NAT IS ANGRY
Scarcely believing their eyes the boys crowded around the boat.
"What does this mean?" gasped Bob Somers.
"Look, look! There's a note for somebody," shouted Tom; "quick, let us
see what it says."
Bob leaped lightly into the boat, and picked up an envelope, which he
hastily tore open.
"Hurrah, hurrah!" he shouted. "Fellows, what do you think of this?"
Scrambling excitedly back to the wharf, while the others crowded
eagerly around, he read: "The 'Rambler,' presented to Robert Somers by
his father."
It seemed as if the boys had suddenly taken leave of their senses.
Joining hands, they danced around and around, and a succession of lusty
shouts echoed over the surrounding hills.
At length the very violence of their exertions caused a cessation of
the impromptu celebration, and they threw themselves on the ground,
thoroughly exhausted.
"Well, of all things in the world," burst forth Sam Randall, "isn't
this the grandest?"
"What a glorious surprise," panted Bob, enthusiastically.
"Three cheers for Mr. Somers!" cried Dick Travers, and again their
shouts floated over the air.
The boys were entirely unaware of the fact that their excited actions
had been observed by a pair of very sharp eyes, and consequently when a
step sounded close at hand it startled them not a little.
Looking up, they saw a small, unkempt individual, with a grizzly
iron-gray moustache and a nose that deviated considerably from any
recognized standard of beauty. He was gazing toward them with a severe
frown, and, indeed, presented a rather threatening aspect. In one
hand he clutched a heavy, knotted stick, while the other held a sadly
battered straw hat.
"Well, well!" he exclaimed, in husky tones, as he arranged the first
named article in such a manner as to assist in the task of standing
erect. "Have you kids plumb lost your senses? What do you call such
doings as them, anyway?" The frown deepened. "Who does this here
new-fangled tub belong to?"
"To me, or, rather, the Rambler Club," answered Bob, proudly.
"I thought so, I thought so!" returned their visitor. "The way youth is
pampered now, beats my comprehension. No son of mine would get any of
it."
"Don't doubt that, 'Major,'" ventured Dick Travers, with a broad smile.
Zeke Tipson, or, as he was more generally called, the "Major," an
appellation the source of which no one ever learned, lived in a
tumble-down shack on the river's bank about a half mile distant. He
cultivated a small garden, but, believing that hard work injured his
constitution, managed to abstain from active employment the greater
part of the time. To small boys he was an object of fear, to larger
ones, the butt of their pranks, and to the older element, an eccentric
character whose quaint ways furnished amusement.
"And what is going to be did with this here boat?" he went on, with
cheerful disregard for grammar.
"We are going to have the grandest hunting and fishing cruise that was
ever heard of, eh, Tom?" replied Sam Randall, his face shining with
enthusiasm.
"Oh, don't wake me, anybody; it's a dream; it's too good to be true,"
said Tom, blissfully.
Zeke Tipson shook his head disapprovingly. "It ain't right--it ain't
right that a parcel of boys should be allowed in a cockle-shell like
that," he grumbled. "Then, like as not, you'll be taking each other for
deers or bears, and a load of buckshot ain't any too healthy, I can
tell you that. Why, I once know'd a--"
"We've hunted before this," put in Bob, hastily, for the "Major" had
a habit of relating certain extraordinary remembrances, all noted for
their length.
"Well, you might get took with some sickness," persisted Zeke, who
seemed to be in a very pessimistic mood. "Now you needn't laugh. There
was three fellers I know'd once, and--"
"Oh, look, here comes Nat Wingate!" exclaimed Tom Clifton, suddenly. "I
believe he has been following us."
Nat, dressed with his usual care, approached jauntily across the
clearing, and nodded to the boys. Then turning, he said: "Hello,
'Major,' how do you find yourself?"
"None the better for looking at you," growled Zeke, a strange light
coming into his eyes.
But it is doubtful if Nat heard his remark, for he stopped short and
gave a whistle of astonishment, as he took in the graceful lines of the
motor boat.
"Gracious, what a beauty!" he exclaimed. "Where did it come from?"
As there was no immediate response, he continued: "Who in the world
does it belong to? The 'Rambler,' why, it can't be that--"
"Yes, it's the boat that is going to carry the Rambler Club on its
famous voyage," said Bob Somers, smilingly.
"But I thought you were going in the 'Lively,'" said Nat.
"So did we," returned Bob. And then he briefly explained how their good
fortune had come about.
"Well, I must say that you are the luckiest fellows I ever heard of,"
declared Wingate, with a long breath. "It's a beautiful little craft."
Then he added, glancing quickly toward Bob: "Are you really going to
visit your father's land?"
"We certainly are," replied Somers.
"And leave me out, after all?"
It was an appealing question, and the silence that followed was due
to the fact that the members of the club had almost exhausted their
vocabulary of declinations.
Nat walked forward. "See here, fellows," he burst out, with all the
earnestness at his command, "why can't you let me in? I'm willing to
pay more than my share of expenses; come now, what's the use of having
hard feelings?"
"We haven't any, I'm sure," responded Bob, who understood the quick,
meaning glances of his companions; "and I hope you won't feel
offended; but we got up this little club without ever intending to
increase the membership."
"Don't let him in," growled the "Major," at this point. "He's bad
enough on land, and you can't tell what he might be when he gets out on
the water."
"But what harm could it do to have one more?" pleaded Nat, who allowed
this remark to pass unheeded.
He spoke in such a quiet, contained tone that the Ramblers could
scarcely realize that it was the usually hot-headed Nat Wingate who was
talking.
"No harm, of course," responded Bob, slowly; "only, for the reasons I
have so often given, the club is to be just an exclusive little affair
among ourselves."
"Good!" observed the "Major," approvingly. "You kids ain't such a pack
of ninnies as I first suspicioned."
Nat Wingate's manner began to change. "Don't pay any attention to him,"
he said, as his brown eyes flashed ominously. "For the last time, won't
you vote me in, as member number six?"
Bob smiled, but shook his head slowly.
"So I'm finally refused, eh?" exclaimed Nat, his voice betraying the
fact that pent-up indignation was fast getting the better of his
calmness.
"Certainly," interposed Zeke.
"Your grand club is mighty exclusive, I'm sure," continued Wingate,
perceiving that his last words had made no impression on the Ramblers.
"You've treated me in the meanest fashion, and I'll make you regret it,
mark my words. The whole thing has been just a piece of spite work."
Nat, as he spoke, walked up and down, darting angry glances from one
to the other, and his tightly clenched fists showed to what extent his
passions had been aroused. Evidently the sight of the motor boat had
added not a little to his already intense desire to join the party.
"You're a fine one to talk about spite work," broke in Dick Travers,
whose temper was hasty. "I think you had better try to remember some of
the mean things you did at school."
Bob Somers gave his friend a look which effectually stopped him from
continuing, but the "Major" added fuel to Wingate's passion both by
action and words. He pointed his stick threateningly toward him,
exclaiming emphatically: "I ain't the kind what likes to mix up in
other people's affairs, but I say, boys, you did well to keep this
young scamp out."
"And what is it to you?" retorted Nat, furiously. "You and your old
shack are a disgrace to the neighborhood."
"Look here, boy, you'd better be a little careful," warned Zeke. "Only
the other day, about five big rocks hit my door, and I know who done
it, too."
"Elect him an honorary member of the club," sneered Nat. "Oh ho, I can
tell you fellows one thing, you needn't think that you are the only
boys who can get up a club. As sure as my name is Nat Wingate, I'll
form another; and not only that," he continued, excitedly, "but we'll
follow that old mud scow and make things hot wherever you go!"
"Oh, come, Nat," returned Bob, calmly; "you seem to have misunderstood
the matter entirely. Look at it in a sensible fashion."
But Nat had worked himself up into a towering rage, and refused to be
conciliated.
"You'll wish you had let me join," he shouted. "I never swallowed all
those insults you gave me without making up my mind to pay the crowd
back. And I'll remember you, too, old Zeke Tipson. Get out of here."
Had Nat looked at the "Major" he might have seen that his sharp eyes
were glaring in a most peculiar fashion. The two had had several
encounters, and whenever Zeke calculated the amount of damage resulting
therefrom, it made him very angry indeed.
"Get out of here yourself," he cried. "I won't stand any impudence,
mind you--go on, now."
Accompanying these words, he made several movements with his stick,
which brought it dangerously close to Nat's ankles.
"Hold on!" protested Bob Somers. "We don't want any trouble here."
"No, no!" chimed in Brandon.
But Nat, thoroughly enraged, sprang forward with fist upraised. "I'll
teach you some manners, you miserable beggar!" he shouted, with
flashing eyes.
Zeke parried the blow. Then the angry man jumped forward while Nat,
well aware of the fact that he was no match for him, leaped aside.
The Ramblers were about to rush between them to prevent further
hostilities, when Nat himself saved them that trouble.
In his eagerness to escape, he had not taken sufficient heed of his
surroundings. His spring away from Zeke landed him on the very brink
of the river, where the bank was steep and slippery. His feet flew
from under him, and as he began sliding down the declivity, he grasped
frantically at the top of the bank. His fingers touched it, but he
succeeded only in tearing out a handful of grass. "Grab me, somebody;
I'm falling in!" he shouted wildly.
But it had happened so quickly that the Ramblers were powerless
to render any assistance. The unfortunate Nat shot downward at an
estimated speed of not less than ten feet per second and struck the
water with a tremendous splash. The spray dashed in all directions,
and over the placid surface wide circles moved one after another in
undulating lines.
"My goodness, he has disappeared completely," exclaimed Bob.
Consternation reigned, but only for a moment. A hand was thrust above
the surface, then a head, and Nat, puffing and blowing, rose to a
standing posture, with the water up to his waist.
"Where's that old scarecrow?" he cried, as soon as he could get his
breath. "I'll make him pay for this."
It was strange how a few moments had altered his appearance. With the
water pouring off him in streams, his hair matted fantastically to his
forehead and his face streaked with mud, he presented such a ludicrous
spectacle that the Ramblers could hardly keep from bursting into roars
of laughter.
Nat waded a few feet and seized his hat, which was just about to sink.
"Don't let him get away," he cried. "If nobody ever saw an awful row
before, they'd better wait until I get on that bank."
Disdainfully refusing any assistance, the speaker made his way to a
place where he could climb up, and a few moments later, was standing
on the greensward. His fists were tightly clenched and he presented
a picture of the most uncontrollable rage. Apparently having formed
an intimate acquaintance with the mud at the bottom of the river, his
wet, clinging garments were decorated with generous patches of assorted
shapes.
Nat's first act was to pick up a handful of loose earth, which he
hurled spitefully at the "Major." "You--you," he began, his words
almost choked by passion, "you old villain; you'll be in jail for this
before night. My uncle will--"
But Zeke Tipson's face was stinging where some of the earth had landed
with unwonted force, and he was in no humor to stand any of Nat
Wingate's threats. The words were hardly out of the speaker's mouth
when he once more sprang toward him, with uplifted stick.
Nat was far from being taken unawares, and this time he used
commendably good judgment in his actions. He sprang nimbly to one
side, and, despite the handicap of his wet clothing, began to travel
over the ground at an astonishing rate. The incident was thus abruptly
closed, for Zeke's clumsy movements were in striking contrast.
"He's fast as one of them new-fangled flying machines," observed the
"Major," unable to repress a smile. "And I wager he won't care for no
perlice to find out what he done."
At this instant, a figure was seen hastily approaching from the
direction of the woods.
"My goodness, it's father!" exclaimed Bob.