The man who wanted to see the fight did not see it, and the man who did
not want to see it saw it. Yates arrived on the field of conflict when
all was over; Renmark found the battle raging around him before he
realized that things had reached a crisis.
When Yates reached the tent, he found it empty and torn by bullets.
The fortunes of war had smashed the jar, and the fragments were strewn
before the entrance, probably by some disappointed man who had tried to
sample the contents and had found nothing.
“Hang it all!” said Yates to himself, “I wonder what the five assistants
that the _Argus_ sent me have done with themselves? If they are with
the Fenians, beating a retreat, or, worse, if they are captured by
the Canadians, they won’t be able to get an account of this scrimmage
through to the paper. Now, this is evidently the biggest item of the
year--it’s international, by George! It may involve England and the
United States in a war, if both sides are not extra mild and cautious. I
can’t run the chance of the paper being left in the lurch. Let me think
a minute. Is it my tip to follow the Canadians or the Fenians? I wonder
is which is running the faster? My men are evidently with the Fenians,
if they were on the ground at all. If I go after the Irish Republic, I
shall run the risk of duplicating things; but if I follow the Canadians,
they may put me under arrest. Then we have more Fenian sympathizers
among our readers than Canadians, so the account from the invasion side
of the fence will be the more popular. Yet a Canadian version would be
a good thing, if I were sure the rest of the boys got in their work, and
the chances are that the other papers won’t have any reporters among the
Canucks. Heavens! What is a man to do? I’ll toss up for it. Heads, the
Fenians.”
He spun the coin in the air, and caught it. “Heads it is! The Fenians
are my victims. I’m camping on their trail, anyhow. Besides, it’s safer
than following the Canadians, even though Stoliker has got my pass.”
Tired as he was, he stepped briskly through the forest. The scent of a
big item was in his nostrils, and it stimulated him like champagne.
What was temporary loss of sleep compared to the joy of defeating the
opposition press?
A blind man might have followed the trail of the retreating army. They
had thrown away, as they passed through the woods, every article that
impeded their progress. Once he came on a man lying with his face in the
dead leaves. He turned him over.
“His troubles are past, poor devil,” said Yates, as he pushed on.
“Halt! Throw up your hands!” came a cry from in front of him.
Yates saw no one, but he promptly threw up his hands, being an adaptable
man.
“What’s the trouble?” he shouted. “I’m retreating, too.”
“Then retreat five steps farther. I’ll count the steps. One.”
Yates strode one step forward, and then saw that a man behind a tree was
covering him with a gun. The next step revealed a second captor, with
a huge upraised hammer, like a Hercules with his club. Both men had
blackened faces, and resembled thoroughly disreputable fiends of
the forest. Seated on the ground, in a semicircle, were half a dozen
dejected prisoners. The man with the gun swore fearfully, but his
comrade with the hammer was silent.
“Come,” said the marksman, “you blank scoundrel, and take a seat with
your fellow-scoundrels. If you attempt to run, blank blank you, I’ll
fill you full of buckshot!”
“Oh, I’m not going to run, Sandy,” cried Yates, recognizing him. “Why
should I? I’ve always enjoyed your company, and Macdonald’s. How are
you, Mac? Is this a little private raid of your own? For which side are
you fighting? And I say, Sandy, what’s the weight of that old-fashioned
bar of iron you have in your hands? I’d like to decide a bet. Let me
heft it, as you said in the shop.”
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said Sandy in a disappointed tone, lowering his
gun. “I thought we had raked in another of them. The old man and I want
to make it an even dozen.”
“Well, I don’t think you’ll capture any more. I saw nobody as I came
through the woods. What are you going to do with this crowd?”
“Brain ‘em,” said Macdonald laconically, speaking for the first time.
Then he added reluctantly: “If any of ‘em tries to escape.”
The prisoners were all evidently too tired and despondent to make
any attempt at regaining their liberty. Sandy winked over Macdonald’s
shoulder at Yates, and by a slight side movement of his head he seemed
to indicate that he would like to have some private conversation with
the newspaper man.
“I’m not your prisoner, am I?” asked Yates.
“No,” said Macdonald. “You may go if you like, but not in the direction
the Fenians have gone.”
“I guess I won’t need to go any farther, if you will give me permission
to interview your prisoners. I merely want to get some points about the
fight.”
“That’s all right,” said the blacksmith, “as long as you don’t try to
help them. If you do, I warn you there will be trouble.”
Yates followed Sandy into the depths of the forest, out of hearing of
the others, leaving Macdonald and his sledge-hammer on guard.
When at a safe distance, Sandy stopped and rested his arms on his gun,
in a pathfinder attitude.
“Say,” he began anxiously, “you haven’t got some powder and shot on you
by any chance?”
“Not an ounce. Haven’t you any ammunition?”
“No, and haven’t had all through the fight. You see, we left the shop in
such a hurry we never thought about powder and ball. As soon as a man
on horseback came by shouting that there was a fight on, the old man he
grabbed his sledge, and I took this gun that had been left at the shop
for repairs, and off we started. I’m not sure that it would shoot if I
had ammunition, but I’d like to try. I’ve scared some of them Fee-neens
nigh to death with it, but I was always afraid one of them would pull a
real gun on me, and then I don’t know just what I’d ‘a’ done.”
Sandy sighed, and added, with the air of a man who saw his mistake, but
was somewhat loath to acknowledge it: “Next battle there is you won’t
find me in it with a lame gun and no powder. I’d sooner have the old
man’s sledge. It don’t miss fire.” His eye brightened as he thought of
Macdonald. “Say,” he continued, with a jerk of his head back over his
shoulder, “the boss is on the warpath in great style, aint he?”
“He is,” said Yates, “but, for that matter, so are you. You can swear
nearly as well as Macdonald himself. When did you take to it?”
“Oh, well, you see,” said Sandy apologetically, “it don’t come as
natural to me as chewing, but, then, somebody’s got to swear. The old
man’s converted, you know.”
“Ah, hasn’t he backslid yet?”
“No, he hasn’t. I was afraid this scrimmage was going to do for him,
but it didn’t; and now I think that if somebody near by does a little
cussing,--not that anyone can cuss like the boss,--he’ll pull through.
I think he’ll stick this time. You’d ought to have seen him wading into
them d--d Fee-neens, swinging his sledge, and singing ‘Onward, Christian
soldiers.’ Then, with me to chip in a cuss word now and again when
things got hot, he pulled through the day without ripping an oath. I
tell you, it was a sight. He bowled ‘em over like nine-pins. You ought
to ‘a’ been there.”
“Yes,” said Yates regretfully. “I missed it, all on account of that
accursed Stoliker. Well, there’s no use crying over spilled milk, but
I’ll tell you one thing, Sandy: although I have no ammunition, I’ll let
you know what I have got. I have, in my pocket, one of the best plugs of
tobacco that you ever put your teeth into.”
Sandy’s eyes glittered. “Bless you!” was all he could say, as he bit off
a corner of the offered plug.
“You see, Sandy, there are compensations in this life, after all; I
thought you were out.”
“I haven’t had a bite all day. That’s the trouble with leaving in a
hurry.”
“Well, you may keep that plug, with my regards. Now, I want to get back
and interview those fellows. There’s no time to be lost.”
When they reached the group, Macdonald said:
“Here’s a man says he knows you, Mr. Yates. He claims he is a reporter,
and that you will vouch for him.”
Yates strode forward, and looked anxiously at the prisoners, hoping,
yet fearing, to find one of his own men there. He was a selfish man, and
wanted the glory of the day to be all his own. He soon recognized one
of the prisoners as Jimmy Hawkins of the staff of a rival daily, the New
York _Blade_. This was even worse than he had anticipated.
“Hello, Jimmy!” he said, “how did you get here?”
“I was raked in by that adjective fool with the unwashed face.”
“Whose a--fool?” cried Macdonald in wrath, and grasping his hammer. He
boggled slightly as he came to the “adjective,” but got over it safely.
It was evidently a close call, but Sandy sprang to the rescue, and
cursed Hawkins until even the prisoners turned pale at the torrent
of profanity. Macdonald looked with sad approbation at his pupil,
not knowing that he was under the stimulus of newly acquired tobacco,
wondering how he had attained such proficiency in malediction; for,
like all true artists, he was quite unconscious of his own merit in that
direction.
“Tell this hammer wielder that I’m no anvil. Tell him that I’m a
newspaper man, and didn’t come here to fight. He says that if you
guarantee that I’m no Fenian he’ll let me go.”
Yates sat down on a fallen log, with a frown on his brow. He liked to do
a favor to a fellow-creature when the act did not inconvenience himself,
but he never forgot the fact that business was business.
“I can’t conscientiously tell him that, Jimmy,” said Yates soothingly.
“How am I to know you are not a Fenian?”
“Bosh!” cried Hawkins angrily. “Conscientiously? A lot you think of
conscience when there is an item to be had.”
“We none of us live up to our better nature, Jimmy,” continued Yates
feelingly. “We can but do our best, which is not much. For reasons that
you might fail to understand, I do not wish to run the risk of telling
a lie. You appreciate my hesitation, don’t you, Mr. Macdonald? You would
not advise me to assert a thing I was not sure of, would you?”
“Certainly not,” said the blacksmith earnestly.
“You want to keep me here because you are afraid of me,” cried the
indignant _Blade_ man. “You know very well I’m not a Fenian.”
“Excuse me, Jimmy, but I know nothing of the kind. I even suspect myself
of Fenian leanings. How, then, can I be sure of you?”
“What’s your game?” asked Hawkins more calmly, for he realized that he
himself would not be slow to take advantage of a rival’s dilemma.
“My game is to get a neat little account of this historical episode sent
over the wires to the _Argus_. You see, Jimmy, this is my busy day. When
the task is over, I will devote myself to your service, and will
save you from being hanged, if I can; although I shall do so without
prejudice, as the lawyers say, for I have always held that that will be
the ultimate end of all the _Blade_ staff.
“Look here, Yates; play fair. Don’t run in any conscientious guff on a
prisoner. You see, I have known you these many years.”
“Yes, and little have you profited by a noble example. It is your
knowledge of me that makes me wonder at your expecting me to let you out
of your hole without due consideration.”
“Are you willing to make a bargain?
“Always--when the balance of trade is on my side.”
“Well, if you give me a fair start, I’ll give you some exclusive
information that you can’t get otherwise.”
“What is it?”
“Oh, I wasn’t born yesterday, Dick.”
“That is interesting information, Jimmy, but I knew it before. Haven’t
you something more attractive to offer?”
“Yes, I have. I have the whole account of the expedition and the
fight written out, all ready to send, if I could get my clutches on a
telegraph wire. I’ll hand it over to you, and allow you to read it,
if you will get me out of this hole, as you call it. I’ll give you
permission to use the information in any way you choose, if you will
extricate me, and all I ask is a fair start in the race for a telegraph
office.”
Yates pondered over the proposition for some moments.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Jimmy,” he finally said. “I’ll buy that
account from you, and give you more money than the _Blade_ will. And
when I get back to New York I’ll place you on the staff of the _Argus_
at a higher salary than the _Blade_ gives you--taking your own word for
the amount.”
“What! And leave my paper in the lurch? Not likely.”
“Your paper is going to be left in the lurch, anyhow.”
“Perhaps. But it won’t be sold by me. I’ll burn my copy before I will
let you have a glimpse of it. That don’t need to interfere with your
making me an offer of a better position when we get back to New York;
but while my paper depends on me, I won’t go back on it.”
“Just as you please, Jimmy. Perhaps I would do the same myself. I always
was weak where the interests of the _Argus_ were concerned. You haven’t
any blank paper you could lend me, Jimmy?”
“I have, but I won’t lend it.”
Yates took out his pencil, and pulled down his cuff.
“Now, Mac,” he said, “tell me all you saw of this fight.”
The blacksmith talked, and Yates listened, putting now and then a mark
on his cuff. Sandy spoke occasionally, but it was mostly to tell of
sledge-hammer feats or to corroborate something the boss said. One after
another Yates interviewed the prisoners, and gathered together all the
materials for that excellent full-page account “by an eyewitness” that
afterward appeared in the columns of the _Argus_. He had a wonderful
memory, and simply jotted down figures with which he did not care to
burden his mind. Hawkins laughed derisively now and then at the facts
they were giving Yates, but the _Argus_ man said nothing, merely setting
down in shorthand some notes of the information Hawkins sneered at,
which Yates considered was more than likely accurate and important. When
he had got all he wanted, he rose.
“Shall I send you help, Mac?” he asked.
“No,” said the smith; “I think I’ll take these fellows to the shop, and
hold them there till called for. You can’t vouch for Hawkins, then, Mr.
Yates?”
“Good Heavens, no! I look on him as the most dangerous of the lot. These
half-educated criminals, who have no conscientious scruples, always
seem to me a greater menace to society than their more ignorant
co-conspirators. Well, good-by, Jimmy. I think you’ll enjoy life down
at Mac’s shop. It’s the best place I’ve struck since I’ve been in the
district. Give my love to all the boys, when they come to gaze at you.
I’ll make careful inquiries into your opinions, and as soon as I am
convinced that you can be set free with safety to the community I’ll
drop in on you and do all I can. Meanwhile, so long.”
Yates’ one desire now was to reach a telegraph office, and write his
article as it was being clicked off on the machine. He had his fears
about the speed of a country operator, but he dared not risk trying
to get through to Buffalo in the then excited state of the country. He
quickly made up his mind to go to the Bartlett place, borrow a horse,
if the Fenians had not permanently made off with them all, and ride as
rapidly as he could for the nearest telegraph office. He soon reached
the edge of the woods, and made his way across the fields to the house.
He found young Bartlett at the barn.
“Any news of the horses yet?” was the first question he asked.
“No,” said young Bartlett gloomily; “guess they’ve rode away with them.”
“Well, I must get a horse from somewhere to ride to the telegraph
office. Where is the likeliest place to find one?”
“I don’t know where you can get one, unless you steal the telegraph
boy’s nag; it’s in the stable now, having a feed.”
“What telegraph boy?”
“Oh, didn’t you see him? He went out to the tent to look for you, and I
thought he had found you.”
“No, I haven’t been at the tent for ever so long. Perhaps he has some
news for me. I’m going to the house to write, so send him in as soon as
he gets back. Be sure you don’t let him get away before I see him.”
“I’ll lock the stable,” said young Bartlett, “and then he won’t get the
horse, at any rate.”
Yates found Kitty in the kitchen, and he looked so flurried that the
girl cried anxiously:
“Are they after you again, Mr. Yates?”
“No, Kitty; I’m after them. Say, I want all the blank paper you have
in the house. Anything will do, so long as it will hold a lead-pencil
mark.”
“A copy book--such as the children use in school?”
“Just the thing.”
In less than a minute the energetic girl had all the materials he
required ready for him in the front room. Yates threw off his coat, and
went to work as if he were in his own den in the _Argus_ building.
“This is a ---- of a vacation,” he muttered to himself, as he drove his
pencil at lightning speed over the surface of the paper. He took no note
of the time until he had finished; then he roused himself and sprang to
his feet.
“What in thunder has become of that telegraph boy?” he cried. “Well, it
doesn’t matter; I’ll take the horse without his permission.”
He gathered up his sheets, and rushed for the kitchen. He was somewhat
surprised to see the boy sitting there, gorging himself with the good
things which that kitchen always afforded.
“Hello, youngster! how long have you been here?”
“I wouldn’t let him go in to disturb you while you were writing,” said
Kitty, the boy’s mouth being too full to permit of a reply.
“Ah, that was right. Now, sonny, gulp that down and come in here; I want
to talk to you for a minute.”
The boy followed him into the front room.
“Well, my son, I want to borrow your horse for the rest of the day.”
“You can’t have it,” said the boy promptly.
“Can’t have it? I must have it. Why, I’ll take it. You don’t imagine you
can stop me, do you?”
The boy drew himself up, and folded his arms across his breast.
“What do you want with the horse, Mr. Yates?” he asked.
“I want to get to the nearest telegraph office. I’ll pay you well for
it.”
“And what am I here for?”
“Why, to eat, of course. They’ll feed you high while you wait.”
“Canadian telegraph office?”
“Certainly.”
“It’s no good, Mr. Yates. Them Canadians couldn’t telegraph all you’ve
written in two weeks. I know ‘em,” said the boy with infinite scorn.
“Besides, the Government has got hold of all the wires, and you can’t
get a private message through till it gets over its fright.”
“By George!” cried Yates, taken aback, “I hadn’t thought of that. Are
you sure, boy?”
“Dead certain.”
“Then what’s to be done? I must get through to Buffalo.”
“You can’t. United States troops won’t let you. They’re stopping
everybody--except me,” he added, drawing himself up, as if he were the
one individual who stood in with the United States Government.
“Can you get this dispatch through?”
“You bet! That’s why I came back. I knew, as soon as I looked at you,
that you would write two or three columns of telegraph; and your paper
said ‘Spare no expense,’ you remember. So says I to myself: ‘I’ll help
Mr. Yates to spare no expense. I’ll get fifty dollars from that young
man, seeing I’m the only person who can get across in time.’”
“You were mighty sure of it, weren’t you?”
“You just bet I was. Now, the horse is fed and ready, I’m fed and ready,
and we’re losing valuable time waiting for that fifty dollars.”
“Suppose you meet another newspaper man who wants to get his dispatch
through to another paper, what will you do?”
“Charge him the same as I do you. If I meet two other newspaper men,
that will be one hundred and fifty dollars; but if you want to make sure
that I won’t meet any more newspaper men, let us call it one hundred
dollars, and I’ll take the risk of the odd fifty for the ready cash;
then if I meet a dozen newspaper men, I’ll tell them I’m a telegraph boy
on a vacation.”
“Quite so. I think you will be able to take care of yourself in a cold
and callous world. Now, look here, young man; I’ll trust you if you’ll
trust me. I’m not a traveling mint, you know. Besides, I pay by results.
If you don’t get this dispatch through, you don’t get anything. I’ll
give you an order for a hundred dollars, and as soon as I get to Buffalo
I’ll pay you the cash. I’ll have to draw on the _Argus_ when I get to
Buffalo; if my article has appeared, you get your cash; if it hasn’t,
you’re out. See?”
“Yes, I see. It won’t do, Mr. Yates.”
“Why won’t it do?”
“Because I say it won’t. This is a cash transaction. Money down, or you
don’t get the goods. I’ll get it through all right, but if I just miss,
I’m not going to lose the money.”
“Very well, I’ll take it to the Canadian telegraph office.”
“All right, Mr. Yates. I’m disappointed in you. I thought you were some
good. You aint got no sense, but I wish you luck. When I was at your
tent, there was a man with a hammer taking a lot of men out of the
woods. When one of them sees my uniform, he sings out he’d give me
twenty-five dollars to take his stuff. I said I’d see him later, and I
will. Good-by, Mr. Yates.”
“Hold on, there! You’re a young villain. You’ll end in state’s prison
yet, but here’s your money. Now, you ride like a house a-fire.”
After watching the departing boy until he was out of sight Yates, with
a feeling of relief, started back to the tent. He was worried about the
interview the boy had had with Hawkins, and he wondered, now that it
was too late, whether, after all, he had not Hawkins’ manuscript in his
pocket. He wished he had searched him. That trouble, however, did not
prevent him from sleeping like the dead the moment he lay down in the
tent.