THE MYSTERIOUS CANOE.
From New Orleans Frank, Barney and the professor journeyed to Florida.
Frank was anxious to see the Everglades and do some hunting.
Our hero was particularly anxious to shoot a golden heron, of which he
had heard not a little.
One day a start was made in a canoe from a small settlement on the edge
of the great Dismal Swamp, and on went our three friends deeper and
deeper into the wilds.
At last the professor grew tired of the sameness of the journey.
"How much further into this wild swamp do you intend to go, Frank?" he
asked.
"I am going till I get a shot at a golden heron."
"Nonsense! There is no golden heron."
"You think so?"
"I know it. The golden heron is a myth. White hunters have searched the
remote fastnesses of the Florida swamps for a golden heron, but no such
bird have they ever found. The Indians are the only ones to see golden
herons."
"If the Indians can see them, white men may find them. I shall not be
satisfied till I have shot one."
"Then you'll never be satisfied."
"Oh, I don't know about that, professor. I am something of an Indian
myself. You know the Seminoles are honest and peaceable, and----"
"All Indians are liars. I would not take the word of a Seminole under
any condition. Come, Frank, don't be foolish; let's turn round and go
back. We may get bewildered on these winding waterways which twist here
and there through swamps of cypress and rushes. We were foolish to come
without a guide, but----"
"We could not obtain one until to-morrow, and I wished to come to-day."
"You may be sorry you did not wait."
"Now, you are getting scared, professor," laughed Frank, lifting his
paddle from the water and laying it across the bow of the canoe. "I'll
tell you what we'll do."
"All right."
"We'll leave it to Barney, who has not had a word to say on the matter.
If he says go back, we'll go back."
Professor Scotch hesitated, scratched his fingers into his fiery beard,
and then said:
"Well, I'll have to do as you boys say, anyway, so we'll leave it to
Barney."
"All right," laughed Frank, once more. "What do you say, Barney, my
boy?"
Barney Mulloy was in the stern of the canoe that had been creeping along
one of the sluggish water courses that led through the cypress swamp and
into the heart of the Everglades.
"Well, gintlemin," he said, "Oi've been so busy thrying to kape thrack
av th' twists an' turruns we have been makin' thot Oi didn't moind mutch
pwhat ye wur soaying. It wur something about turning back. Plaze repate
it again."
So the matter was laid before him, and, when he had heard what Frank and
the professor had to say, he declared:
"Fer mesilf it's nivver a bit do Oi care where we go ur pwhat we do,
but, as long as we hiv come so fur, an' Frankie wants to go furder, Oi'd
soay go on till he is sick av it an' reddy to turn back."
"There, professor!" cried Frank; "that settles it!"
"As I knew it would be settled," growled Professor Scotch, sulkily. "You
boys combine against me every time. Well, I suppose I'll have to
submit."
So the trio pushed on still farther into the great Dismal Swamp, a weird
section of strange vegetable and animal life, where great black trees
stood silent and grim, with Spanish moss dangling from their branches,
bright-plumaged birds flashed across the opens, ugly snakes glided
sinuously over the boggy land, and sleepy alligators slid from muddy
banks and disappeared beneath the surface of the dead water.
The professor continued to grumble.
"If we should come upon one of these wonderful golden herons, Frank
could not come within a hundred yards of it with that old bow and
arrow," he said.
"Couldn't I?" retorted Frank. "Perhaps not, but I could make a bluff at
it."
"I don't see why you won't use a gun."
"Well, there are two reasons. In the first place, in order to be sure of
killing a heron with a shotgun I'd have to use fairly large shot, and
that might injure the bird badly; in the second place, there might be
two, and I'd not be able to bag more than one of them with a gun, as the
report would scare the other. Then there is the possibility that I would
miss with the first shot, and the heron would escape entirely. If I miss
with an arrow, it is not likely the bird will be alarmed and take to
flight, so I'll have another chance at it. Oh, there are some advantages
in using the primitive bow and arrow."
"Bosh!" exploded Scotch. "You have a way of always making out a good
case for yourself. You won't be beaten."
"Begobs! he is a hard b'y to bate, profissor," grinned Barney. "Av he
wurn't, it's dead he'd been long ago."
"That's right, that's right," agreed Scotch, who admired Frank more than
he wished to acknowledge. "He's lucky."
"It's not all luck, profissor," assured the Irish boy. "In minny cases
it's pure nerve thot pulls him through."
"Well, there's a great deal of luck in it--of course there is."
"Oh, humor the professor, Barney," laughed Frank. "Perhaps he'll become
better natured if you do."
They now came to a region of wild cypress woods, where the treetops were
literally packed with old nests, made in the peculiar heron style. They
were constructed of huge bristling piles of cross-laid sticks, not
unlike brush heaps of a Western clearing.
Here for years, almost ages, different species of herons had built their
nests in perfect safety.
As the canoe slowly and silently glided toward the "rookeries," white
and blue herons were seen to rise from the reed-grass and fly across the
opens in a stately manner, with their long necks folded against their
breasts, and their legs projecting stiffly behind them.
"Pwoy don't yez be satisfoied wid a few av th' whoite wans, Frankie?"
asked Barney, softly. "Shure, they're handsome enough."
"They're handsome," admitted Frank; "but a golden heron is worth a large
sum as a curiosity, and I mean to have one."
"All roight, me b'y; have yer own way, lad."
"He'll do that, anyhow," mumbled Professor Scotch, gruffly.
They could now see long, soldier-like lines of herons stretched out
along the reedy swales, standing still and solemn, like pickets on duty.
They were not particularly wary or wild, for they had not been hunted
very much in the wild region which they inhabited.
Little green herons were plentiful, and they kept flying up before the
canoe constantly, scaring the others, till Frank grew very impatient,
declaring:
"Those little rascals will scare away a golden heron, if we are
fortunate enough to come upon one. Confound them!"
"Let me shoot a few of th' varmints," urged Barney, reaching for one of
the guns in the bottom of the canoe.
"Not much!" returned Frank, quickly. "Think what the report of a gun
would do here. Keep still, Barney."
"All roight!" muttered the Irish lad, reluctantly relinquishing his hold
on the gun. "Av ye soay kape still, kape still it is."
Frank instructed the professor to take in his paddle, and Barney was
directed to hold the canoe close to the edge of the rushes. In this
manner, with Frank kneeling in the prow, an arrow ready notched on the
string, he could shoot with very little delay.
Beyond the heron rookery the waterway wound into the depths of a dark,
forbidding region, where the Spanish moss hung thick, and the great
trees leaned over the water.
They had glided past one side of the rookery and were near this dark
opening when an exclamation of surprise came from Frank Merriwell's
lips.
"Phat is it, me b'y?" asked Barney, quickly.
"A canoe."
"Phere?"
"See it yonder."
"Yes, Oi see it now. It's white."
"There must be other hunters near at hand," said the professor.
"The canoe is not drawn up to the bank," said Frank, in a puzzled way.
"It seems to be floating at some distance from the shore."
"Perhaps it is moored out there."
"Why should it be moored in such a place? There are no tides here, and
alligators are not liable to steal canoes."
"Do ye see inny soign av a camp, Frankie?"
"Not a sign of a camp or a human being. This is rather strange."
A strange feeling of wonder that swiftly changed to awe was creeping
over them. The canoe was snowy white, and lay perfectly motionless on
the still surface of the water. It was in the dark shadow beneath the
trees.
"Perhaps the owner of the canoe is lying in the bottom," suggested the
professor.
"We'll see about that," said Frank, putting down the bow and arrow and
taking up a paddle. "Head straight for her, Barney."
With the very first stroke in that direction a most astonishing thing
happened.
The white canoe seemed to swing slightly about, and then, with no
visible occupant and no apparent motive power, it glided smoothly and
gently toward the dark depths of the black forest!
"She's floating away from us!" cried the professor. "There must be a
strong current there!"
"Nivver a bit is she floating!" gasped Barney Mulloy. "Will ye look at
her go! Begobs! Oi fale me hair shtandin' on me head!"
"She is not floating!" Frank said. "See--she gains speed! Look at the
ripple that spreads from her prow!"
"But--but," spluttered Professor Scotch, "what is making her move--what
is propelling her?"
"That's a mystery!" came from Frank, "but it's a mystery I mean to
solve! Get out your paddle, professor. Keep straight after that canoe,
Barney. We'll run her down and look her over."
Then a strange race began, canoe against canoe, the one in the lead
apparently empty, the one pursuing containing three persons who were
using all their strength and skill to overtake the empty craft.
[Illustration: "The white canoe had stopped, and was lying calmly on the
inky surface of the shadowed water." (See page 147)]