of teeth developed by different species. The sheepshead needs teeth
only for the purpose of crushing the shells of barnacles and the like,
and in that way getting at its food. So in a sheepshead’s mouth you
find none but crushing teeth. The shark, as you see, has pointed teeth
so arranged in rows that one row closes down between two other rows in
the opposite jaw, and by a muscular arrangement the shark can work one
jaw to right and left with lightning-like rapidity, making the saw-like
row of teeth cut through almost anything after the manner of a reaping
machine. Then there is the pike. He has teeth altogether different from
either of the others. The pike swallows very large fish in proportion
to his own size, and his need is of teeth that will prevent his prey
from wriggling out of his mouth and escaping while he is slowly trying
to swallow it. Accordingly his teeth are as small and as sharp as
cambric needles. Moreover, he has them everywhere in his mouth—on his
lips, on his tongue, and even in his throat. However, this is no time
for a lecture. If you are interested in the subject you can study it
better by looking into fishes’ mouths than by listening to anybody talk
or by reading books on the subject.”
Again Dunbar paused in order that his attention might be closely
concentrated upon some delicate detail of his work.
When the strain upon his attention seemed at last to relax, Cal
ventured to say something—and it was startling to his comrades.
“Of course you’re right about the books on such subjects,” he said.
“For example, the most interesting of all facts about fish isn’t so
much as mentioned in any book I can find, though I’ve searched through
several libraries for it.”
“What is your fact?” asked Dunbar, suspending his work to listen.
“Why that fish do not die natural deaths. Not one of them in a million
ever does that.”
“But why do you think that, Cal? What proof is there—”
“Why, the thing’s obvious on its face. A dead fish floats, doesn’t it?
Well, in any good fishing water, such as the Adirondack lakes, where I
fished with my father one summer, there are millions of fish—big and
little—scores of millions, even hundreds of millions, if you count
shiners and the other minnows, that of a clear day lie in banks from
the bottom of the water to its surface. Now, if fish died natural
deaths in anything like the proportion that all other living things do,
the surface of such lakes would be constantly covered with dead fish.
Right here at Quasi and in all these coast waters the same thing is
true. Every creek mouth is full of fish and every shoal is alive with
them, so that we know in advance when we go fishing that we can catch
them as fast as we can take them off the hook. If any reasonable rate
of natural mortality prevailed among them every flood tide would strew
the shores with tons of dead fish. As nothing of the kind happens, it
seems to me certain that as a rule fish do not die a natural death.
In fact, most of them have no chance to do that, as they spend pretty
nearly their entire time in swallowing each other alive.”
“You are a close observer, Cal. You ought to become a man of science,”
said Dunbar with enthusiasm. “Science needs men of your kind.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” answered Cal. “I imagine Science can get on very
comfortably without any help of mine.”
“How did you come to notice all that, anyhow, Cal?” asked Dick.
“Oh, it didn’t take much to suggest that sort of thing, when the facts
were staring me in the face. Besides, I may be all wrong. What do you
think of my wild guess, Mr. Dunbar?”
“It isn’t a wild guess. Your conclusion may be right or wrong—I must
think of the subject carefully before I can form any opinion as to
that. But at any rate it is a conclusion reasoned out from a careful
observation of facts, and that is nothing like a wild guess.”
Thus the conversation drifted on throughout the long rainy day, and
when night came the boys were agreed that they had learned to know
Dunbar and appreciate him more than they could have done in weeks of
ordinary intercourse.
XXXIII
A GREAT CATASTROPHE
DURING the next fortnight or so the association between Dunbar and
the boys was intimate and constant. When it rained, so that outdoor
expeditions were not inviting, he toiled diligently at his writing
and drawing, keeping up an interesting conversation in the meanwhile
on all manner of subjects. In the evenings especially the talk around
the fire was entertaining to the boys and Dunbar seemed to enjoy it as
much as they. He was fond of “drawing them out” and listening to such
revelations of personal character and capacity as their unrestrained
discussions gave.
On fine days he made himself one of them, joining heartily in every
task and enthusiastically sharing every sport afloat or afield. He
was a good, strong oarsman and he could sail a boat as well as even
Dick could. In hunting, his woodcraft was wonderfully ingenious, and
among other things he taught the boys a dozen ways of securing game by
trapping and snaring.
“You see,” he explained, “one is liable sometimes to be caught in the
woods without his gun or without ammunition, and when that happens it
is handy to know how to get game enough to eat in other ways than by
shooting.”
During all this time he had no more of his strange moods. He never once
fell into the peculiar slumber the boys had observed before, and he
never absented himself from the company. Indeed, his enjoyment of human
association seemed to be more than ordinarily keen.
Little by little his comrades let the memory of his former eccentricity
fade out of their minds, or if they thought of it at all they dismissed
it as a thing of no significance, due, doubtless, to habitual living in
solitude.
One rainy afternoon he suddenly turned to the boys and asked:
“Does any one of you happen to know what day of the month this is? By
my count it must be somewhere about the twenty-fifth of August.”
“My little calendar,” said Cal, drawing the card from a pocket
and looking at it attentively for a moment, “takes the liberty of
differing with you in opinion, Mr. Dunbar. It insists that this is
the thirty-first day of August, of the year eighteen hundred and
eighty-six.”
Dunbar almost leaped to his feet in surprise. After a brief period of
thought he turned to Larry and asked:
“I wonder if you boys would mind sailing with me over to the nearest
postoffice town early to-morrow morning.”
“Why, you know, Mr. Dunbar,” Larry answered, “to-morrow morning is
mortgaged. We’re all going out after that deer you’ve located. Won’t
the next day answer just as well for your trip?”
“Unfortunately, no. I gave my word that I would post certain writings
and drawings to the publisher not later than noon on September 1,
and the printers simply must not be kept waiting. Of course, if you
can’t—”
“But we can and will,” answered Larry. “Your business is important—the
deer hunt is of no consequence. But you’ll come back with us, will you
not?”
“I shall be delighted to do so if I may,” he answered. “I’m enjoying it
here with you, and my work never before got on so well with so little
toil over it. I shall like to come back with you and stay at Quasi as
long as you boys do.”
“That’s good news—altogether good. How long are you likely to be
detained at the village?”
“Only long enough to post my letter and the manuscript—not more than
half an hour at the most.”
“Very well, then. We shall want to buy all the bread and that sort of
thing there is to be had over there, but we can easily do that within
your half hour. We’ll start about sunrise, and if the wind favors us
we’ll be back by noon or a little later, and even if we have no wind,
the oars will bring us back before nightfall.”
Dunbar at once set to work to arrange and pack the drawings he wished
to send by mail, and as there were titles to write and explanatory
paragraphs to revise, the work occupied him until supper time. In the
meanwhile the boys prepared the boat, filled the water kegs, bestowed a
supply of fishing tackle, and overhauled the rigging to see that every
rope was clear and every pulley in free running order.
After supper there was not a very long evening for talk around the
fire, for, with an early morning start in view, they must go early to
their bunks.
They all rolled themselves in their blankets about nine o’clock and
soon were sleeping soundly—the boys under the shelter and Dunbar under
the starry sky—for the rain had passed away—by that side of the fire
which was opposite the camp hut.
Their slumber had not lasted for an hour when suddenly they were
awakened by a combination of disturbances amply sufficient, as Dick
afterwards said, “to waken the denizens of a cemetery.”
The very earth was swaying under them and rocking back and forth like
a boat lying side on to a swell. Deep down—miles beneath the surface
it seemed, there was a roar which sounded to Cal like “forty thousand
loose-jointed wagons pulled by runaway horses across a rheumatic
bridge.”
As the boys sprang to their feet they found difficulty in standing
erect, and before they could run out of their shelter, it plunged
forward and fell into the fire, where the now dried palmete leaves
which constituted its roof and walls, and the resinous pine poles of
its framework, instantly blazed up in a fierce, crackling flame.
“Quick!” cried Dunbar, as Larry, Dick and Cal extricated themselves
from the mass, “quick—help here! Tom is entangled in the ruins.”
The response was instantaneous, and before the rapidly-spreading
flames could reach him, the other four had literally dragged their
comrade from the confused mass of poles and vines in which he had been
imprisoned. If the work of rescue had been prolonged for even a minute
more, it would have been too late, and Tom would have been burned to a
crisp. As it was, he was choking with smoke, coughing with a violence
that threatened the rupture of his breathing apparatus somewhere, and
so nearly smothered for want of air as to be only half conscious.
[Illustration: A MINUTE MORE, IT WOULD HAVE BEEN TOO LATE.
_Page 320._]
A bucket of water which Dunbar had dashed over him “set him going
again,” as he afterwards described the process of recovering breath and
consciousness, and as the paroxysms of coughing slowly ceased he stood
erect by way of announcing a recovery which he was still unable to
proclaim in words.
At that moment a second shock of earthquake occurred, a shock less
violent than the first, but sufficient to topple Tom and Larry off
their feet again.
It did no harm, chiefly because there was no further harm to do, and
the little company busied themselves saving what they could of their
belongings from the burning ruins.
After they had worked at this for ten minutes, a third shock came. It
was feebler than either of the others, but just as the boys felt the
earth swaying again there was an explosion under the burning mass,
followed by a rapid succession of smaller explosions which scattered
shot about in a way so dangerous that at Cal’s command all the company
threw themselves prone upon the ground.
This lasted for perhaps a minute, and fortunately nobody received a
charge of shot in his person from the bursting cartridges that had made
the racket. Fortunately, too, the box of cartridges thus caught in the
flames and destroyed was the only one involved in the catastrophe. The
rest had been kept, not in the hut, but in the _Hunkydory’s_ lockers.
But when they came to take account of their losses, which they did
as soon as the first excitement had passed away, they found that the
damage done had been considerable.
For one thing, their entire supply of meat was destroyed; so was their
bread and their coffee.
“We shall not starve, anyhow,” Cal decided. “We can kill as much game
as we need and as the bottom doesn’t seem to have dropped out of the
sea, we can still catch fish, oysters, shrimps and crabs. As for bread,
we still have Tom’s sweet potato patch to draw upon. There wasn’t more
than a pound of coffee left, so that’s no great loss.”
For the rest, the very few clothes the boys had brought with them in
addition to what they wore, were all lost, but they decided that they
could get on without them—“Mr. Dunbar’s fashion.” Tom was the worst
sufferer in that respect, as the garments he wore had been badly torn
in his rescue from the fire, but he cheerfully announced:
“I can manage very well. I’ll decline all dinner, dance and other
invitations that require a change from every-day dress. I’ll have some
cards engraved announcing that ‘Mr. Thomas Garnett is detained at the
South and will not be at home to receive his friends until further
notice.’ Then I’ll borrow some of your beetle-detaining pins, Mr.
Dunbar, and pin up the worst of the rents in my trousers.”
“We’ll do better than that, Tom,” the naturalist answered. “I’ve quite
a little sewing kit tucked away in my log locker. You shall have
needles, thread and a thimble whenever you wish to use them.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dunbar; but please spare me the thimble. I never
could use a contrivance of that kind. Every time I have tried I have
succeeded only in driving the needle into my hand and breaking it off
well beneath the skin.”
“Boy like,” answered Dunbar. “You’re the victim of a traditional defect
in our system of education.”
“Would you mind explaining?” asked Cal.
“Certainly not. I hold that the education of every human being ought
to include a reasonable mastery of all the simple arts that one is
likely to find useful in emergencies. We do not expect girls to become
accountants, as a rule, but we do not on that account leave the
multiplication table out of a girl’s school studies. In the same way
we do not expect boys generally to do much sewing when they grow to
manhood, but as every man is liable to meet emergencies in which a
little skill in the use of needle, thread and scissors may make all the
difference between comfort and discomfort, every boy ought to be taught
plain sewing. However, we have other things to think of just now.”
“Indeed we have,” answered Cal, “and the most pressing one of those
other things is to-morrow morning’s breakfast. Does it occur to any of
you that, except the salt in the dory’s locker, we haven’t an ounce of
food of any kind in our possession?”
“That is so,” “I hadn’t thought of that;” “and we’ll all be hungry,
too, for of course we shall not sleep”—these were the responses that
came quickly in answer to Cal’s suggestion.
“We’ll manage the matter in this way,” said Cal, quite as if no one
else had spoken. “When ’yon grey streaks that fret the clouds give
indication of the dawn,’ Mr. Dunbar will go fishing. As soon as it
grows light enough for you to walk through the woods without breaking
more than two or three necks apiece, the rest of you can take that big
piece of tarpaulin, go out to Tom’s potato patch, and bring back a
large supply of sweet potatoes. After breakfast one or two of us can
go for some game, while the rest repair damages here. It will take two
or three days to do that.”
As he spoke he looked about him as if to estimate the extent of the
harm done.
“Hello!” he cried out a moment later. “That’s bad, very bad.”
“What is it, Cal?”
“Why, our well has completely disappeared—filled up to the level
by the surrounding earth, which seems to have lost its head and in
that way got itself ‘into a hole,’ just as people do when they forget
discretion. That means that we’ve got to dig out the well to-day, and
in the meantime drink that stuff from the spring down under the bluff.
Our day’s work is cut out for us, sure enough.”
Tom had disappeared in the darkness while Cal was speaking, and as Cal
continued to speak for a considerable time afterwards, marking out what
Dick called a “programme of convenience,” he had not finished when Tom
returned and in breathless excitement announced that the spring under
the bluff was no more.
“The whole of that part of the bluff has slumped down to the beach,”
he said, “and even the big catalpa tree is uprooted and overturned.
Of course the spring is completely filled up, and we’ll all be half
famished for water before we get the well dug out again.”
“Don’t indulge in too hopeless a grief over the loss of the spring,
Tom,” said Cal in his most confidently optimistic tone. “We can make
another just as good anywhere down there in half an hour or less. That
puddle held nothing but sea water that had leaked through the sand,
partly filtering itself in doing so. We can dig a little hole anywhere
down that way, and if we choose the right sort of place we’ll get
better water than the spring ever yielded. I’ll look after that when
Mr. Dunbar and I go fishing. We’ll have the sand out of this well by
noon, too—it’s very loose and easily handled.”
“But, Cal,” interrupted Tom; “we haven’t a thing to dig with. The two
shovels we had were in the hut.”
The others stood aghast; Cal faced the situation with hopeful
confidence.
“That’s bad,” he commented. “Of course the handles are burned up, but
the iron part remains, and even with the meagre supply of cutting tools
we have—which is to say our jackknives and the little ax—we can
fashion new ones. It will take valuable time, but we must reconcile
ourselves to that.”
“Well, we must get to work at something—it’s hard to know where to
begin,” said Larry in a despondent tone. “What’s the first thing to be
done, Cal?”
“The first thing to be done is to cheer up; the next thing is to stay
cheered up. You fellows are in the dumps worse than the well is, and
you’ve got to get out of them if you have to lift yourselves out by
the straps of your own boots. What’s the matter with you, anyhow? Have
we lived a life of easy luxury here at Quasi for so long that you’ve
forgotten that this is an expedition in search of sport and adventure?
Isn’t this earthquake overthrow an adventure of the liveliest sort?
Isn’t the loss of our belongings by fire a particularly adventurous
happening?”
“After all,” broke in Tom, who had a genuine relish for danger,
difficulty and hardship, “after all, we’re not in half as bad a
situation as we were when we faced the revenue officers from behind our
log breastwork. Our lives were really in danger then, while now we have
nothing worse than difficulty to face.”
“Yes, and a few months hence we’ll all remember this thing with joy and
talk of it with glee.”
“You’re right about that,” said Dunbar, “and it is always so. I have
gone through many trying experiences, and as I recall them the most
severely trying of them are the ones I remember with the greatest
pleasure. Besides, in this case the way of escape, even from such
difficulties as lie before you, is wide open. The dory is at anchor
down there and if you are so minded you can sail away from it all.”
“What! Turn tail and run!” exclaimed Tom, almost indignantly.
“No, we’re not thinking of that,” said Cal. “We’ll see the thing out,
and, by the way, it’s growing daylight. Come, Mr. Dunbar! We have a
pressing engagement with the fish and we must have an early breakfast
this morning on all accounts. We have a lot to do, and you mustn’t be
later than noon in reaching the postoffice, you know.”
“Oh, I’ve abandoned that,” responded Dunbar.
“But why?” asked Larry. “Of course we can’t go with you as we planned,
but you can take the dory and make the trip for yourself. And perhaps
you won’t mind taking some money along and buying out whatever food
supplies the country store over there can furnish. We need bread
especially, and coffee and—”
“And a few pounds of cheese won’t come amiss,” added Dick.
“But I tell you I am not going,” said Dunbar. “I have accepted and
enjoyed your hospitality when all was going well with you; do you
suppose I’m going to abandon you even for a day, now that you’re in
trouble and need all the help you can get?”
“Your reasoning is excellent,” said Cal, purposely lapsing into his
old habit of elaborate speech, by way of relieving the tension that
had made his comrades feel hurried and harassed; “your reasoning
is excellent, but your premises are utterly wrong. You can help us
mightily by sailing up to that postoffice town and bringing back the
supplies we need, while you cannot help us at all by remaining here. We
four are more than enough to keep the few tools we have left constantly
busy. With a fifth person included in the construction gang, there
would always be one of us who must idly hold his hands for want of
anything to work with. No, Mr. Dunbar, the best service you can render
to the common cause is to sail up to the village, redeem your promise
by mailing your papers, and bring back all you can of provisions
adapted to our use. So that’s settled, isn’t it, boys?”
Their answer left no room for further argument, and as the daylight
was steadily growing stronger, the party separated, Cal and Dunbar
going in quest of fish for breakfast, and the others struggling through
tangled thickets toward the wild sweet potato field.
XXXIV
MAROONED AT QUASI
IT was a bright, sunny day that followed—a day offering no suggestion
of the convulsion of the night before. There was a good sailing breeze
blowing in from the sea. It gave Dunbar the wind over the starboard
quarter for his voyage to the village, and promised to be nearly abeam
for his return.
“The dory will take me there and back by noon or a little later,” he
called to the others as the sails filled and the boat heeled over to
port.
The Rutledge boys had urged him to take the money they offered him for
the purchase of supplies, but he had declined.
“I have a plenty of my own,” was his answer, “and whatever I can buy up
there I’ll bring back as my contribution to the general welfare.”
It was idle to argue the matter, and not very safe either, Dick
thought, for in their intercourse with him the boys had learned that
with all his kindly good-nature, Dunbar was exceedingly proud and very
sensitive.
When the dory had gone, the boys set to work with a will upon the task
of re-establishing Camp Quasi. Tom was sent out after game. Dick,
who was the cleverest of them all in using tools, and especially
his jackknife, busied himself in fitting new handles into their two
shovels. With these and the bait pails for excavating tools, the three
who remained in camp toiled diligently in removing the sand from their
well.
Tom returned a little before noon, bringing in game enough of one kind
and another to keep the company in meat for two days to come.
There was no sign of Dunbar and the dory as yet, and as the rest were
hungry, it was decided that Cal should cook dinner at once, while Tom
worked at the well in his stead. The cooking occupied a considerable
time, and it was two o’clock in the afternoon when the tired boys
finished eating. They had not slept since the earthquake at ten o’clock
the night before; they had worked hard during the night in an endeavor
to save what they could of their belongings, and they had worked still
harder ever since dawn. Moreover, the excitement had been even more
wearying than the work. Now that it had passed away and its victims
had eaten a hearty dinner, the desire for rest and sleep became
irresistible.
Cal had made measurements and reported that two hours more of digging,
or perhaps even less than that, would give them a water supply once
more. At Larry’s suggestion, therefore, the worn-out fellows decided to
sleep for an hour or two.
“We’ll do the rest of the well-digging in the cool of the late
afternoon,” he said between a succession of yawns.
“Let’s hope,” said Tom, “that Mr. Dunbar won’t get here and wake us up
before we’re ready.”
“There’s not much danger of that,” answered Cal.
“Why not, Cal?”
“You’d know without asking if you were as observant to-day as you
usually are. I suppose you didn’t notice that the wind died out before
noon, and there hasn’t been a sailing breath since.”
“That’s so,” said Tom, “and he’ll have to row the whole way. I ought to
have thought of that.”
“Well, please don’t apologize now. It would only keep us awake when
every moment is precious for slumber. I give notice now that I’m asleep
and you can’t pull another word out of me with a corkscrew.”
When the weary fellows waked the afternoon was nearly gone, but before
resuming their work, and by way of refreshing themselves for it, they
went down to the beach and took a plunge into the sea.
“No sign of Mr. Dunbar yet,” said Tom, who was beginning to be uneasy.
“No,” answered Larry, “but we needn’t bother about him. He’ll turn up
quite unexpectedly when he gets ready. He always does that you know.
What we’ve got to do is to finish our well in the shortest possible
time. So, on with your duds, and let’s get to work.”
“You’re ‘mighty right,’ Larry,” said Dick. “I’ve quenched my thirst
with sour wild grapes till my teeth have an edge like those of a
buck-saw, and I begin to crave some unseasoned water.”
“I imagine we’re all in the same condition,” said Cal, as they hurried
back to the ruins of the camp, “and it is altogether well that we are
so.”
“How’s that, Cal?”
“Why, stimulated by thirst and encouraged by a sure prospect of reward,
we’ll stop fooling away our time and do a little real work.”
Two hours later there was an abundant water supply in the well, and
it had so far “settled” that the boys drank it freely with their late
supper.