “Big one, too?”
“Biggest ever heard of in these parts! Both bridges knocked off their
piers and all tangled up with the ice. That’s what raised hob when the
dams up-river began to go out, and let down all the water. Railroad’s
sent for its wrecking crew, and it’s coming with dynamite to blow open
a channel, and----”
The Shark was discourteous enough not to wait for the completion of
the sentence. He turned triumphantly to his comrades in general and to
Step in particular.
“Hear that, did you? Josh me about guessing, would you? Huh! I’ll guess
again, and the guess is that the fellow who has the last laugh gets the
best one. Huh!”
With that the Shark stepped ashore, avoided the outstretched arms of
Mrs. Grant, and fell prey to the Trojan, who splashed out of the river
as joyously as he had splashed into it. The Trojan and Herman had had
a night of terrible anxiety, but had escaped any adventures such as
had befallen the rest of the club. Maybe there was a touch of envy in
the demands upon the Shark for his story--which, by the way, the Shark
did not relate. Indeed, there was for a little too much confusion for
anybody to offer a coherent narrative; and then Mrs. Grant was urging
the party up the slope to the porch, and into the house, where open
fires burned cheerily, and where there was a wonderfully delicious odor
of boiling coffee and cooking viands.
The big house seemed to have an unlimited store of dry garments. Mrs.
Grant brought them by the armful into the living-room, and made
proclamation:
“Listen to me, everybody! You men folks can have this room to
yourselves while Hannah and I dish up the breakfast. It’ll be ready
for you the minute you’re all in dry things; and I reckon you’ll find
enough to go around. Don’t mind looks or fit, and don’t stop to primp.
And here’s a lot of good rough towels--you’ll need a rub-down to take
out the chill. Don’t you keep me waiting, and I won’t keep you waiting,
either!”
She was turning to the door, but Sam stopped her. As head of the Safety
First Club, he had learned some valuable lessons in thoughtfulness for
others.
“Just a minute, please, Mrs. Grant!” he begged. “Our folks in town--do
they know we’re all right, or have they heard anything about--about our
being out all night?”
Mrs. Grant shook her head vigorously. “Not a syllable have they had,
good or bad, welcome or worrying! The telephone broke down about eight
o’clock last night, and I tell you, boys, I never was so glad of such
an accident before. If any of your mothers had called me up--mercy,
but I don’t know what I could have said or done! There, there! Let me
count you again. Let’s see! Five, six, seven, eight--yes, you’re all
here, thank the stars!”
Lon heaved a burlesque sigh. “Oh, my, my! And I ain’t even figgered in
the census no more!”
Mrs. Grant laughed very cheerfully. “Oh, you’ll figure, Lon Gates, but
I sort of put you in the ought-to-have-known-better class.”
Lon bowed deeply. “Thanky for the compliment, ma’am. I don’t get so
many of ’em that I recognize ’em any easier than old man Plympton uster
recognize his fust wife’s third cousins when they came fishin’ for an
invitation to dinner, for old times’ sake, his fourth bein’ a mighty
fine cook, if I say it as shouldn’t, she bein’ kin o’ mine.”
“Well, if that’s what you call a compliment, I guess you have got out
of practice entertaining ’em,” chuckled Mrs. Grant. “But now get into
dry clothes, every man Jack of you!” And out she bustled, closing the
door behind her.
For ten minutes the living-room resembled nothing so much as the
locker room of an athletic field. Crowding before the fire, the boys
ripped off their wet garments, plied the big towels vigorously, and
then, warm and glowing, slipped into the emergency costumes awaiting
them. The results surely were picturesque, but nobody minded trifles
like a shirt three sizes too big or trousers that came only a little
below knees.
“Ready?” called Mrs. Grant from the dining-room.
Sam ran an eye over his company. Poke wagged his head solemnly.
“In all my life,” he said, “I never knew before what being really ready
for a square meal was!”
“Yes, ready!” Sam reported; though, as he spoke, he saw that Tom
Orkney, withdrawn a little from the others, was standing close to a
window and inspecting something he held in his hand. Still, as Tom had
made as full a toilette as anybody else, Sam saw no reason to delay on
his account.
“Yes, ma’am, ready!” he repeated more loudly.
The door swung, and the boys trooped into the dining-room, Lon bearing
them willing company. But while they feasted their eyes upon the
well-spread table, their hostess was again making a count.
“Six, seven--sakes alive! but there ought to be eight of you, not
saying anything of Lon Gates, who’s quite big enough to speak for
himself. And there’s only seven.” Mrs. Grant was moving toward the
door. “Now what in the world----” she was looking into the living-room.
“Oh, there you are! Goodness gracious, child, I should think you’d be
famished!”
Orkney thrust what he had been examining into an inner pocket of his
coat. Then, blushing and embarrassed, he came forward.
“I--I must have been so interested in--in something I found, I----”
“Never mind it now, anyway! Sit right down, and let’s see if you won’t
find breakfast interesting, too.”
Tom took his place at the table; the others already had taken their
places. Hannah, coffee-pot in hand, approached, and began to fill the
cups.
Every face brightened as the savory odor of the steaming coffee filled
the room. Poke sighed, but it was a sigh of vast content.
“My, my, but this is bully! Only I wish----” there he broke off
abruptly and a bit sheepishly.
“What are you wishing?” Mrs. Grant inquired solicitously.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter, ma’am. I--I--it was just a fancy.”
“What kind of a fancy? Tell us, do!”
Poke reddened; he moved uneasily in his chair. “It--I guess it’s too
foolish to talk about.”
“But sometimes I like to hear things that may not be so foolish, after
all.”
The boy hesitated. Then, perceiving that the whole hungry party waited
on an end of this interlude, he spoke, hastily and jerkily:
“It’s a crazy notion, I know.... Folks don’t do it at breakfast, I
suppose. But--but I couldn’t help remembering that perfectly corking
buster of a mince pie we had yesterday, and wishing I’d come to it with
the razor appetite I’ve got this minute. It was just a notion, you
know, and----”
There Mrs. Grant stopped him. “What did I tell you about foolish
things that weren’t foolish?... Hannah! Bring it in--we’ll begin with
it, instead of end with it.... And hurry, please do!”
Away sped the maid to the kitchen, and Mrs. Grant again addressed her
guests:
“Some people poke fun at pie for breakfast, but over in Sugar Valley
we have a better use for it--we eat it. And this morning I feel like
eating it with special thankfulness for it and every other mercy and
good thing in life. You boys are all alive--I’m going to hear all about
how you happen to be alive, as soon as we’ve attended to having last
night’s supper, and a go-to-bed snack, and this morning’s breakfast,
all at once. The flood has swept the valley, and there has been a
terrible lot of damage, but so far as we can hear, nobody has been
drowned. And if we have to have new bridges down below--well, that’ll
be a good thing, too; I’ve been mortal afraid of the old covered bridge
lately--it was so rickety. So we’ll reckon up our mercies---- Right
here, Hannah; I’ll cut it myself.”
A chorus of exclamations rose from the boys. The maid had reappeared,
bearing a pie as big, as magnificent, as nobly tinted as the wonder of
the day before.
“Jeeminy! the twin!” cried Step, admiringly.
“Right!” said Mrs. Grant briskly. “The story goes, old Dominie Pike
wished mightily that he might have had two pies instead of one, so we
always make up a double allowance. And now don’t wait for ceremony.”
She was beginning to cut the pie with sure and deft wielding of her
knife. “This time we’ll begin with the boy who thought of having pie
for breakfast--yes, serve him first, Hannah.”
Hungrily Poke snatched up a fork. There was something frankly famished
in the admiring gaze he fixed upon the contents of the plate put before
him.
“Don’t wait!” Mrs. Grant counselled. “We’ll dispense with ceremony.”
Poke needed no urging. He was desperately hungry; and, moreover, as
has been said, he was a mighty trencherman. Up rose the fork, well
freighted. An instant’s silence; then one word:
“Ah-h!”
If ever vast satisfaction were packed into a syllable, it was in that
brief exclamation. Their hostess beamed; the boys burst into laughter.
Sam, before whom Hannah had placed the second plate, caught Mrs.
Grant’s eye.
“I--I think I used to be prejudiced about--about----” he hesitated.
“Somehow, though, I think you understand what I mean, ma’am. Maybe I
didn’t appreciate--er--er--you know!”
“I know! But you’re not to bother your head about that for a second. I
was young once myself, thank Heaven!”
“Well, I appreciate it now,” said Sam simply. “And I’m mighty glad
I’ve learned how to appreciate it. This whole business--from first to
last, with the flood thrown in--I--I guess I know more than I did,” he
concluded with an effort.
“I’m surely glad all of you know about Sugar Valley and its legends,”
Mrs. Grant put in quickly, to cover his confusion. “I’ve told you one
story about Dominie Pike. There are a lot of other stories.”
Tom Orkney spoke from his end of the table.
“I wonder if some of them are not here, Mrs. Grant,” he said, and
took from his pocket a little book, stained, frayed, dog-eared at
the corners, lacking covers, and with some of the outer pages sadly
mutilated.
From hand to hand it was passed to Mrs. Grant. The boys could see that
the pages were filled with writing, small, closely lined, in ink which
had faded with the passage of years.
Mrs. Grant glanced curiously at the little book. She turned the pages,
her interest evidently increasing as she proceeded.
“Why--why, if this isn’t the real thing--the original diary of Dominie
Pike--but how did you come by it?”
“I found it in an old house we stayed in till the flood drove us out.”
The lady nodded. “Yes, that would fit--it must have been the old
Dominie’s house. But this book, now! You know, I told you I never saw
the original, and never knew anybody who had seen it, but this--well,
it certainly fits the description of the diary that’s been handed
down. And the penmanship is just like the Dominie’s--there are some
other specimens in old documents that have been preserved--bills,
receipts, agreements, and so on. And as nearly as I can make out what
it says--yes, it reads as if it was genuine. And I think it’s one of
the first of the set the Dominie is known to have kept. But you found
it, you say?”
“Yes,” said Tom. “It was in a niche, a sort of hiding-place in the
chimney above the fireplace in an up-stairs room.”
“I know the room you mean. They say it was the Dominie’s study. He may
have left the book there, or maybe his son or grandson did. But how in
the world did you happen to hunt it out?”
Orkney hesitated. He was not a fellow of ready speech, and he was
embarrassed by the attention he was attracting.
“I--well, I can’t explain exactly except that I had a--a hunch, you
might call it--that, somehow, the Dominie Pike story might be more than
a plain story. And when I heard about the lost diary--well, it happened
I remembered it would be awfully good medicine for this crowd if we
could find it. There’s a prize----”
“Oh!” said Poke sharply and suddenly.
“There’s a prize we’d like to win for--for a special reason----”
“Bully old Orkney!” cried Step.
Orkney raised a hand. “Better let me finish the best way I can--I’m not
much of a chap at such things. Well, then, I couldn’t get the Dominie’s
diary out of my head. So when we had nothing else to do in the old
house, I kept nosing around. In that up-stairs room something made me
suspect there might be a hiding-place in the masonry of the chimney.
My grandfather’s house had a sort of safety-deposit box built into its
chimney, and I got a hint from that. Of course, it was too dark to see
much, but by feeling along and then digging with my knife--well, to
make the story short, I found that book just as we had to beat it--go
away, I mean. So I tucked the book where it would be safe, and when we
were on shore, and there was a chance, I looked it over. And--and you
think it’s the real thing, don’t you?” he added anxiously.
“Certainly!” cried Mrs. Grant. “I haven’t a doubt that it is.”
“And you won’t mind our taking it for a while?”
“Mind? Bless me, child, it’s yours for the finding, and welcome!”
But Orkney shook his head. “No; it belongs to you,” he said. “You’ll
know what to do with it permanently. We shouldn’t. A week or two will
be quite enough for our purposes.”
Mrs. Grant looked perplexed. “Well, maybe you understand what you’re
about. I don’t, but that’s neither here nor there. And if it suits you,
surely it suits me, too.”
“Thank you!” said Orkney very gravely.
“Yes, thank you!” echoed the Safety First Club with a fervent
heartiness Mrs. Grant perceived but quite failed to comprehend.