chief exception I know of is the bullhead, a small species of catfish
that abounds in northern waters, particularly in the Adirondack lakes.
The bullhead has gustatory nerves all over him. He can taste with his
tail, or his side, or his head, as well as with his mouth. Of course
there’s a good reason for the difference.”
“I suppose so, but I can’t imagine what it is,” said Larry.
“Neither can I,” echoed Tom and Dick. Cal continued the silence he had
not broken by a word since Dunbar had begun. Observing the fact, Dick
was troubled lest his playful suppression of Cal at the beginning had
wounded him. So, rising, he went over to Cal’s side, passed his arm
around him in warm friendly fashion, and said under his breath:
“Did you take me seriously, Cal? Are you hurt or offended?”
“No, you sympathetically sublimated idiot, of course not. It is only
that I want to hear all I can of Mr. Dunbar’s talk. You know I’ve
always been interested in fish—even when they refuse to take bait.
Hush. He’s about to begin again.”
“Oh, it is obvious enough when you think about it,” said Dunbar. “It
is a fundamental law of nature that every living thing, animal or
vegetable, shall tend to develop whatever organs or functions it has
need of, for defense against enemies or for securing the food it needs.
You see that everywhere, in the coloring of animals and in a thousand
other ways. The upper side of a flounder is exactly the color of the
sand on which he lies. That is to prevent the shark and other enemies
from seeing him and eating him up. But his under side, which cannot be
seen at all by his enemies, is white, because there is no need of color
in it. I could give you a hundred illustrations, but there is no need.
Your own daily observation will supply them.”
Again Dunbar paused, as if his mind had wandered far away and was
occupying itself with other subjects. After waiting for a minute or two
Cal ventured to jog his memory:
“As we are not familiar with the bullhead—we who live down South—we
don’t quite see the application of what you’ve been saying, Mr. Dunbar.
Would you mind explaining?”
“Oh, certainly not,” quickly answered the man of science, rousing
himself as if from sleep. “I was saying—it’s very ridiculous, but I’ve
quite forgotten what I was saying. Tell me.”
“You were telling us about the bullhead’s possession—”
“Oh, yes, I remember now. You see fishes generally hunt their prey
by sight, in the clear upper water and in broad daylight. They quit
feeding as soon as it becomes too dark to see the minnows or other
things they want to eat. As they hunt only by sight, they have no need
of the senses of smell and taste, and so those senses are not developed
in them. With the bullhead the thing is exactly turned around. He never
swims or feeds in the upper waters. He lives always on or very near
the bottom of comparatively deep water, in thick growths of grass,
where sight would be of little use to him for want of light. He feeds
almost entirely at night, so that those who fish for him rarely begin
their sport before the dusk falls. In such conditions Mr. Bullhead
finds it exceedingly convenient to be able to taste anything he may
happen to touch in his gropings. So with him the sense of taste is
the food-finding sense, and in the long ages since his species came
into being that sense has been developed out of all proportion to
the others. He has very little feeling and his nervous system is so
rudimentary that if you leave him in a pail without water and packed in
with a hundred others of his species, he seems to find very little to
distress him in the experience. You may keep him in the waterless pail
for twenty-four hours or more, and yet if you put him back into the
pond or lake he will swim away as unconcernedly as if nothing out of
the ordinary had happened. But then all species of fish are among the
very lowest forms of vertebrate creatures, so that they feel neither
pain nor pleasure at all keenly.”
Suddenly Dunbar ceased speaking for a minute. Then he seemed to speak
with some effort, saying:
“There are many other things I could tell you about fish, and if you’re
interested, I’ll do so at another time. I’m very sleepy now. May I pass
the night here?”
“Certainly. I’ll bring you some moss—”
“It isn’t at all necessary,” he answered, as he threw himself flat upon
the earth and fell instantly into a slumber so profound that it lasted
until Cal called him to breakfast next morning.
XXXI
DUNBAR’S STRANGE BEHAVIOR
DUNBAR was very silent during breakfast. He answered courteously when
spoken to, as he always did, and there was no suggestion of surliness
in his silence. In response to inquiries he declared that he had slept
well and hoped the boys had done the same. But he added no unnecessary
word to anything he said, and made no inquiries as to plans for
the day. His manner was that of a person suffering under grief or
apprehension or both.
As soon as breakfast was over he started off into the woods in a
direction opposite to that in which his camp lay. He took neither
his rifle nor his butterfly net with him. He simply walked into the
woodlands and disappeared.
At dinner time he was nowhere to be found. As evening drew near the
boys agreed to postpone their supper to a later hour than usual in
anticipation of his return. But late as it was when at last they sat
down to their evening meal, he was still missing.
The boys were beginning to be alarmed about him, for they had already
learned to like the man and regard him as a friend.
“We must do something at once,” suggested Dick.
“But what can we do?” asked Larry. “I confess I can think of few
possibilities in the way of searching for him at this time of a very
dark night—for the clouds completely shut out the moonlight. Has
anybody a suggestion to offer? What say you, Cal?”
“First of all,” was the reply, “we must carefully consider all the
possibilities of the situation. Then we shall be better able to lay
plans of rescue that may result in something. Let’s see. To begin
with, he hasn’t left Quasi. He hasn’t any boat and there is absolutely
no land communication with the main. So he is somewhere on Quasi
plantation.
“Secondly, what can have happened to him? Not many things that I can
think of. Old woods wanderer that he is, it isn’t likely that he has
succumbed to any woodland danger, if there are any such dangers here,
as there aren’t. There isn’t any wild beast here more threatening than
a deer or a ’possum. He had no gun with him, so he cannot have shot
himself by accident. He may have got lost, but that is exceedingly
unlikely. He is used to finding his way in the woods, and it is certain
that he thoroughly explored Quasi during the time he was marooned here
and flying his distress signal. If by any possible chance he is lost,
he’ll soon find himself again. The only other thing I think of is that
he may have tripped and fallen, breaking something.”
“I should doubt his doing that,” said Larry, “for he’s as nimble as any
cat I ever saw. Still, there’s the chance. What shall we do to meet it?”
“We can’t scatter out and search the woods and thickets in the dark,”
suggested Dick.
“No,” said Tom; “if we did he would have to go in search of four other
lost fellows if he should happen to turn up. But we can keep up a big
fire and we can go out a little way into the woods, fire our shotguns,
give all the college yells we know, and then listen.”
“Good suggestion, that about shooting and yelling,” said Cal. “Besides,
I like to yell on general principles. But we shan’t need to keep up a
bonfire, and the night is very hot.”
“But he might see the bonfire,” answered Tom in defense of his plan,
“and he’d come straight to it, of course, if he’s lost.”
“We’ll put up something else that he can see farther and better.”
“What?”
“A fat pine torch.”
“Where?”
“Did you observe a catalpa tree that stands all alone over there on the
highest part of the bluff, which is also the highest point in the whole
land of Quasi?”
“Of course, if you mean over there, near the _Hunkydory’s_ anchorage.”
“Yes, I mean that. There isn’t another tree anywhere near it. I can’t
imagine how it came to grow out there on that bald bluff, unless
somebody planted it. However, that’s no matter. The tree is there and
a torch fixed in the top of it could be seen from almost every nook
and corner of Quasi, while here we are in a pocket of trees and thick
growths of every kind. A bonfire here could be seen a very little way
off.”
Cal’s modification of Tom’s plan was promptly approved as the best
possible for that night. The company went into the woods, pausing at
several points to fire their guns and to yell like demons.
No results following, they returned and set to work making huge torches
of fat pine, one of which was kept burning in the tree-top throughout
the night, a fresh one being lighted whenever an old one burned out.
It was all to no purpose. Morning came and still there was no sign of
Dunbar.
Breakfast was cooked and eaten, together with a reserve supply of food
for the boys to carry with them on the search of the plantation, which
they had decided to make that day. Still no sign of the missing man!
“Now, Cal,” said Larry, “this thing is becoming serious. We must find
poor Mr. Dunbar to-day whatever else happens. We must scour the place
till we accomplish that. We must scatter, but we must see to it that
we get together again. Suppose you suggest a plan of procedure. You’re
better than any of us at that.”
“I will,” said Cal, who had lost all disposition to be facetious. “He
may be along the shore somewhere, so two of us had better follow the
sealine, one going one way and the other in the opposite direction.
They can cover double ground by going through the woods and open
glades, only keeping near enough the shore to see it well. The other
two will need no directions. Their duty will be to search the woods and
thickets. Where the woods are open they can cover the ground rapidly,
and also in the old fields wherever they haven’t grown up too thickly.
But the denser woods and canebrakes must be searched. Look particularly
for trails. No one can possibly pass into or through such growths
without leaving a trail behind. Look for trails and follow them; don’t
bother about the unbroken growths. Now as to getting back here. We
must all come back well before nightfall. No matter where we may be
on Quasi, it will be easy to find some point near from which the lone
catalpa tree can be seen. Make for that all of you and nobody will
get lost. Finally, if any of you find Mr. Dunbar and need help, fire
three shots about half a minute apart and we’ll all go to the point of
firing. Now let’s be off.”
It was nearly sunset when Tom reached the catalpa tree on his return.
He had not found Dunbar, but for reasons of his own he waited rather
impatiently for the coming of his comrades. They were not long delayed,
but the blank, anxious face of each as he appeared was a sufficient
report to the others.
“The search is a failure!” said Larry, dejectedly.
“Absolutely,” answered Cal.
“No, not absolutely,” said Tom, feeling in his pocket. “I found
something, and I’ve waited till you should all be here before speaking
of it.”
“What is it? Tell us quick.”
“This,” answered Tom, drawing forth a letter, “and this,” producing a
pruning knife with a curved blade, which they had all seen Dunbar use.
“The letter was pinned to a tree with the point of the knife blade.”
“Never mind that,” said Larry, impatiently; “read the letter.”
Tom read as follows:
“I expect to be with you young gentlemen very soon. But in case
I never see you again, please don’t think me ungrateful for all
your kindnesses. There are times when I cannot endure a human
presence—even the—”
Tom stopped reading, and explained:
“It breaks off right there, and there is no signature, or address, or
anything else.”
The boys stared at each other in amazement, and for a time uttered no
word. When they begun talking again it was only to wonder and offer
conjectures, and the conjectures seemed so futile that at last the
little company ceased to try to read the riddle. Then Larry said:
“Come on. There’s nothing more to be done to-night and we’re all half
famished. We must have a good hearty supper, and then perhaps we’ll
think of something more that we can do.”
“I doubt that,” said Cal; “but I say, Tom, you have a positive genius
for finding things—turtles’ eggs, smugglers’ camps, sweet potato
patches, letters hidden in the woods, and everything else. Perhaps
you’ll find poor Mr. Dunbar yet.”
“I was just thinking of some other things that we ought to find, and
that right away.”
“What things?”
“Why, Mr. Dunbar’s. You know he has never brought any of them to our
camp, and we know he writes and draws and all that. He must have some
place up near his old bivouac where he can keep his papers and drawings
and specimens dry. It seems to me we ought—”
“Of course we ought,” broke in Cal. “There may be something there to
give us a clue. What do you say, Larry?”
“It is a good suggestion of Tom’s, and we’ll act upon it at once.”
Turning in a direction opposite to that which led to their own camp the
boys visited the spot where Dunbar had lived before they came to Quasi.
They searched in every direction, but found no trace of any of the
man’s belongings. It was rapidly growing dark when at last they gave up
the work of exploring, and decided to resume it again in the morning.
As they approached their camp through the woods and thickets, they
were surprised to see their camp-fire blazing up briskly, though none
of them had been near it since the early morning. As they came out
of the bushes, they were still more astonished to see Dunbar busying
himself with supper preparations. Larry had just time enough before
Dunbar saw them to say to the others in an undertone:
“Not a word about this, boys, until he asks.”
“Good evening, young gentlemen,” was Dunbar’s greeting, delivered in
a cheery voice; “I have taken the liberty of getting supper under
way in anticipation of your coming. I am sure you must be tired and
hungry after a hard day’s shooting. By the way, a cup of tea is always
refreshing when one is tired, and fortunately I have a little packet of
the fragrant herb among my things. I’ll run up there and fetch it.”
As he spoke he started off briskly and nimbly.
“Evidently he isn’t tired, anyhow,” suggested Dick.
“And evidently he has some dry place in which to keep his things,”
added Cal, “and I mean to ask him about it.”
“Don’t,” said Larry, earnestly. “That would be grossly impertinent.”
“Not at all, if it’s done in the proper way,” Cal replied, “and I’ll do
it in that way.”
And he did. When Dunbar returned, he carried the tea, closely sealed up
in tin foil.
“Is that thin tin foil sufficient to keep tea dry?” Cal asked.
“If you keep the packet in a dry place it is,” Dunbar answered. “The
tin-foil prevents the delicate aroma of the tea from escaping, and at
the same time forbids the leaves to absorb moisture from the air. When
I’m moving about in a boat I carefully wrap any tea I may have in my
waterproof sheets, but that is apt to give it an undesirable flavor,
so my first care upon landing is to provide a dry storage place for
my tea, my ammunition, my papers and whatever else I may have that
needs protection. By the way, I’ve never shown you my locker up there.
I’ll do so to-morrow morning. I’ll not forget, as I must go there for
writing and drawing materials. I have some things in my mind that I
simply must put down on paper at once.”
At that moment he thrust his hand into his pocket and felt there for
some seconds. Then he said:
“That’s very unfortunate. I’ve managed to lose my knife.”
“I think I must have found it, then,” said Tom, holding it out; “isn’t
that it?”
“Yes, thank you. I’m particularly glad to get it again, as it is the
only one I have at Quasi. I usually buy half a dozen at a time, and so
the loss of one doesn’t annoy me. But just now I have only this one.”
He did not ask where or when Tom had found the knife, nor did he seem
in the least surprised that it was found. The circumstance did not seem
to remind him of his letter or of anything else.
The boys were full of wonder and curiosity, but they asked no
questions.
XXXII
A RAINY DAY WITH DUNBAR
DUNBAR was in excellent spirits that evening. He seemed indeed like one
who has had some specially good fortune happen to him, or one suddenly
relieved of some distress or sore annoyance.
Throughout the evening he talked with the boys in a way that greatly
interested them. He made no display of learning, but they easily
discovered that his information was both vast and varied, and better
still, that his thinking was sound, and that he was a master of the art
of so presenting his thought that others easily grasped and appreciated
it.
When at last the evening was completely gone, he bade his companions a
cheery good night, saying that he would go over to the bluff and sleep
near the catalpa tree.
“You see there are no sand flies to-night,” he explained, “and I like
to smell the salt water as I sleep.”
“What do you make of him, Larry?” Dick asked as soon as their guest was
beyond hearing.
“I don’t know. I’m puzzled. What’s your opinion?”
“Put it in the plural, for I’ve a different opinion every time I think
about it at all.”
“Anyhow,” said Tom, “he must be crazy. Just think—”
“Yes,” interrupted Cal, “but just think also how soundly he thinks.
Let’s just call him eccentric and let it go at that. And who wouldn’t
be eccentric, after living alone in the woods for so long?”
“After all,” Dick responded, “we’re not a commission in lunacy,
and we’re not under the smallest necessity of defining his mental
condition.”
“No,” Cal assented; “it’s a good deal better to enjoy his company and
his talk than to bother our heads about the condition of his. He’s one
of the most agreeable men I ever met—bright, cheerful, good natured,
scrupulously courteous, and about the most interesting talker I ever
listened to. So I for one give up trying to answer conundrums, and I’m
going to bed. I wouldn’t if he were here to go on talking, but after an
evening with him to lead the conversation, I find you fellows dull and
uninteresting. Good night. Oh, by the way, I’ll slip away from here
about daylight and get some pan fish for breakfast.”
Early as Cal was in setting out, he found Dunbar on the shore ready to
go with him.
“I hope to get a shark,” the naturalist said, “one big enough to show a
well-developed jaw, and they’re apt to bite at this early hour. I’ve a
line in the boat there with a copper wire snell.”
“Are you specially interested in sharks?”
“Oh, no, not ordinarily. It is only that I must make a careful drawing
or two, illustrative of the mechanical structure and action of a
shark’s jaw and teeth, to go with an article I’m writing on the general
subject of teeth in fishes, and I wish to draw the illustrations from
life rather than from memory. It will rain to-day, and I’m going to
avail myself of your hospitality and make the drawings under your
shelter.”
“Then perhaps you’ll let us see them?”
“Yes, of course, and all the other drawings I have in my portfolio, if
they interest you.”
“They will, if you will explain and expound a little.”
Dunbar gave a pleased little chuckle as he answered:
“I’ll do that to your heart’s content. You know, I really think I like
to hear myself talk sometimes.”
“Why shouldn’t you? Your talk would delight anybody else.”
“Here’s my shark,” excitedly cried Dunbar, as he played the fish. “He’s
nearly three feet long, too—a bigger one than I hoped for. Now if I
can only land him.”
“I’ll help you,” said Cal, leaning over the rail with a barbed gaff
hook in his hand. “Play him over this way—there, now once more
around—here he is safe and sound.”
As he spoke he lifted the savage-looking creature into the boat and
Dunbar managed, with some little difficulty, to free the hook from his
jaws without himself having a thumb or finger bitten off.
“Not a tooth broken!” he exclaimed with delight. “I’ll dissect out the
entire bony structure of the head to-day and make a drawing of it. Then
I’m going to pack it carefully in a little box that I’ll whittle out,
and present it—if you don’t mind—to young Wentworth. He may perhaps
value it as a souvenir of his visit to Quasi.”
Cal assented more than gladly, and the two busied themselves during
the next half hour completing their catch of whiting and croakers for
breakfast. When they reached the camp the rain Dunbar had predicted
had set in.
As soon as breakfast was over Dunbar redeemed his promise to show the
boys his lockers.
“I’m going over there now,” he said, “to get some paper, pencils and
drawing board. Suppose you go with me, if you want to see some of my
woodland devices.”
They assented gladly. They were very curious to see where and how their
guest cared for his perishable properties, the more because their own
search for the lockers had completely failed.
The matter proved simple enough. Dunbar led them a little way into the
woods and then, falling upon his knees, crawled into the end of a huge
hollow log. After he had reached the farther end of the hollow part he
lighted a little bunch of fat pine splinters to serve as a torch, and
invited his companions to look in. They saw that he had scraped away
all the decaying wood inside the log, leaving its hard shell as a bare
wall. In this he had fitted a number of little wooden hooks, to each of
which some of his belongings were suspended.
It was a curious collection. There were cards covered with butterflies,
moths and beetles, each impaled upon a large pin. There were the
beaks and talons of various birds of prey, each carefully labeled.
There were bunches of feathers of various hues, some dried botanical
specimens and much else of similar sorts.
From the farther end of the hollow he brought forth several compact
little portfolios, each so arranged that no rain could penetrate it
when all were bound together and carried like a knapsack.
“I’ll take two of these portfolios with me to your shelter,” he
said, taking them under his arm. “One of them contains the writing
and drawing materials that I shall need to-day. The other is filled
with my drawings of various interesting objects. Some of them may be
interesting to you during this rainy day, and each has a description
appended which will enable you to understand the meaning of it.”
But the boys had a rather brief time over the drawings that day. They
ran through a part of the portfolio while Dunbar was writing, but after
an hour he put his writing aside and began dissecting the shark’s head,
stopping now and then to make a little sketch of some detail. After
that the boys had no eyes but for the work he was doing and no ears but
for the things he said.
“You see there are comparatively few species of fish that have any
teeth at all. They have no need of teeth and therefore have never
developed them.”
“But why is that,” asked Tom; “I should think some of the toothless
varieties of fish would have developed teeth accidentally, as it were.”
“Development is never accidental in that sense, Tom. It is Nature’s
uniform law that every species of living thing, animal or vegetable,
shall tend to develop whatever is useful to it, and nothing else. That
is Nature’s plan for the perpetuation of life and the improvement of
species.”
After pausing in close attention to some detail of his work, Dunbar
went on: