CRAFTY MIKE
When Walter parted from Hal at Speckled Brook he quickened his pace to
make up for lost time. Presently he came in sight of the Durant camp.
Pat Malone, whose official capacity at the camp was that of "chore
boy," was on his way to the spring with a couple of empty pails. His
usual good-natured grin lighted his face at Walter's approach.
"Oi'd begun t' think ye was afther fergittin' ye had an ingagement wid
yer frind av th' woods," he called.
"Hello, Pat! Sorry I'm late," replied Walter, offering to carry one of
the pails.
Pat waved him aside. "Shure, wud ye be takin' th' bread an' butter out
av the mouth av a poor worrkin' man?" he demanded. "'Tis me job fer
which Oi draws me pay, an' now Oi've lost me market fer fish Oi'm
thinkin' Oi'd best be shure av me shtupendous sal'ry."
He picked up the pails brimming with cold spring water and started
for the rear of the main cabin, whence the voice of "Cookie" could be
heard commanding him to hurry, and heaping anathemas upon him for a
lazy, good-for-nothing ne'er-do-well.
Pat winked. "Dogs that bark be afther havin' poor teeth," said he.
"Oi'll be wid ye in a minute."
He was as good as his word, and was soon ready to play the host.
Walter found the camp similar in arrangement to Woodcraft. It lacked
the refinements of the latter, but was snug and comfortable, exactly
adapted to the needs of the rough men to whom it was "home" the
greater part of the year. When they had thoroughly inspected the
cabins, stable and shop Pat suggested that they visit the present
"cutting." This Walter was most anxious to do, for he had never
witnessed actual logging operations.
The trail was rough but well built, for upon the character of the
trail depends much of the lumberman's success in getting his logs to
the water. A poorly built trail means costly waste of time, energy and
strength of man and beast when the time comes for getting the cut
down to the driving point. Wherever the trail dipped to low or swampy
ground logs had been laid with their sides touching one another. This
is called a corduroy road, and is the only practical and effective
method of preventing horses and wagons miring in low, swampy ground.
Such a trail is rough traveling in dry weather, but when the heavy
snows of winter have covered it and have been packed down and iced it
forms an ideal slide for the lumber bobs with their huge loads of
logs.
The trail gradually led up the lower slopes of Old Scraggy, and some
two miles from the camp the boys came upon one of the crews at work.
The crash of falling trees, the rasp of saws, the sharp ringing blows
of axes biting into hard wood, the shouting of rough voices and now
and then a snatch of rude song proclaimed that the work of destruction
was in full blast.
The scene was one of intense interest to the city boy, and quite upset
his preconceived ideas of how trees are felled. "Why, I thought they
chopped trees down!" he exclaimed.
"Not whin they've a good saw an' two good byes fer th' inds av it,"
said Pat.
They walked over to where a couple of saw men were preparing to cut a
great pine. There was a fascination in watching the huge cross-cut saw
with its double hand grasp at each end eat its way into the trunk of
the great tree, the two men swaying back and forth in perfect rhythm,
broken only when it became necessary to drive in the wedges that kept
the saw from binding and that would eventually send the tree crashing
down on the exact spot that they had picked out for it.
Soon there came the warning snap of breaking fibers, the great tree
swayed slightly, leaned ever so little and then, as with a shout for
all hands to stand clear the saw men sprang back, it slowly and
majestically swung forward until, gathering speed, it fell with a
mighty crash, carrying down several small trees that stood in its
path, and shivering its upper branches as it struck the earth.
It seemed to Walter as if it had hardly struck before the axemen were
upon it, their great double edged axes flashing in the sun as they
stripped off branch and stub until in an incredibly short time it lay
shorn of its glory, a huge bare pole fit to be the mast of one of the
Yankee clippers that were once the pride of the American marine.
But no such honor awaited it. Another team of sawyers attacked it at
once, cutting it into mill lengths. Then came "Jim." Jim, so Pat
proudly claimed, was "some hoss." Clanking at his heels was a stout
chain ending in a sharp heavy hook. This was driven into one end of
one of the logs and then at a word from his master--one could hardly
say driver, for there were no reins--the big horse set his neck into
his collar and guided solely by the "gee" and "haw" of shouted command
dragged his burden down to the skidway where the logs were piled to
await the coming of snow. It was wonderful to see with what
intelligence the horse picked his way through the tangled brush, and
it was equally wonderful to see the lumber-jacks at the skidway catch
the great log with their peaveys and roll it up to the very top of the
huge pile already on the skids.
A rough lot, these lumbermen, of many nationalities, English, Irish,
Scotch, French "canucks," a half-breed or two, and some who boasted
that they were pure "Yank." They were rough in looks and rough of
speech, ready to fight at the drop of a hat, but warm-hearted, loyal
to a fault to their employers, ever ready for work or frolic. Rough
indeed, but theirs is a rough life. They took a kindly interest in
Walter, explaining the many things he found so strange, and it was
with real regret that he finally took the back trail.
And it was with something of sadness too, for he was a true lover of
nature and there was something tragic in the crashing of those great
trees and the despoiling of the great forest.
But Pat left him little time for thoughts of this kind. Producing a
bag of the famous cookies of which Walter had once had a sample
through the agency of Chip Harley, Pat kept up a running fire of
comment on his camp mates, while they munched the crisp brown wafers.
As they sighted the camp the cook was hanging a wash. Pat's eyes
twinkled with mischief. Motioning Walter to follow him he stole in
back of the stable. "Shure 'tis meself that clane forgot to
inthrodush ye to th' most important number av Durant camp," he
whispered. "Shtay here till yez see some fun."
He slipped into the stable, and in a few minutes was back, leaving the
door open. Peeping around the corner Walter saw a crow walk out with
the stately step of his tribe. "'Tis Crafty Moike!" whispered Pat.
The black rascal stood for a minute or two blinking in the sun. Then
he flew up on the stable roof, where he appeared to have no interest
in anything in the world save the proper preening and dressing of his
feathers. In the meantime the cook finished hanging out his wash to
dry and turned back to the cabin. Hardly was he inside the door when
Crafty Mike spread his wings and without a sound flew over to the
clothes-line, where he quickly and deftly pulled out every pin, giving
each a throw to one side.
When the last pin was out and half the wash lay on the ground he flew
swiftly to a tall pine on the far side of the clearing, cawing
derisively as he went. It was plain that "Cookie" knew only too well
what the sound of that raucous voice meant. With a pot in one hand
and a dish towel in the other he rushed from the cabin pouring out a
perfect flood of vituperation and invective on his black tormentor,
while behind the stable Pat fairly hugged himself with glee.
"Caw, caw, Billee, Billee! Caw, caw, caw!" shouted Mike, sidling back
and forth along a bare limb of the pine, evidently in huge enjoyment
of the joke.
"Oi shplit his tongue so he talks a little, and Billy is the cook's
name," whispered Pat, noting the look of amazement on Walter's face
when he heard the crow speak.
"Caw, caw, Billee, Billee!" Mike was quite beside himself with
enjoyment as he watched the angry cook pick up the fallen clothes,
which he was too wise to rehang while the black rascal was at liberty.
Besides, many of them must be returned to the tub.
"I'll blow your blasted head off, that's what I will!" shouted the
cook furiously as he disappeared in the cabin with the last of the
wash. In a moment he was out again with a shotgun in his hands. Walter
grabbed Pat by one arm. "You're not going to let him shoot, are you,
Pat?" he asked in real alarm.
Pat chuckled. "Don't yez worry about Moike," he said. "'Tis not fer
nothin' Oi named him Crafty. He knows a gun as well as Oi do, an' just
how far it will carry."
The cook was now sneaking toward the pine, apparently quite
unconscious that he was all the time in plain view of his would-be
victim. Mike waited until he was half-way there, then spread his
wings. The cook threw up the gun and blazed away with both barrels,
though the range was hopelessly long, while Mike's derisive, "Caw,
caw, Billee, Billee!" floated back from the shelter of a thick clump
of hemlocks beyond.
"But won't the cook get Mike when he comes back?" Walter asked with
real concern.
"Moike won't come back to-night unless Oi call him," replied Pat.
"'Tis a woise burrd he be afther bein'! Whin Oi go in Oi'll tell
cookie how much the byes will enjoy th' joke whin they come in. He'll
shware a bit an' thin he'll be afther beggin' me not to say a wurrd
about it. Oi'll promise if he'll promise to lave Moike alone, an'
that'll be th' ind av it till nixt toime." It was evident that Pat and
Mike knew their man and were wise with the wisdom of experience.
"Moike is a great burrd," continued Pat. "He's as full av tricks as a
dog is av fleas, an' th' wurst thafe in three counties, bad cess ter
him. He'd shtale th' shmoile off yez face if it was broight enough an'
he could pry it loose. He'd follow me into th' prisince av th' saints.
Oi have ter shut him up whiniver Oi lave th' camp or, glory be, he'll
be taggin' along an' mebbe gettin' me in all sorts av throuble. But Oi
love th' ould rascal just th' same."
At Pat's mention of Mike's thieving proclivities a startling thought
flashed into Walter's mind. Had he at last found the long lost clue?
"Pat," he broke in abruptly, "did Mike ever follow you to Woodcraft?"
Pat scratched his head in an effort to remember. "Oi couldn't say," he
replied. "Oi think loikely, fer there's few places he hasn't followed
me."
"Would he follow you there now if you'd let him?" asked Walter.
"Shure! Oi couldn't lose him if he wance saw me hittin' th' trail."
"Can you call him now?" pursued Walter.
"Sure!" Pat answered promptly.
"Listen, Pat," said Walter eagerly, and he hurriedly told Pat all
about the loss of Mother Merriam's pin, discreetly omitting all
reference to the suspicion against Pat himself so long entertained at
the camp.
"Th' dirthy thafe!" broke in Pat indignantly. "Now who could it be, Oi
wonder! None av th' byes here wud do a thrick loike thot, and yez say
there was no sthrangers in camp. But what has all this got to do with
Moike?"
"I'm coming to that," said Walter. "Maybe it hasn't anything to do
with him. That's what I want to find out. Maybe you don't remember
coming into camp on an errand that morning and visiting Dr. Merriam's
office, but you did. Now, if Mike had been following you, and had seen
that pin on the window sill would he have been likely to have picked
it up and carried it off?"
"As sure as little pigs has curly tails," replied Pat with conviction.
"Oh, th' villain! It's mesilf will wring th' black neck av him with
me own hands wance Oi git thim on him!" he exclaimed, a realizing
sense of the situation and the position in which he had been placed
dawning on him. "'Tis a wonder yez didn't arrist me fer th' thafe, and
Oi wud not have blamed ye at all, at all! Just lave me get th' two
hands av me on that burrd! Sure his heart be as black as his coat!"
Walter laughed. "Wait a while, Pat, wait a while," he said. "We don't
know yet that Mike had anything to do with it. Now here's my plan: You
call Mike so that he can see us start down the trail to Woodcraft.
Then you go with me until we get almost in sight of the camp. I'll
leave you there and go ahead. I'll get a bright button or something
and put it on the window sill of Mother Merriam's window and then get
out of sight. Then I'll whistle three times and you come along in as
if you had an errand at the office. Go right by the window and around
to the front door, where I'll meet you. Then we'll watch Mike and see
what he does."
"Walter, me bye, 'tis a great nut yez have on the two shoulders av
yez!" exclaimed Pat admiringly. "We'll do ut."
He put his fingers to his mouth and whistled shrilly. At once there
was an answering caw from the distant hemlocks, and Mike appeared
winging his way toward them but, with the canny wisdom which had
earned him his name, giving the cabin a wide berth. He dropped down to
Pat's shoulder at once, where he jabbered in crow talk as if telling
Pat all about his joke on the cook, all the time studying Walter with
eyes so bright and sharp as to make the boy almost uncomfortable.
Without further delay they started for Woodcraft, the crow riding on
Pat's shoulder or occasionally flying a short distance ahead. At the
edge of the woods Pat sat down to wait while Walter hurried ahead.
Hunting through his ditty bag he found a bright brass button and
hurried over to the office. Fortunately no one was about. Putting the
button on the sill where the pin had been left the morning of its
disappearance he slipped around in front and gave Pat the signal.
Pat came at once, but Mike, distrustful of the camp or perhaps
plotting mischief, lingered behind. Pat passed the window and joined
Walter in front of the office. Then they cautiously peeped around the
corner to watch Mike. As soon as he discovered that Pat was out of
sight he quickened his flight and winged his way directly toward the
rear of the office. The two boys watching could see him turn his head
from side to side as he flew, his bright eyes scanning everything in
sight. When he reached a point abreast of and above the window he made
an abrupt half circle, dropped down to the sill as silently as a
shadow, seized the button and then, mounting high, winged his way in
strong swift flight "as straight as the crow flies" for Durant camp.
"The black scoundrel!" murmured Pat. "The black-hearted thafe!"
It was too late for Walter to think of returning to the lumber camp
that afternoon, and he had an engagement the next morning at nine.
"Lave it to me," said Pat. "Oi know ivery hidin' place av th' ould
thafe, an' if he shtole the pin 'tis in wan av thim this very minnut.
If thot robber took th' pin, an' Oi misthrust he did, 'tis Pat Malone
that will have it back here by half afther eight to-morrow marnin'."
After evening mess Walter called Tug and Chip to one side.
"I've got a clue," he announced with pardonable excitement.
"What is it? Who is it?" they demanded as one.
"I'll tell you to-morrow morning at half-past eight," replied Walter,
and that was all they could get out of him that night.
Walter slept but poorly. He was burning with curiosity to know the
result of Pat's search, and he was alternately filled with joy at the
thought of being able to return the precious pin to Mother Merriam,
and torn with the fear that Crafty Mike might have lived up to his
name and hidden his prize beyond Pat's reach.
By eight o'clock the next morning he could wait no longer and started
up the Durant trail. It was just before he reached Speckled Brook that
he heard Pat's shrill whistle, and by the sound of it he knew that
there was good news. A few minutes later Pat swung into view. Crafty
Mike, looking abject and bedraggled, was tucked securely under one
arm, while the free hand was jammed in a trousers pocket. Pat's
freckled face stretched into a broad smile as he caught sight of
Walter. He drew his hand from his pocket and spread it wide open.
There in the palm, side by side, lay Mother Merriam's pin and the
brass button which had proved Mike's undoing. Walter sent forth a
joyous whoop, and did a war dance that was expressive if not
dignified.
Before going to the big chief Tug and Chip were taken into confidence
and shown the pin and the thief under pledge of secrecy. Then Pat and
Walter started for the office. In response to Dr. Merriam's cheery
"Come in," the two boys entered, Walter elated and Pat diffident.
Walter had carefully prepared a little speech, but in the excitement
of the moment it went completely out of his head. He did remember to
salute his chief, and then he blurted out the news so fast that the
words fairly tripped over each other: "We've found Mother Merriam's
pin, and we've found who the thief is, and----"
"Wait a minute," interrupted the doctor, smiling. "What is this about
Mother Merriam's pin?"
For answer Pat extended his hand with the pin on the broad palm. The
doctor's face lighted with pleasure as he reached out to take it.
"But the thief?" he said. "I don't quite understand."
"Here he is, sor," said Pat, thrusting forward the protesting Mike.
The doctor's face was a study as he bade the boys sit down and tell
him the whole story. When they had finished he quietly questioned them
until he had drawn from Walter all that he had hitherto kept from Pat,
how the latter had been suspected, how he had been sure that Pat was
innocent, how he had found the crow's feather caught in the screen,
and how this fact had come to his mind as soon as Pat had mentioned
Mike's thieving propensities.
"Upton, I want you and Malone, and Mike, too," he added with a
whimsical smile, "to remain here until I return."
He left the room, and a few minutes later Walter was startled to hear
the "recall" sounded. Many of the boys had not yet left camp, and the
others within hearing came hastening in. When they had all gathered
the doctor stepped out in front.
"Some time ago," he began, "the 'recall' was sounded to tell you that
a thief had been in our midst, and to ask you to give of your services
in an effort to regain the pin which had been stolen. It seemed to me
that it was quite as important to again sound the 'recall' to tell you
that the pin has been recovered."
He paused as a stir ran through the group of boys, and they broke out
in a hearty cheer. "And," he continued when quiet had been restored,
"the thief taken, and that this happy result has been accomplished by
one of your own members. Who that member is I am not going to tell
you, but I want you to know that I consider that in his whole course
of action he has displayed the very highest form of scoutcraft, for he
has not only apprehended the thief and recovered the plunder, but what
is of vastly more importance, he has removed unjust suspicion from one
whose good name not one of you has had real cause to doubt."
He then briefly sketched the story of the search for and the finding
of the pin, no names being mentioned, and concluded by bringing forth
the pin and Crafty Mike for all to see.
Sitting in the office Walter and Pat had heard every word, and
Walter's face glowed with pleasure at the doctor's praise. He felt
that his reward had been great indeed, and when the doctor concluded
by saying that fifty points would be credited to the Delawares in
recognition of his work, his joy was complete.
An hour later Pat Malone paused on the trail to Durant camp to look
with shining eyes at a gold piece in his hand. "Caw," said Crafty
Mike, looking down from his shoulder with greedy eyes.
"Shut up fer a black-hearted thafe!" growled Pat. "Sure, 'tis me ruin
an' me fortune that yez are loike ter be."