The whole thing seemed so preposterous--so _story like_, in this prosaic
age. As I see the whole thing now I realize that the trouble was with me
and not with Tom. Anyway, what actually did happen in that wild, remote
spot up in the Bear Mountain Reservation was a great deal more thrilling
and astonishing than what Tom believed might happen. He who laughs last,
laughs best; though to be sure it was no matter for laughter.
A few days after I saw the newspaper article, Tom and Brent went up to
camp in Rattlesnake Gulch. I believe they obtained permission from the
authorities up there to use poor old Buck Sanderson’s deserted cabin.
Perhaps Tom’s position at Temple Camp made this easy to secure. There
could not have been much objection, I think, for of all the remote and
forlorn places that ever were, Rattlesnake Gulch was certainly the most
uninviting. It certainly had real wildness, primitive wildness indeed,
and held out, I suppose, that attraction to the camper. No one was
likely to molest the sojourner there.
I believe that the first honors are due to Tom’s dilapidated Ford, which
the two adventurers succeeded in driving to within a mile of their
destination. To me this has always seemed one of the triumphs of the
whole business. They had at first thought of hiking to the lonely scene
of their enterprise but decided that they had too much luggage for that.
It was necessary to take provisions for a lengthy sojourn.
On the other hand, they preferred not to leave their car at Sandyfield
where it might be a continual reminder to the few inhabitants of their
presence in the neighborhood. They wished not to be disturbed. For the
same reason, I understood, they did not leave it at the Scout
Headquarters up at the lakes, where it might advertise their presence to
curious and enterprising Boy Scouts. For the camping season was then in
full swing.
What they did was to drive in from Sloatsburg, and at a point short of
Lily Pond (which is west of the hamlet) they succeeded in finding an
old, overgrown wagon trail which wound through the woods and was
sometimes completely obscured by brush. I suppose it might once have
been used for ox teams. It petered out completely in the hills north of
Breakneck Pond. Here Nature set her wild face to the lusty little Ford
and said, “You shall not pass.”
So they left the Ford there, sheltered by an old canvas tent thrown over
it, and I will here record that when the big adventure was over, the
shabby and redoubtable little car started off as if nothing had
happened, backed around into a swamp, delivered a masterly assault upon
an oak tree, broke her bumper and one fender and one light, then
proceeded triumphantly back along a trail which I was never able to see
with my eyes. Two cylinders were missing--probably stolen, as Brent
remarked.
From this strategic base of supplies Tom and Brent, with all the
provisions they could carry, made their way south to the Gulch.
I did not see my young friends again until fall, when the whole affair
was over. Several post cards reached me, mailed I suppose at Scout
Headquarters, and one letter from Brent which I here copy:
_Dear Friend_:
We are located very comfortably in Rattlesnake Gulch and as
yet nothing has happened except I lost my spectacle case
down the well. We expect to investigate the well to-morrow
and then I hope to recover it. We are boarding with a very
respectable family of rattlesnakes, mother and father and
two sons, and I like them because they let us alone. Last
night we heard a noise after turning in; it sounded like
someone approaching stealthily. But on sneaking out of the
cabin I found it was only an empty shredded wheat box which
I had carelessly left about after supper; it was blowing
hither and yon in the breeze and disturbing some dried
leaves. I pursued and captured it.
This cabin is a very primitive little bunk; there are two
rooms but no improvements except an old cook stove, which I
suppose you saw. We remind ourselves of Daniel Boone and
William S. Hart. The place is very wild, much more thickly
grown than when you were here. Tom will not have a light
burning at night, for he wishes to take our friend from the
West unawares; I don’t know why. So I cannot work on my
cross-word puzzles after sundown.
Mr. Mink has not showed up yet, though he has had a couple
of weeks since his escape to get here; I suppose he is
coming by the Erie.
Tom sends regards and says he will write. How is the golf
coming on? Sometimes I am sorry I ran away from home--vain
regrets. I have decided to subscribe to the _Literary
Digest_ with my share of the treasure.
Best wishes,
Brent.
The balance of this story, as I shall tell it to you, was gleaned from
the detailed accounts given me by Tom after his return to Bridgeboro.
Brent’s story would have been interesting, but, alas, no sprightly
characteristic narrative was to come from him. Somewhat I have fallen
back on the newspapers, but only when their rather highly colored
accounts were confirmed by bare facts coming from other sources.
Knowing Tom Slade as I do, I am able to record not only his adventures
but his reaction to the extraordinary things which happened. I know how
he felt and thought and acted and so I can give you, I think, a
well-rounded yarn which, albeit true, shall have a little of the
pleasing color of romance. For I know Tom Slade as I know a book. And
what is more, he knows that I know him....