THAT CUNNING TOM TOPOVER.
The strange craft appeared to be modelled after the catamaran, though
the builder thereof had never seen one. It consisted of two logs a foot
in diameter and ten feet long, which were placed three feet apart. In
the middle of the supports two boards were nailed on the sticks, so that
the thing looked more like the letter H than it did like a catamaran.
On the cross-boards was an old window-glass box; and on the box was
seated Tom Topover. He was the naval architect of the structure which
bore him, and the craft was not at all creditable to his ingenuity. If
he had nailed the cross-boards across the ends of the logs, there would
have been more stability to the affair, though in that case it would
have been stigmatized as a raft.
In his hand Tom held a rude paddle with which he was trying to control
the movements of the aquatic chariot. It had no propelling power, and
floated with the current down the creek. A bend of the stream threw the
force of the water against Hornet Point, and Tom was trying to keep it
from going against the rocks. He did not succeed at all, and one of the
logs, striking the bank, twisted the structure entirely out of shape.
The two logs came together, the nails which held the cross-pieces
twisting off with the slight shock. Paul saw that Tom was in peril, and
he rushed into the house to get his oars, which he kept in his chamber,
in the attic, for he was afraid that some of the hard-looking boys of
the Topover herd might steal his boat. He had heard of Tom before, but
he had never seen him, and he did not know that the fellow on the queer
craft was he.
Tom Topover dropped from the box down upon the log, allowing his seat to
fall into the water. With the paddle in his hand he threw around the end
of the affair, till it was within reach of Paul's flatboat. Reaching
out, he hauled it in, and jumped into it. The logs floated off with the
current of the little lake.
"You are there, are you?" said Paul, as he returned with the oars.
"Yes I am. How are you, Paul Bristol?" replied Tom, with a grin from ear
to ear.
"Well, I thank you; how are you?" added Paul. "I thought you were
booked for a bath, and I went in for my oars."
"That's right, and you are a good fellow. They say you are a Bristol
brick."
"Perhaps I am, but I don't happen to know you, and can't say what sort
of a brick you may be," replied Paul.
"I'm a perfect brick. Gi' me them oars and I'll pick up them logs,"
continued Tom, extending his hand to receive them.
"I'll help you do it," replied Paul, taking the painter and hauling in
the boat.
"What's your name?"
"Jack Sheppard," replied Tom, with a fresh grin.
"Have you got a rope, Jack Sheppard?"
"Never mind the logs; they don't belong to me, and I don't care for 'em.
Can't you lend me this boat a little spell? I want to git some saxifax
over there for my mother."
"I can't spare her now; I have to go over to Westport after my sister,"
answered Paul.
"Be you, though? I guess I'll go over with you," said Tom, with
refreshing confidence.
"I thought you were going to get some sassafras for your mother," added
Paul, who had by this time come to the conclusion that his visitor was
as queer as the craft upon which he had come.
"I guess I'll git it another time. I want to go over to Westport to see
a feller I know there."
"But I can't bring you back, for my sister is coming with me, and the
boat won't carry more than two," answered Paul, supposing this would end
the matter.
"All right; I will stay with the feller I know all night," replied the
accommodating stranger. "I'll help you row the boat over."
Paul was quite willing to have the queer fellow go with him, even if he
had to row all the way himself, for the flatboat worked better with two
in her than with one. Without a passenger she was too deep in the water
forward, and dug her nose into the wave. He had not the least idea who
his visitor was, but did not believe he had given his right name. If he
had known him, he would have given him the cold shoulder at once.
"I am not ready to go yet; I have to fix up the boat a little,"
continued Paul, as he laid the oars on the beach.
"How long before you can go? I don't want to wait all day, Bristol
Brick," added Tom.
"You needn't wait one minute if you don't wish to," replied Paul, who
wondered in what school of politeness his involuntary companion had been
brought up. "I am going to wash out the boat and let her dry a little
before I go."
"What's the use of washing her out? She is clean enough for any feller
to eat his dinner in," growled Tom.
"Perhaps she is if the fellow's a pig," said Paul, as he hauled the boat
up on the beach, nearly upsetting the Topover in the act.
"Mind out! What are you doing? Do you mean to spill me into the drink?"
demanded the saucy visitor.
"If you don't get out of the boat, you will be likely to get a ducking,"
added Paul, as he took up a pail and a broom he had brought from the
house before.
Tom looked at the owner of the Dragon; in fact, he eyed him from head to
foot. Tom was a pugilist, or he thought he was. He was a fighting
character, and possibly he was thinking whether he could whip the son of
toil, whose story had been told all over Genverres as well as on the
other side of the lake.
The Chesterfields had patronized and encouraged Tom Topover the season
before, because they believed that he and his vicious companions could
assist them in their encounters with the Beech Hillers.
During the present season the students of the two schools had not come
in collision, for the reason that Colonel Buckmill had forbidden his
pupils to meddle with their old enemies. Since the removal of the
cottage from Sandy Point the Chesterfield barges had been down to
Porter's Bay, where Tom had met Walker Billcord. The Topover and his
gang had fully discussed the attempt to capture Paul Bristol, and were
familiar with all the particulars.
Tom wished the magnate had offered _him_ twenty-five dollars for
capturing the fellow, and handing him over to the major at Sandy Point.
This he said to Walk. He would be willing to do the job for ten dollars.
He didn't think it was a great undertaking.
"You had better try it on, then," added Walk, morosely, for he hated
Paul not a particle less than when the son of toil had laid him out on
the point. "He will knock you out every time, without half trying."
"I should like to see the feller that can do that!" exclaimed Tom,
clenching his dirty fists.
"Haven't you seen Paul Bristol?" asked Walk.
"I saw him on the other side of the pond; I never see him close to. But
I ain't afear'd on him. I'll bet I can lick him so he won't know whether
it's Sunday or Thanksgiving," blustered Tom. "Will your old man give a
feller anything now for ketchin' him?" inquired Tom, looking anxiously
into the face of Walk.
"He don't make any offers for him now," added the son cautiously. "He
don't want to get into any more rows about the fellow."
"Oh, he don't?" muttered Tom, evidently greatly disappointed. "If your
old man will only do the handsome thing, I'll scrape this Bristol Brick
till there ain't nothin' left on him."
Walk Billcord looked at the ugly customer at his side, and his thirst
for vengeance stirred all the bad blood in his veins. He had plenty of
spending money, and he could even afford to give ten dollars himself for
satisfactory vengeance. Nim Splugger and Kidd Digfield, as rough
specimens as the Topover himself, would assist Tom. But Walk's father
had just been discharged from confinement, and there was great risk in
making the trade suggested.
"You would be prosecuted if you did anything," suggested Walk. "Then it
would come out that I had a hand in the business."
"Not a bit on 't!" exclaimed Tom, very positively. "Jest as quick as I
git the ten dollars, nobody won't see nothin' more of me within a
hund'ed miles of Lake Champlain."
"What do you mean by that, Tom?" asked Walk curiously.
"I'm go'n to run away. My old man is so hard on me that I can't stand it
no longer. I'm go'n' to New York to ship in a pirate vessel. I shan't be
caught nohow."
"I would give ten dollars quick enough to see Paul tied to a tree and
lathered with a cowhide for twenty minutes or half an hour; but I don't
make any offers, and I won't hire any fellow to do such a thing," added
Walk, as he considered the appalling risk.
"I cal'late I know jest what you mean, and you don't make me no offers.
You don't promise to give me no money," protested Tom.
"What are you jawing about, Walk?" asked Ham Jackson, coming up at this
moment.
"Tom Topover offers to catch Paul Bristol, and give him a lathering that
will keep him on his bed a month, for ten dollars; but I won't do
anything of the sort. I don't offer him a cent. I won't give him a
penny if he kills the rascal," said Walk, with as much earnestness as
though he meant every word he said.
"That's jest how it is. He won't give me nothin', and says he won't,"
added Tom.
"If you choose to larrup him on your own account, it is none of my
business," continued Walk.
"Of course it isn't," Ham Jackson chimed in. "I should like to pay that
fellow off for the few cracks he gave me, but they go to law on this
side, and it isn't safe."
"Of course I can lick him if I want to, and 't ain't nobody's business,"
added Tom, who thought he was very cunning. "I guess I understand you,
and you understand me. About next Saturday night at Sandy Point, say."
The coxswain's call summoned them to the boat, and they parted from Tom
Topover. The latter believed he had made a square bargain with Walk
Billcord, and ten dollars would take him to New York and pay his way
till he could ship in a "pirate vessel." He meant a pilot-boat, for he
had heard some one talking about one of these brisk little schooners a
few days before.
Since that interview Tom had watched the school grounds all the time.
Paul lived on the point, and he could catch him alone there some
evening. He had built the queer craft for use in his great enterprise.
He had seen the Sylph go down the river in the morning, and he intended
to put his scheme in operation that evening. Paul often sat on the rocks
about dark, and the opportunity would not be wanting.
While he was nailing the logs together on the other side of the creek, a
little way up, he saw Paul in his flatboat. Then it seemed to him that
the son of toil was as good as bagged. He was absolutely sure he could
handle him, in spite of the experience of the kid-glove chaps on the
other side. But Tom was cunning in his own estimation. Paul was going to
Westport, and it was safer to do the job near Sandy Point than on the
school premises.
He could hardly help bullying, but he refrained as soon as he thought
what he was doing; and half an hour later he embarked in the flatboat
with his victim.