Captain Dilke's Fate--A Happy Wind-Up.
The days had dragged by on leaden wings to the parents of Jason Dilke.
The mother was nearly bereft of reason, but the father, spite of grief
for his son and anxiety for his wife, gained in strength day by day.
Every effort to find the boy in the vicinity of Old Orchard and to the
southward had been made. Liberal rewards were offered and advertisements
inserted in papers far and near.
Jacob, the faithful old servitor, had been continually on the go, but
all without success.
And yet the strength of Allan Dilke did not succumb. His face was white
and thin, but his eyes shone with a determined light.
"We will hear from Arnold to-morrow," he would say, hopefully, at night.
"I know he is doing his utmost."
But the morrow came, and still no word from the absent ones. The heart
of the mother had lost all hope, when one night there came a summons at
the door after the bereaved parents had retired.
"It is Jason," said Allan Dilke, rising hastily and dressing, when the
servant had tapped upon the door and announced that visitors desired to
see him.
"Show them into the drawing-room," he said, as he came forth in
dressing-gown and slippers.
"But they are rough, sea-faring men, sir," replied the domestic. "Shall
I--"
"Do as I bid you!" interrupted the master of the house, sternly. "No
room is too good for those who bring tidings of my son."
A moment later two men stood before him in rough sailor garb.
"We come to inform you that--" began one of them, who was no other than
Shaky, when Allan Dilke interrupted him.
"If my son is with you," he said, firmly, "bring him to me. If he is
dead, tell me so!"
Shaky at once left the room, and soon a little procession came slowly
in. Two men were carrying a helpless body, while a woman and boy
followed.
A wail of anguish sounded. A woman with white face and streaming hair
knelt beside the slight figure which lay upon a sofa.
"Dead! Is my boy dead?" she sobbed. "Twice we have been robbed. Once, so
many years ago, when our first-born was taken by the cruel sea, and
now--"
She had spoken so hurriedly and with such an abandon of despair that
Allan Dilke had failed in trying to calm her.
"The boy is not dead," said Shaky. "See, he is opening his eyes. He is
only exhausted."
The mother fainted from excess of joy at this, and, when she had
recovered consciousness, Jason was sitting up.
In the midst of their tears and caresses, Shaky spoke again.
"It may not be a proper time to say what I am about to, but something
urges me on. Can you bear a revelation?"
"We can bear anything now," replied Allan Dilke. "Our boy is restored to
us."
"You lost another child, did you not?" queried Shaky.
Allan Dilke made answer slowly:
"We did, years ago. But why refer to it now?"
"Because the boy is not dead," responded Shaky. "This is your son!"
As he said this, he drew Arno toward them. The boy met the eyes of Allan
Dilke unflinchingly, while Jason exclaimed, joyously:
"Good, good, good! Then we won't be parted."
"Is this true?" asked Mr. Dilke, gravely. "Can you prove that he is my
son?"
"As for proof," replied Shaky, "I had the honor of helping to steal him
away myself more than fifteen years ago, though I did it unwittingly.
You remember Bart Loring--that is my real name--and Martin Hoffman and
his wife Judith, the deaf mute? They stand before you. We have ample
proof."
"And, if I may ask the question, Mr. Loring, what prompted you to commit
this deed? Who was the instigator?"
Allan Dilke spoke these words slowly, like one in a dream; but the
answer of Shaky, or Bart Loring, came promptly:
"Your brother, Arnold Dilke. He it was who kidnapped the boy I have the
happiness of returning to you to-night. I was a sailor at that time on
board your brother's vessel, and did not know till afterward who the
child was. I also learned later that you were robbed of a considerable
sum of money at the same time, though I had no hand in this. Fear of
being implicated in the robbery kept me silent, and I left this part of
the country shortly after. I prospered, but thoughts of the great wrong
done you haunted me continually, and when I returned, a few months ago,
I determined to right this matter at the first opportunity, if it could
be done. At this time I little thought he had stolen your second child,
and it was only by the merest chance that I met your brother on the
steamer. From that moment I entered into the matter heart and soul, and
have the pleasure of restoring two boys, instead of one."
"And where is this loyal brother of mine, who came to me so repentant a
few years ago and begged for an opportunity to retrieve a wasted life?"
asked Allan Dilke, standing pale and erect, not noticing that his wife
had sunk down on the sofa beside Jason, and that one of her hands was
clasped in both those of Arno.
"He is a prisoner in the little sloop not far from here," replied Shaky.
"McDougall here, Judith, the two boys and myself were on board a sloop
which I am told was stolen from you by your brother and presented to
Martin when the two latter personages overhauled us in the Petrel. I
sent the boys into the hold, and, when Arnold came on board, we tied him
hand and foot and put him in the cabin. I have not seen him since."
"I will send my man with you to bring him here at once," said Allan
Dilke. "If he will promise to leave the country, never to return, I will
let him go free."
Shaky, Sandy McDougall, Martin and Judith, accompanied by Jacob, left
the house, and then Allan Dilke turned to Arno.
"Were you given to understand that this Martin and Judith were your
parents?" he asked.
"Yes, sir; though I never could believe it. Once, I overheard Captain
Dilke talking to Martin about me, and I knew from what they said that
the captain was my uncle."
The tones of the boy were respectful, yet confident, and Allan Dilke
smiled as he looked into the earnest eyes that met his.
"I can see the Dilke blood shining in your eyes," he said. "Who knows
but what you are the son whom we have so long mourned as dead?"
"I feel convinced that he is," replied Mrs. Dilke. "Something tells me
as plainly as words could do that he is our own flesh and blood."
They were talking in this way, when footsteps were heard at the door.
"The men have returned," said Allan Dilke, gravely, rising to his feet.
"Now I must meet my brother who has wronged me so deeply."
Jacob entered the room, followed by Bart Loring, alias Jasper Leith,
alias Shaky, the latter carrying a bundle.
"Your brother will trouble you no more," said he of the various
cognomens. "We searched the cabin of the sloop in vain; but beneath the
cabin floor, in a close compartment, we found him, his hands clutching a
great quantity of gold, but he was--dead!"
As he spoke, he dropped the bundle upon the carpet. It fell heavily,
with a metallic chink, which denoted the character of its contents.
Allan Dilke buried his face in his hands.
"Let the dead past bury its dead," he said, solemnly. "He needs not my
mercy now."
"And what will we do with the money?" asked he who had been known as
Shaky.
"Divide it between this man McDougall, Judith and yourself," replied
Allan Dilke. "I want no portion of it, and I will provide for this brave
boy whether he be my son or not."
From this day onward the recovery of Allan Dilke was rapid, and, after
the body of Captain Dilke had been consigned to the earth, Martin
produced proofs of Arno's true identity, which fully satisfied the happy
father and mother that their little family circle was complete.
Martin was allowed to go free, and, in company with Judith, who was
exceedingly loth to part with Arno, betook himself to Grand Manan
Island, where he resides to this day, a reformed, repentant man.
[THE END.]
A FLOCK OF GEESE.
by W. BERT FOSTER.
[Illustration]
"That Al Peck thinks he's _so_ smart," remarked Nat Bascom, coming into
the kitchen with a scowl of fearful proportions darkening his face.
"Just because he's got a flock of geese, and expects to make some money
on them Christmas. I wish I had some geese--or something, father. I'd
like to make some money as well as Al."
Mr. Bascom looked up from the county paper, in which he had been reading
a political article, and said, curtly:
"_You_ make money, Nat! You haven't a money-making bone in your body.
Wish you had. Last spring I gave you that plot of ground back of the
orchard to plant, and you let it grow up to weeds; and, a year ago, you
had that cosset lamb, and let the animal die. 'Most any other boy around
these parts would have made quite a little sum on either of them."
"Oh, well, the weeds got the start of me on that ground, and you know
that lamb was weakly. Ma said it was," whined Nat.
"It was after you had the care of it," reminded the elder Bascom.
"Well, pa, can't I have some geese, same as Al Peck has?" at last
inquired Nat, desperately.
"You may if you can catch them," answered his father, smiling grimly.
"If you can trap a flock of wild ones, I reckon you can have them. I
ain't going to waste any more money on your ventures."
Nat flung out of the house in anything but a pleasant frame of mind and
went over to stare longingly at Alvin Peck's flock of geese, securely
penned behind his father's barn.
Until recently, the two boys, who were about of an age, had been the
best of friends. But within a fortnight, Alvin's father had presented
his son with a flock of thirteen geese, to fatten for market, and Al
had, in Nat's eyes, put on the airs of a millionaire.
Alvin Peck may have had some excuse for being proud of his geese, for
they were all fine, handsome birds, but, in his pride, he had filled
poor Nat's breast with envy.
Nat wanted some Christmas money as well as his friend, and to hear Al
loudly boast of what he intended doing with _his_ was maddening.
Gradually the seeds of discord sown between the two boys had sprouted
and taken root, and, being warmed and watered by Nat's jealousy and Al's
selfishness, were soon in a flourishing condition, and before
Thanksgiving the former chums refused even to speak to each other.
This state of affairs made Nat secretly very lonely, for Alvin was the
only other boy within a number of miles, and, being without either
brother or sister, Nat was absolutely companionless. But his pride would
not allow him to go to his former friend and "make up." Even when Al's
dog Towser came over to visit the Bascom's Bose, Nat drove him home with
a club, thus increasing the enmity between him and Towser's master.
This deplorable state of affairs continued to grow worse instead of
better as the holidays approached. One evening, a week or ten days
before Christmas, it commenced raining, but, becoming suddenly very cold
in the night, the rain turned to ice, and the following morning the
roofs, sheds, fences, trees--everything, in fact--was covered with a
coating of ice. With the beams of the rising sun shining over all, it
seemed a picture of fairy land.
But Nat Bascom arose that morning with an uglier feeling against Al Peck
than ever. Donning his outside garments, he went out to assist his
father in feeding the cattle.
The hay-stack behind the barn had a glittering coat of ice, and, as he
approached it, Nat discovered something else about it as well. Close to
the ground, on the lea of the stack, were a number of objects which Nat
quickly recognized as geese--thirteen of them.
"They're those plaguey geese of Al Peck's!" exclaimed Nat, as one of the
birds stretched out its long neck at his approach and uttered a
threatening "honk! honk!"
The geese tried to scuttle away as he came nearer, and then for the
first time Nat discovered that they, like the inanimate things about
them, were completely sheathed in ice; so much so, in fact, that they
could not use their wings.
Nat stood still a moment and thought.
"I know what I'll do," he said, aloud, "I'll put them in pound, same as
father did old Grayson's cattle last summer, and make Al pay me to get
them out."
With this happy thought, he at once set about securing the geese.
One end of an old shed near by had in former times been used by the
Bascoms for a hen-house, and there was still a low entrance through
which the fowls were wont to go in and out.
Carefully, and so as not to alarm them, Nat drove the thirteen birds
into the shed and clapped a board over the opening. The geese objected
with continued cries to these proceedings, but they were too thoroughly
coated with ice to get away.
"There, now, Mister Al Peck, I think I'll get even with you this time,"
he said, in a tone of satisfaction.
Hastening through the remainder of his chores, he started off in the
direction of the Peck place without saying a word about the matter to
either of his parents.
As he approached Mr. Peck's barn, he beheld Al returning from the
direction of his goose-pen.
"You needn't look for them, Al Peck," remarked Nat, with a malicious
grin, "for you can't find them. You ought to keep your old geese shut
up, if you don't want to lose them."
"I haven't lost them," declared Al, with a somewhat puzzled expression
of countenance.
"Oh, you haven't?" snapped Nat, angered at the other's apparent
coolness. "You needn't think you're going to get them back for nothing.
I found them all camped under our haystack this morning, and drove them
into the old hen-house. You've just got to pay me ten cents apiece for
them before I'll let them out. I bet you'll keep them to home after
this."
Al opened his mouth and closed it again like a flash. He was evidently
surprised.
Just then Mr. Peck appeared on the scene. Al repeated what Nat had said,
to his father's very evident amazement.
"Why, I saw--" began the elder Peck, when Al interrupted him with a
gesture, and whispered something in his ear.
A broad grin overspread Mr. Peck's face for a moment; then he said, with
becoming gravity:
"I suppose you've got the rights of it, Nat, but seems to me it's a
rather mean trick."
Nat had begun to think so, too, by this time, but he refused to listen
to the promptings of his better nature and said nothing.
"We'll come right over with the team for them," said Mr. Peck.
And he and Al at once harnessed up, and placing a large, strong coop in
the wagon, drove over to the Bascom place.
"I should think you'd have your geese tame enough to drive," said Nat;
but the Pecks paid no attention to the remark.
Mr. Peck pulled his cap well down over his eyes, put on a pair of gloves
and entered the hen-house.
The ice had by this time melted from their backs and wings, and those
thirteen geese were the liveliest flock of birds imaginable.
"Thirteen of them. All right!" said Mr. Peck, passing out the last
struggling bird to his son, who clapped it into the coop.
A dollar and thirty cents was handed to Nat by Al's father, with the
cutting remark:
"There's your money, young man! I hope you won't grow up to be as mean
as you bid fair to be now."
Nat accepted the money, considerably shame-faced, and followed the Pecks
back to their place to see them unload the geese; but he was
disappointed, in that they were not unloaded, Al flinging some corn into
the coop, which was allowed to remain in the wagon.
"Aren't you going to put them into the pen again?" inquired Nat, mildly.
"They've never been in a pen, that I know of," replied Mr. Peck, with a
queer smile.
"I don't believe they'd get along very well with any other geese," added
Al, reflecting his father's broad grin.
"Why--" began Nat, at last beginning to believe that there was something
_very_ peculiar about the whole affair.
"Why, it is just here!" explained Al. "They weren't my geese at all,
till I bought them of you. They were a flock of wild ones, that got
belated in the storm last evening, I suppose. I should think you'd have
known them by their call. For once in your life, Nat Bascom, you've
over-reached yourself. I shall clear as much as seventy-five cents on
each of those birds."
Nat made for home at once, followed by shouts of laughter from the
Pecks, father and son. He felt as though everything stable in the world
had been knocked from under him.
Although he never mentioned the matter to his father or mother, the
story reached them through other sources, for it soon spread throughout
the community, and neither Mr. nor Mrs. Bascom had the least sympathy
for him.
All that winter the nickname of "Goose" clung to him, and perhaps the
jeers of his fellows did him some good; at least, it made a lasting
impression on his mind, and when he was tempted to perform a mean act
again, he could not fail to remember how he had once over-reached
himself.
DRAWN INTO THE WHIRLPOOL
(_A Norway Boy's Adventure._)
by DAVID KER.
Under the lee of a small island on the northwest coast of Norway a young
fisher-lad lay sleeping in the boat in which he had been out all night,
unconscious of the grim face and cruel eye that watched him from the
thicket above with a look that boded him no good. Just then, two men
came pulling round the point behind which his boat was moored, and one
of them said to the other, loud enough to be heard by the hidden watcher
overhead, though not to wake the sleeper:
"There's a rich Englishman come into Langeness, in his yacht, and he's
offered a big reward to any man that'll find out what those letters are
that are carved on the sea-king's grave."
"Why don't he offer a reward for the moon?" laughed the other. "Does he
think any money can tempt men to go right into a whirlpool that would
swallow the stoutest boat in these seas like a biscuit?"
"But they say that at the flood-tide you may go through it without harm,
if you start just at the right moment."
"Aye! _if_ you do. But who would be fool enough to risk it?"
Then they passed on, and their voices were lost in the distance.
The moment their boat was out of sight, behind the rocks, a wild face
peered through the matted boughs overhead, and a bulky figure rose
stealthily from the bushes and crept downward toward the sleeping boy,
with a long knife in its hand. One quick slash cut the mooring-rope, and
the boat slowly drifted seaward with its slumbering occupant.
"The current sets straight for the whirlpool," muttered the ruffian,
with a cruel laugh, "and, when he's missed, they'll think the _reward_
tempted him. I'm quits at last with his father for the thrashing that he
gave me!"
Only a few miles from the spot, a small rocky islet had sunk down into
the sea ages ago, creating by its fall one of the most dangerous
whirlpools in northern waters, known in Norway as the "Well of
Tuftiloe."
In the midst of the whirl stood up one dark, pillar-shaped crag, the
sole remnant of the lost islet, which the Norsemen, believing it to be
some ancient hero's tomb, called "The Sea King's Grave." And, in fact,
passing yachtsmen had seen upon it from a distance, through their
telescopes, traces of rude carving, and something that looked like the
half-effaced letters of an old Runic inscription. But although the
whirlpool, like its big brother, the maelstrom, was believed to be
passable at certain states of the tide, no one had ever dared to try.
The quickening motion of the current, as it bore the light boat swiftly
along, roused the boy at last, but it was too late. Being half asleep,
it was some minutes ere he realized what had befallen him or whither he
was going, and the first warning he had of this rush straight upon
certain destruction was the dull roar of the distant whirlpool, which,
the tide being now full ebb, was just at the height of its fury.
Fully roused at last, Mads Nilssen seized his oars and pulled till they
seemed on the point of snapping; but all in vain.
Faster and faster the boat was whirled along--nearer and nearer it drew
to the terrible ring of white foam that marked the deadly whirl. And now
he could see plainly the grim crag that kept watch over that ghastly
abyss, and now he almost touched its outermost eddy--and now he was
dragged into it and began to spin dizzily round in lessening circles
nearer and nearer to his doom.
And all this while the dancing ripples sparkled gaily around him, the
sun shone gloriously in a cloudless sky, the white-winged sea-birds
soared rejoicingly overhead and seemed to mock him with their shrill
cries.
It was hard to die amid all this brightness and beauty; but die he must,
for there was no way of escape. Even in this dire strait, however, with
the hungry waves leaping around him, the brave boy did not lose his
presence of mind. One faint chance was still left to him, and he seized
it.
As the boat made its final whirl around the central crag before plunging
down into the depths below, he sprang upon the gunwale, and, exerting
all his wonderful agility, made a desperate leap that landed him on the
lowest ledge of the rock, bruised, bleeding, dizzy, but _saved_ for the
moment. In another instant the deserted boat had vanished forever into
the roaring gulf below.
To all appearance the bold lad had escaped one death only to perish by
another more lingering and painful; but even now he did not despair.
He remembered to have heard that just at full flood tide the whirlpool
was not dangerous, and he determined to watch for the subsiding of its
fury and then plunge in and take his chance of being able to swim ashore
or to fall in with a boat.
But what should he do to fill up the long hours that lay between? He
felt that the dizzy dance of the whirling waters around him, and their
ceaseless roar, were already beginning to unstring his nerves and make
his brain reel; and he knew that if he could not find some way to
counteract their paralyzing influence, he must soon become helpless and
fall headlong into the abyss.
Just then his eye caught the antique letters cut in the rock above him,
which no living soul but himself had ever seen so near, and the sight of
them gave him an idea.
He knew nothing of the offered reward, but he _did_ know that there were
people who thought such things valuable and paid well for copies of
them. If he escaped it might be worth something, and meanwhile it would
divert his attention and keep him from losing his nerve.
So, turning his back resolutely to the mad riot of circling waves, he
set himself to trace the letters with the point of his knife upon a
small metal match-box which he had in his pocket.
It was a long task, but he completed it at last; and then he clambered
to the top of the rock, hoping that the sight of his figure standing out
against the sky might attract the notice of some passing fisherman.
For a long time he watched and waited in vain, and he was just beginning
to think that he would have to try and save himself by swimming, after
all--for the hour of flood-tide was now drawing near and the violence of
the whirlpool was beginning to abate--when, far in the distance, he
suddenly descried a tiny white sail.
No shout could be heard at such a distance; but the ready boy unwound
the red sash from his waist and waved it over his head till his arm
ached, and, after a pause of terrible anxiety, he at length saw the boat
alter her course and stand right for him.
The skill with which the two men who handled her kept clear of the fatal
current by which Mads had been swept away, showed that both were
practical seamen, and, as he boat neared him, the boy's keen eye
recognized one of them as his own father.
When the rescuers came near enough for a shout to be heard, the father
called out to his son to climb down the crag again and stand ready to
make a plunge when he gave the word, as the boat could not come too
near, for fear of being dashed against the rock.
Just around the foot of the rock itself there was always a strong eddy,
which might suck down Mads even now, if he could not succeed in leaping
clear of it.
For ten minutes or more the two sailors kept "standing off and on," till
the fury of the whirlpool should be completely spent, while the daring
boy, perched on the lowest ledge of the rock, waited and watched for the
signal.
At length his father's powerful voice came rolling to him over the
water:
"Now!"
Mingling with the shout came the splash of Mads' plunge into the water.
Exerting all his strength, the active boy leaped far beyond the
treacherous eddy that would have sucked him down among the sunken rocks,
and in another moment he was safe in the boat, which turned and shot
away from the perilous spot as lightly as the sea birds overhead.
A few days later the young hero received the reward that he had so
strangely won; and thus the would-be murderer, instead of destroying his
victim, actually helped him to earn more money than he had ever made in
his life. Nor did the villain go wholly unpunished, for the end of the
cut rope having been found and suspicion directed toward him, he had to
sneak away by night and never dared to show his face on that coast
again.
THE BLACK HOUND.
by FRANCIS S. PALMER.
We first saw him on a snowy November morning. The Adirondack Lake, where
I was staying that autumn, was not yet frozen; but a few days before
there had been a light fall of snow, and on this morning the evergreens
were draped in a feathery shroud. While I was yet asleep my guide, Rufe,
had caught a glimpse of a deer, swimming near the shore. No hounds were
heard; and, after an early breakfast, Rufe and I got into our boat and
paddled along the water's edge to discover, if possible, the track of
dog or wolf, which would explain why the deer had taken to the water.
As we came near the place where Rufe had seen the deer, we noticed a
slender, black animal crouching in the bushes. It proved to be a tall
hound, and, after some urging, he was persuaded to enter the boat.
The reason for the deer's early bath was now apparent; but Rufe was
surprised that he did not hear the hound's barking, for, like all old
hunters, it was his habit, in the deerhounding season to step into the
open air and listen, at short intervals during the morning, for the
barking of hounds.
This morning had been no exception to the rule; but neither before nor
after seeing the deer had Rufe heard the well-known baying of a
deerhound.
We took the gaunt animal into our boat and carried him back to the
shanty. He proved to be half-famished and wholly exhausted, and, after a
hearty meal, lay in a comatose condition before the fire. He must have
had a long chase, probably coming from some neighboring lake, for Rufe,
who knew all the hounds on our lake, had never seen him before.
When two or three days had passed and the black hound had recovered his
strength, Rufe took him into the woods with our own dog and put them
both upon the track of a deer.
The black hound followed the track steadily, but he uttered no bark,
confining himself to a low, excited whimpering. Even when the game was
roused and the hot scent gave ardor to the pursuing dogs, the black
hound did not join in the frantic baying of his companion.
The deer did not enter the lake at the runway where I was watching, but
with my spy-glass I saw it plunge into the water a quarter of a mile
away. A boat happened to be passing at the time and the deer was killed.
A moment later the black hound appeared on the shore. He could not have
been forty rods behind the deer, but no bark betrayed the eagerness of
his pursuit. I heard the baying of my own dog, as he slowly followed the
scent, away back among the wooded hills that rose on all sides of the
lake.
This, then, was the reason why Rufe had heard no baying on the morning
when we had found the black hound. He was silent, and as swift as he was
silent.
As I looked at him that evening, I noticed he did not have the long ears
and heavy jaws of the common American deer or foxhound. His long, sharp
nose and slender proportions indicated the blood of the Scotch
staghound, or that of some large breed of greyhound.
But this cross had not made him more delicate or less fierce. Even Rufe
was afraid to handle him roughly, for, unless treated with every
consideration, the great hound snarled, and showed rows of savage teeth.
He ruled over the other dogs with a cool assumption of more aristocratic
breeding.
The morning after the deer was driven to water and the black hound had
proved his swiftness and persistence, Rufe again went into the woods for
the purpose of starting deer with the two hounds, or "putting out the
dogs," as it is called; but this morning it was the guide's intention to
put the dogs on separate tracks. They differed too much in speed to be
useful when following the same deer.
I took my station at my favorite stand, a runway which reaches the lake
where a deep, narrow bay collected the waters before they were
discharged into the river which flowed into the St. Lawrence.
One side of this bay was nearly separated from the lake by a long, sharp
point of land, and near the bay's farther shore was a little island, a
green, bushy spot amid the blue waters.
The bay was a favorite place for the pursued deer to take to the water
in their endeavor to baffle the hounds following their tracks, and from
my station on the long point I could watch and command the entire bay.
Before daybreak Rufe had led the hounds into the wood, and it was not
much later when I pushed my light boat against the point, and sprang
ashore.
It was a still, crisp, November morning, and the rising sun had not yet
melted the hoar-frost from the alder bushes that grew at the water's
edge.
Gauzy wisps of mist hovered by the shores, and shrouded the evergreens
on the little island. The snow-sprinkled forest looked white and weird
through the veils of mist.
Small flocks of ducks threaded their way across the foggy surface of the
bay, going from their resting-places on the river to feed among the wild
rice marshes of the lake.
I built a small fire to deaden the morning chill, and amused myself by
aiming my shotgun at the passing ducks.
The birds, in their low, drowsy flight, offered beautiful wing-shots,
and as I glanced along the polished gun-barrels, I imagined the sharp
explosion followed by the heavy fall of fat mallards into the water.
But I fired in imagination only, for it would be a grave breach of
deer-hunting etiquette to discharge a gun at anything less important
than the antlered game.
The sun rose higher, the mists disappeared and flying ducks no longer
relieved the monotony of my watch. The forest was seen more distinctly
and grew less weird and interesting.
I was beginning to wish for a book to while away the long hours which
would elapse before the strict rules of custom would permit me to return
to the shanty, when I saw a deer jump from the bushes which bordered the
shores of the bay nearest the island.
I knew the black hound's peculiarities, and was prepared for the
appearance of a deer, unushered by the baying of hounds, but I had not
expected the game to come so quickly, for Rufe had hardly had time to
start the dogs.
Hidden in the bushes of the point, I watched the deer as it stood upon
the shore, and glanced its keen eyes around.
The bay seemed devoid of enemies, and the animal plunged into the water
and swam toward the island.
As yet I did not dare to move, for the deer was not more than forty rods
distant, and a glimpse of me would send it hurrying back to the shore.
[Illustration:
"THE DOG DID NOT RELAX ITS HOLD, AND THE COMBATANTS
SEEMED BOUND TOGETHER."]
The animal swam straight to the island and landed there. At my
hiding-place I waited for it to appear on the opposite side of the
island and swim across the bay. When it got well out into the open water
I could catch it with my boat.
But the deer seemed contented to remain on the island, for it did not
again show itself. It evidently thought it could thus baffle the nose of
the pursuing hound, and escape the danger incurred by swimming across
the bay. I made up my mind that in order to capture the deer, I must in
some way get into the narrow channel between the island and the main
shore; but with the deer watching me from the island, this would be
almost impossible.
Carefully I crept across the point to the spot where the skiff was
moored. My moccasins made no noise as I stepped into the boat.
With silent paddle I propelled the little craft around the extremity of
the point, and again looked into the bay.
Another actor had appeared upon the scene. At the spot where the game
had entered the water stood the black hound, sniffing the air for some
taint of the lost scent.
A breeze from the island and crouching deer must have been wafted to his
keen nose, for I heard him give a whimper of satisfaction, and the next
instant he leaped into the water.
A deerhound dreads going into the water, and the proceedings of the
black dog therefore surprised me.
I let the boat float quietly. It was hidden against the dark background
of the point, and I decided to stay there until the hound should
frighten the deer into swimming across the bay. When I first saw the
deer I thought it to be a large doe, but, as it was swimming to the
island, I saw, with the aid of my glass, that it was a "spike-horn"
buck.
These spike-horns are quite common, and do not seem to be a distinct
species of the deer family. They only differ as to their horns; instead
of the branching antlers of the ordinary buck, they carry sharp spikes
of horns from two to six inches long, varying with the age of the
animal.
I watched the black hound swim directly to the island, and every moment
I expected to see the deer dash into the water on the opposite side. A
deer is a much faster swimmer than a dog, and, when both are in the
water, can easily escape.
When the dog reached the island he shook himself, sniffed the hot scent
and then sprang forward, growling savagely. The deer must have been
taken completely by surprise. I saw it jump from the bushes and turn to
escape, but already the hound's teeth were fastened in its flank.
Wheeling, the deer gored its pursuer, and the hound let go its hold. For
an instant the two faced each other. Then the dog sprang at its
opponent's throat, but was met by the sharp spikes of the buck. The
spikes were much more effective weapons than broad antlers, and again
the hound was tossed back.
Made more wary by experience, the dog again darted in, and this time
caught the deer's neck, but not before the spikes had entered its black
sides. The dog did not relax its hold, and the combatants seemed bound
together.
I saw the hound was in danger, and rowed rapidly toward the island. When
I got within shooting distance the deer had fallen to its knees, and I
dared not fire for fear a scattering buckshot should strike the hound.
My boat grounded against the island, and, gun in hand, I sprang ashore.
But neither creature moved; the fight was over. The hound's sharp teeth
had done their work, and the buck's spike-horns, hardly less sharp, had
done theirs. As I stood watching them both animals expired.
The next day two men drove over the rough wood-road, and stopped at the
shanty. One of them left their buck-board and stepped to the door to
speak to me.
He was evidently an educated man, and I detected traces of a German
accent.
"I hear that you found a tall, black hound," he began. "Such a dog left
my shanty on the Lower Saranac nearly a week ago. He looked a little
like a greyhound, and I never knew him to bark."
I told him such a dog had been with me, and described the animal's
death.
The stranger walked with me to the back of the shanty, where Rufe had
nailed the dog's pelt against the side of a shed.
"Poor Wolfram!" he exclaimed. "Who would have expected that a hound from
the fiercest pack in the Black Forest should be killed by one of these
little Adirondack deer?"
It was far to the nearest tavern, and the young man seemed so dismayed
at the dog's death that I urged him to spend the night in my shanty. In
this way I might satisfy my curiosity about the dog.
The Bavarian--for he told me he was of that nationality--gladly accepted
my invitation; and, after he had dined off the venison which his hound
had pulled down, I asked him to explain the dog's peculiarities.
"Both Wolfram and I," he said, "came from Bavaria. The family estate was
at the edge of the far-famed Black Forest, and my father, with his pack
of black hounds, killed many a wolf that lurked in the dark shadows of
the fir trees. But hunting was not a profitable business, and there was
nothing better for me, a younger son, to do than to become a soldier or
to emigrate.
"While a mere lad I came to America, and, as an importer of German
goods, have been fairly successful. My inherited love of hunting has not
been lost, and I spend a part of each autumn in the Adirondacks.
"A year ago, my brother, the present head of the family, sent me a pup
from his kennel of wolf-dogs. For the purpose of giving the poor animal
a change from city streets, I brought him to my cottage on Saranac Lake.
But I did not expect to hunt with the dog, for I supposed he had a
spirit above the game of this region.
"Several days ago a deer was chased near my door, and Wolfram put after
it. We could not tell which way he had gone, for my father's wolf-dogs
were not taught to bark, as among the great firs of the Black Forest
horsemen can follow the chase, which seldom goes out of sight.
"The day after the hound disappeared I set out to find him, and now you
tell me that one of the dogs which my father considered able to battle
with a wolf has been killed by the thrust of a deer's horn!"
AVERAGE
A very common word, to-be-sure, and well understood as to its
application. But after fair translation of its old French
body--"aver"--into English, and only "horse" is found, and the word
becomes "horsage," the change tends to confusion. None the less,
"horsage" and "average" are identical, since in the old-time French an
"aver" was a horse. It was also a horse in the Scotch dictionaries, and
in one of Burns' poems, "A Dream," he alludes to a horse as a "noble
aiver."
In olden times in Europe a tenant was bound to do certain work for the
lord of the manor--largely in carting grain and turf--horse-work; and in
the yearly settlement of accounts the just proportion of the large and
small work performed was estimated according to the work done by "avers"
(horses); hence our common word "average."
[_This Story began in No. 43._]
LELIA'S HERO:
or,
"We Girls and Boys in Florida."
by ELSIE LEIGH WHITTLESEY,
Author of "My Brother and I,"
"A Home in the Wilds," etc., etc.