MORE OF CAMP DE SQUATOOK.
On the following morning we breakfasted in a very leisurely fashion,
with a delightful sense of having all day before us. We spent the day in
casting our flies at the outlet, and our success was a continual
repetition of that of the previous night. Only Stranion grew tired. He
could not hook as many fish as the rest of us; wherefore he grew
disgusted, and chose to sit on the bank deriding us. But as long as the
fish were feeding we heeded him not. Our heaviest trout that day just
cleared two pounds and a half.
In the evening we took tea early. Before settling down we made a little
voyage of exploration to the top of a neighboring hill, and watched the
moon rise over the vast and empty wilderness. Returning to the camp, we
doffed our scanty garments, ran down the beach, and dashed out into the
gleaming lake-waters. It was such a swim as Stranion had told us of.
After this we felt royally luxurious. We lolled upon our blankets with a
lordly air, and the soughing of the pines was all about us for music.
Then, in a peremptory tone, Sam cried, “Stranion!”—“Sir, to you!” was
Stranion’s polite response.
“Stranion,” continued Sam, “to you it falls to unfold to this
appreciative audience the resources of your experience or your
imagination. I would recommend, now, a judicious combination of the
two.”
Thus irresistibly adjured, Stranion began:—
“This is the story of—
‘LOU’S CLARIONET,’”
said he. “Judge ye whether I speak from experience or imagination.
“It was a Christmas Eve service in the Second Westcock Church.
“The church at Second Westcock was quaint and old-fashioned, like the
village over which it presided. Its shingles were gray with the beating
of many winters; its little square tower was surmounted by four
spindling posts, like the legs of a table turned heavenward; its staring
windows were adorned with curtains of yellow cotton; its uneven and
desolate churchyard, strewn with graves and snowdrifts, occupied a bleak
hillside looking out across the bay to the lonely height of Shepody
Mountain.
“Down the long slope below the church straggled the village, half-lost
in the snow, and whistled over by the winds of the Bay of Fundy.
“Second Westcock was an outlying corner of the rector’s expansive
parish, and a Christmas Eve service there was an event almost
unparalleled. To give Second Westcock this service, the rector had
forsaken his prosperous congregations at Westcock, Sackville, and
Dorchester, driving some eight or ten miles through the snows and
solitude of the deep Dorchester woods.
“And because the choir at Second Westcock was not remarkable even for
willingness, much less for strength or skill, he had brought with him
his fifteen-year-old niece, Lou Allison, to swell the Christmas praises
with the notes of her clarionet.
“The little church was lighted with oil-lamps ranged along the white
wall between the windows. The poor, bare chancel—a red cloth-covered
kitchen table in a semicircle of paintless railing—was flanked by two
towering pulpits of white pine. On either side the narrow, carpetless
aisle were rows of unpainted benches.
“On the left were gathered solemnly the men of the congregation, each
looking straight ahead. On the right were the women, whispering and
scanning each other’s bonnets, till the appearance of the rector from
the little vestry-room by the door should bring silence and reverent
attention.
“In front of the women’s row stood the melodeon; and the two benches
behind it were occupied by the choir, the male members of which sat
blushingly self-conscious, proud of their office, but deeply abashed at
the necessity of sitting among the women.
“There was no attempt at Christmas decoration, for Second Westcock had
never been awakened to the delicious excitements of the church greening.
“At last the rector appeared in his voluminous white surplice. He moved
slowly up the aisle, and mounted the winding steps of the right-hand
pulpit; and as he did so his five-year-old son, forsaking his place by
Lou’s side, marched forward and seated himself resolutely on the pulpit
steps. He did not feel quite at home in Second Westcock Church.
“The sweet old carol, ‘While shepherds watched their flocks by night,’
rose rather doubtfully from the little choir, who looked and listened
askance at the glittering clarionet, into which Lou was now blowing
softly. Lou was afraid to make herself distinctly heard at first, lest
she should startle the singers; but in the second verse the pure vibrant
notes came out with confidence, and then for two lines the song was
little more than a duet between Lou and the rector’s vigorous baritone.
In the third verse, however, it all came right. The choir felt and
responded to the strong support and thrilling stimulus of the
instrument, and at length ceased to dread their own voices. The naked
little church was glorified with the sweep of triumphal song pulsating
through it.
“Never before had such music been heard there. Men, women, and children
sang from their very souls; and when the hymn was ended the whole
congregation stood for some seconds as in a dream, with quivering
throats, till the rector’s calm voice, repeating the opening words of
the liturgy, brought back their self-control in some measure.
“Thereafter every hymn and chant and carol was like an inspiration, and
Lou’s eyes sparkled with exultation.
“When the service was over the people gathered round the stove by the
door, praising Lou’s clarionet, and petting little Ted, who had by this
time come down from the pulpit steps. One old lady gave the child two or
three brown sugar-biscuits, which she had brought in her pocket, and a
pair of red mittens, which she had knitted for him as a Christmas
present.
“Turning to Lou, the old lady said, ‘I never heerd nothing like that
trumpet of yourn, Miss. I felt like it jest drawed down the angels from
heaven to sing with us to-night. Ther voices was all swimming in a smoke
like, right up in the hollow of the ceiling.’
“‘’Tain’t a trumpet!’ interrupted Teddy shyly; ‘it’s a clar’onet. I got
a trumpet home!’
“‘_To_ be sure!’ replied the old lady indulgently. ‘But, Miss, as I was
a-sayin’, that music of yourn would jest soften the hardest heart as
ever was.’
“The rector had just come from the vestry-room, well wrapped up in his
furs, and was shaking hands and wishing every one a Merry Christmas,
while the sexton brought the horse to the door. He overheard the old
lady’s last remark, as she was bundling Teddy up in a huge woollen
muffler.
“‘It certainly did,’ said he, ‘make the singing go magnificently
to-night, didn’t it, Mrs. Tait? But I wonder, now, what sort of an
effect it would produce on a hard-hearted bear if such a creature should
come out at us while we are going through Dorchester woods?’
“The mild pleasantry was very delicately adapted to the rector’s
audience, and the group about the stove smiled with a reverent air
befitting the place they were in; but the old lady exclaimed in haste,—
“‘My land sakes, Parson, a bear’d be jest scared to death!’
“‘I wonder if it _would_ frighten a bear?’ thought Lou to herself, as
they were getting snugly bundled into the warm, deep ‘pung,’ as the low
box-sleigh with movable seats is called.
“Soon the crest of the hill was passed, and the four-poster on the top
of Second Westcock Church sank out of sight. For a mile or more the road
led through half-cleared pasture lands, where the black stumps stuck up
so strangely through the drifts that Teddy discovered bears on every
hand. He was not at all alarmed, however, for he was sure his father was
a match for a thousand bears.
“By and by the road entered the curious inverted dark of the Dorchester
woods, where all the light seemed to come from the white snow under the
trees rather than from the dark sky above them. At this stage of the
journey Teddy retired beneath the buffalo-robes, and went to sleep in
the bottom of the pung.
“The horse jogged slowly along the somewhat heavy road. The bells
jingled drowsily amid the soft, pushing whisper of the runners. Lou and
the rector talked in quiet voices, attuned to the solemn hush of the
great forest.
“‘_What’s that?_’
“Lou shivered up closer to the rector as she spoke, and glanced
nervously into the dark woods whence a sound had come. He did not answer
at once, but seized the whip and tightened the reins, as a signal to old
Jerry to move on faster.
“The horse needed no signal, but awoke into an eager trot, which would
have become a gallop had the rector permitted.
“Again came the sound, this time a little nearer, and still, apparently,
just abreast of the pung, but deep in the woods. It was a bitter, long,
wailing cry, blended with a harshly grating undertone, like the rasping
of a saw.
“‘What is it?’ again asked Lou, her teeth chattering.
“The rector let old Jerry out into a gallop, as he answered, ‘I’m afraid
it’s a panther,—what they call around here an “Indian devil.” But I
don’t think there is any real danger. It is a ferocious beast, but will
probably give _us_ a wide berth.’
“‘Why won’t it attack _us_?” asked Lou.
“‘Oh, it prefers solitary victims,’ replied the rector. ‘It is
ordinarily a cautious beast, and does not understand the combination of
man and horse and vehicle. Only on rare occasions has it been known to
attack people driving, and this one will probably keep well out of our
sight. However, it’s just as well to get beyond its neighborhood as
quickly as possible. Steady, Jerry, old boy! Steady; don’t use yourself
up too fast!’
“The rector kept the horse well in hand; but in a short time it was
plain that the panther was not avoiding the party. The cries came nearer
and nearer, and Lou’s breath came quicker and quicker, and the rector’s
teeth began to set themselves grimly, while his brows gathered in
anxious thought.
“If it should come to a struggle, what was there in the sleigh, he was
wondering, that could serve as a weapon? Nothing, absolutely nothing,
but his heavy pocket-knife.
“‘A poor weapon,’ thought he ruefully, ‘with which to fight a panther.’
But he felt in his pocket with one hand, and opened the knife, and
slipped it under the edge of the cushion beside him.
“At this instant he caught sight of the panther bounding along through
the low underbrush, keeping parallel with the road, and not forty yards
away.
“‘There it is!’ came in a terrified whisper from Lou’s lips; and just
then Teddy lifted his head from under the robes. Frightened at the
speed, and at the set look on his father’s face, he began to cry. The
panther heard him and turned at once toward the sleigh.
“Old Jerry stretched himself out in a burst of extra speed, while the
rector grasped his poor knife fiercely; and the panther came with a long
leap right into the road, not ten paces behind the flying sleigh.
“Teddy stared in amazement, then cowered down in fresh terror as there
came an ear-splitting screech, wild and high and long, from Lou’s
clarionet. Lou had turned, and over the back of the seat was blowing
this peal of desperate defiance in the brute’s very face. The astonished
animal shrank back in his tracks, and sprang again into the underbrush.
“Lou turned to the rector with a flushed face of triumph, and the rector
exclaimed in a husky voice, ‘Thank God!’ But Teddy, between his sobs,
complained, ‘What did you do that for, Lou?’
“Lou jumped to the conclusion that her victory was complete and final;
but the rector kept Jerry at his top speed, and scrutinized the
underwood apprehensively.
“The panther appeared again in four or five minutes, returning to the
road, and leaping along some forty or fifty feet behind the sleigh. His
pace was a very curious, disjointed, india-rubbery spring, which rapidly
closed up on the fugitives.
“Then round swung Lou’s long instrument again, and at its piercing cry
the animal again shrank back. This time, however, he kept to the road,
and the moment Lou paused for breath he resumed the chase.
“‘Save your breath, child,’ exclaimed the rector, as Lou again put the
slender tube to her lips. ‘Save your breath, and let him have it
ferociously when he begins to get too near.
“The animal came within twenty or thirty feet again, and then Lou
greeted him with an ear-splitting blast, and he fell back. Again and
again the tactics were repeated. Lou tried a thrilling cadenza; it was
too much for the brute’s nerves. He could not comprehend a girl with
such a penetrating voice, and he could not screw up his courage to a
closer investigation of the marvel.
“At last the animal seemed to resolve on a change of procedure. Plunging
into the woods, he made an effort to get ahead of the sleigh. Old Jerry
was showing signs of exhaustion; but the rector roused him to an extra
spurt—and there, just ahead, was the opening of Fillmore’s settlement.
“‘Blow, Lou, blow!’ shouted the rector; and as the panther made a dash
to intercept the sleigh, it found itself in too close proximity to the
strange-voiced phenomenon in the pung, and sprang backward with an angry
snarl.
“As Lou’s breath failed from her dry lips, the sleigh dashed out into
the open. A dog bayed angrily from the nearest farmhouse, and the
panther stopped short on the edge of the wood. The rector drove into the
farmyard; and old Jerry stopped, shivering as if he would fall between
the shafts.
“After the story had been told, and Jerry had been stabled and rubbed
down, the rector resumed his journey with a fresh horse, having no fear
that the panther would venture across the cleared lands. Three of the
settlers started out forthwith, and following the tracks in the new
snow, succeeded in shooting the beast after a chase of two or three
hours.
“The adventure supplied the country-side all that winter with a theme
for conversation; and about Lou’s clarionet there gathered a halo of
romance that drew rousing congregations to the parish church, where its
music was to be heard every alternate Sunday evening.”
“I should say,” remarked Queerman, “that to experience and imagination
you combine a most tenacious memory. Who would have dreamed that the shy
Teddy, with his proclivity for the pulpit-steps, would have developed
into the Stranion that we see before us!”
To this there was no reply. Then suddenly Magnus said, “Sam!” And Sam
began at once.
“This is all about—
‘JAKE DIMBALL’S WOODEN LEG,’”
said Sam.
“One evening in the early summer, I won’t say how many years ago, Jake
Dimball was driving the cows home from pasture. At that time Jake, a
stout youth of seventeen, had no thought of such an appendage as a
wooden leg. Indeed, he had no place to put one had he possessed such a
thing; for his own vigorous legs of bone and muscle, with which he had
been born and with which he had grown up in entire content, seemed
likely to serve him for the rest of his natural life. But that very
evening, amid the safe quiet and soft colors of the upland cow-pasture,
fate was making ready a lesson for him in the possibilities of the
unexpected.
“In Westmoreland county that summer bears were looked upon as a drug in
the market. The county, indeed, seemed to be suffering from an epidemic
of bears. But, so far, these woody pastures of Second Westcock,
surrounded by settlements, had apparently escaped the contagion. When,
therefore, Jake was startled by an angry growl, coming from a swampy
thicket on his right, the thought of a bear did not immediately occur to
him. He saw that the cows were running ahead with a sudden alertness,
but he paused and gazed at the thicket, wondering whether it would be
wise for him to go and investigate the source of the sound. While he
hesitated, the question was decided for him. A large black bear burst
forth from the bushes with a crash that carried a nameless terror into
Jake’s very soul. The beast looked so cruelly out of place, so horribly
out of place, breaking in upon the beauty and security of the familiar
scene. Jake had no weapon more formidable than the hazel switch he was
carrying and the pocket-knife with which he was trimming off its
branches. After one long horrified look at the bear, Jake took to flight
along the narrow cow-path.
“Jake was a notable runner in those days, yet the bear gained upon him
rapidly. The cow-path was tortuous exceedingly, and away from the path
the ground was too rough for fast running—at least Jake found it so. The
bear did not seem to mind the irregularities.
“Jake envied the cows their fine head start. He wished he was with them;
then, as he heard the bear getting closer, he almost wished he was one
of them; and then his foot caught in a root and he fell headlong.
“As he fell a great wave of despair went over him, and a thought flashed
through his mind: ‘This is the end of me!’ His sight was darkened for an
instant, as he rolled in the moss and twigs between two hillocks. Then,
turning upon his back, he saw the bear already hanging over him; and now
a desperate courage came to his aid.
“Raising his heels high in the air, he brought them down with violence
in the brute’s face. The animal started back, astonished at this novel
method of defence. When it advanced again to the attack, Jake met it
desperately with his heels; and all the time he kept up a lusty shouting
such as he hoped would soon bring some one to the rescue. For a few
minutes, strange to say, Jake’s tactics were successful in keeping his
foe at bay; but presently the bear, growing more angry, or more hungry,
made a fiercer assault, and, succeeded in catching the lad’s foot
between his jaws. The brave fellow sickened under the cruel grip of
those crunching teeth; but he kept up the fight with his free heel. Just
as he was about fainting with pain and exhaustion, some farmers, who had
heard the outcry, arrived upon the scene, and the bear hastily withdrew.
“That night there was a bear-hunt at Second Westcock, but it brought no
spoils. Bruin had made an effective disappearance. As for Jake, his foot
and the lower part of his leg were so dreadfully mangled that the leg
had to be cut off just below the knee. When the lad was entirely
recovered, being a handy fellow, he made himself a new leg of white oak,
around the bottom of which, to prevent wear, he hammered a stout iron
ring.
“The years went by in their usual surreptitious fashion, and brought few
changes to Second Westcock. One June evening, ten years after that on
which my story opened, Jake was driving the cows home as usual, when
once more, as he passed the swampy thicket, he heard that menacing
growl. Jake looked about him as if in a dream. There was the same dewy
smell in the air, mingled with the fragrance of sweet fern, that he
remembered so painfully and so well. There was the same long yellow
cloud over the black woods to the west. There was the same dappled sky
of amber and violet over his head. As before, he saw the cows breaking
into a run. In a moment there was the same dreadful crashing in the
thicket. Was he dreaming? He looked down in bewilderment, and his eyes
fell on the iron-shod end of his wooden leg! That settled it. Evidently
he was not dreaming, and it was time for him to hurry home. He broke
into a run as rapid as his wooden leg would allow.
“Now, long use and natural dexterity had made Jake almost as active in
the handling of this wooden leg as most men are with the limbs which
nature gave them. But with his original legs in their pristine vigor he
had found himself no match for a bear. What, then, could he expect in
the present instance? Jake looked over his shoulder, and beheld the bear
hot on his tracks. He could have sworn it was the same bear as of old.
He made up his mind to run no more, but to save his breath for what he
felt might be his last fight. He gave a series of terrific yells, such
as he thought might pierce even to the corner grocery under the hill,
and threw himself flat on his back on a gentle hummock that might pass
for a post of vantage.
“Jake was not hopeful, but he was firm. He thought it would be too much
to expect to come off twice victorious from a scrape like this. He eyed
the bear sternly, and it seemed to him as if the brute actually smiled
on observing that its intended victim had not forgotten his ancient
tactics. Jake concluded that the approaching contest was likely to be
fatal to himself, but he calculated on making it at least unpleasant for
the bear.
“The animal turned a little to one side, and attacked his prostrate
antagonist in the flank; but Jake whirled nimbly just in time, and
brought down his iron-shod heel on the brute’s snout. The blow was a
heavy one, but that bear was not at all surprised. If it was the bear of
the previous encounter, it doubtless argued that years had brought
additional weight and strength to its opponent’s understanding. It was
not to be daunted, but instantly seized the wooden leg in its angry
jaws. Jake’s yells for help continued; but the bear, the moment it
discovered that the limb on which it was chewing was of good white oak,
fell a prey to astonishment, if not alarm.
“It dropped the leg, backed off a few paces, sat down upon its haunches,
and gazed at this strange and inedible species of man. Jake realized at
once the creature’s bewilderment; but the crisis was such a painful one
that the humor of the situation failed to strike him.
“After a few moments of contemplation, the bear made a fresh attack. It
was hungry, and perhaps thought some other portion of Jake’s body might
prove more delicate eating than his leg. Jake, however, gave it no
chance to try. The next hold the bear got was upon the very end of the
oaken member, where the iron ring proved little to its taste. It tried
fiercely for another hold; but Jake in his desperate struggles, endowed
with the strength of his terror, succeeded in foiling it in every
attempt. At length, with the utmost force of his powerful thigh, he
drove the end of the leg right into the beast’s open mouth, inflicting a
serious wound. Blood flowed freely from the animal’s throat; and
presently, after a moment of hesitation, having probably concluded that
the morsel was not savory enough to justify any further struggle, the
bear moved sullenly away, coughing and whining.
“Jake lay quite still till his vanquished antagonist had disappeared in
the covert. Then he rose and wended his way homeward, thinking to
himself how much better his wooden leg had served him than an ordinary
one could have done. In a few minutes he was met by some of his
fellow-townsmen, who were hastening to find out the cause of all the
noise. To them Jake related the adventure with great elation, adding, as
he concluded, ‘You see, now, how everything turns out for the best. If I
hadn’t lost that ere leg of mine this night ten year ago, I’d have mebbe
lost my head this very evening!’
“In spite of Jake Dimball’s reputation for truthfulness, his story was
not believed in the village of Second Westcock. It was voted altogether
too improbable, from whatever side it was looked at. In fact, so
profoundly incredulous were his fellow-villagers, that Jake could not
even organize a bear-hunt. Some ten days later, however, his veracity
received ample confirmation. A man out looking for strayed cattle in the
woods not more than a couple of miles from Jake’s pasture, found a large
bear lying dead in a cedar swamp. Examining the body curiously to find
the cause of death, he was puzzled till he recalled Jake’s story. Then
he looked at the dead brute’s throat. The mystery was solved; and the
community was once for all convinced of the fighting qualities of the
wooden leg.”
“That’s a good story,” said Magnus. “In a vague way it reminds me of one
which is as unlike it as anything could well be. Mine is a tropical
tale. Let the O. M. enter it as—
‘PERIL AMONG THE PEARLS.’
I got it at first-hand when I was in Halifax last autumn.
“In the tiny office of the ‘Cunarder’ inn the air was thick with smoke.
The white, egg-shaped stove contained a fire, though September was yet
young; for a raw night fog had rolled in over Halifax, making the
display of bright coals no less comforting than cheerful. From the
adjacent wharves came the soft washing and whispering of the tide, with
an occasional rattle of oars as a boat came to land from one of the many
ships.
“The density of the atmosphere in the office was chiefly due to ‘Al’
Johnson, the diver, who, when he was not talking, diving, eating, or
sleeping, was sure to be puffing at his pipe. We had talked little, but
now I resolved to turn off the smoke flowing from Johnson’s pipe by
getting him to tell us a story. He could never tell a story and keep his
pipe lit at the same time.
“Johnson was a college-bred man, whom a love of adventure had lured into
deep-sea diving. He and his partner were at this time engaged in
recovering the cargo of the steamer Oelrich, sunk near the entrance to
Halifax harbor.
“I asked Johnson, ‘Do you remember promising me a yarn about an
adventure you had in the pearl-fisheries?’
“‘Which adventure? and what pearl-fisheries?’ Johnson asked. ‘I’ve
fished at Tinnevelli, and in the Sulu waters off the Borneo coast, and
also in the Torres Strait; and wheresoever it was, there seemed to be
pretty nearly always some excitement going.’
“‘Oh,’ said I, ‘whichever you like to give us. I think what you spoke of
was an adventure in the Torres Strait.’
“‘No,’ said Johnson, ‘I think I’ll give you a little yarn about a tussle
I had with a turtle in the Sulu waters. I fancy there isn’t much that
grows but you’ll find it somewhere in Borneo; and the water there is
just as full of life as the land.’
“‘Sharks?’ I queried.
“‘Oh, worse than sharks!’ replied Johnson. ‘There’s a big squid that
will squirt the water black as ink; and just then, perhaps, something
comes along and grabs you when you can’t defend yourself. And there’s
the devil-fish, own cousin to the squid, and the meanest enemy you’d
want to run across anywhere. And there’s a tremendous giant of a
shell-fish,—a kind of scalloped clam, that lies with its huge shells
wide open, but half hidden in the long weeds and sea-mosses. If you put
your foot into _that_ trap—_snap!_ it closes on you, and you’re fast!
That clam is a good deal stronger than you are; and if you have not a
hatchet or something to smash the shell with, you are likely to stay
there. Of course your partner in the boat up aloft would soon know
something was wrong, finding that he couldn’t haul you up. Then he would
go down after you, and chop you loose perhaps. But meanwhile it would be
far from nice, especially if a shark came along—if another clam does not
nab him, for one of these big clams has been known to catch even a
shark. Many natives thereabouts do a lot of diving on their own account,
and, of course, don’t indulge in diving-suits. I can tell you, they are
very careful not to fall afoul of those clam-shells; for when they do
they’re drowned before they can get clear.’
“‘You can hardly blame the clam, or whatever it is,’ said I. ‘It must be
rather a shock to its nerves when it feels a big foot thrust down right
upon its stomach!’
“‘No,’ assented Johnson; ‘you can’t blame the clam. But besides the
clam, there is a big turtle that is a most officious creature, with a
beak that will almost cut railroad iron. It is forever poking that beak
into whatever it thinks it doesn’t know all about; and you cannot scare
it as you can a shark. You have simply got to kill it before it will
acknowledge itself beaten. These same turtles, however, at the top of
the water or on dry land would, in most cases, prove as timid as
rabbits. And then, as you say, there are the sharks,—all kinds, big and
little, forever hungry, but not half so courageous as they get the
credit of being.’
“‘I suppose,’ I interrupted, ‘you always carried a weapon of some sort!’
“‘Well, rather!’ said Johnson. ‘For my own part, I took a great fancy to
the ironwood stakes that the natives always use. But they didn’t seem to
me quite the thing for smashing those big shells with, supposing a
fellow should happen to put his foot into one. So I made myself a stake
with a steel top, which answered every purpose. More than one big shark
have I settled with that handspike of mine; and once I found, to my
great advantage, that it was just the thing to break up a shell with.’
“‘Ha, ha!’ laughed Best, who had been listening rather inattentively
hitherto. ‘So _you_ put your foot in it, did you?”
“‘Yes, I did,’ said Johnson. ‘And that is just what I’m going to tell
you about. I was working that season with a good partner, a likely young
fellow hailing from Auckland. He tended the line and the pump to my
complete satisfaction. I’ve never had a better tender. Also, I was
teaching him to dive, and he took to it like a loon. His name was
“Larry” Scott; and if he had lived, he would have made a record. He was
killed about a year after the time I’m telling you of, in a row down in
New Orleans. But we won’t stop to talk about that now.
“‘As I was saying, Larry and I pulled together pretty well from the
start, and we were so lucky with our fishing that the fellows in the
other boats began to get jealous and unpleasant. You must know that all
kinds go to the pearl-fisheries; and the worst kinds have rather the
best of it, in point of numbers. We were ready enough to fight, but we
liked best to go our own way peaceably. So, when some of the other lads
got quarrelsome, we just smiled, hoisted our sail, and looked up a new
ground for ourselves some little distance from the rest of the fleet.
Luck being on our side just then, we chanced upon one of the finest beds
in the whole neighborhood.
“‘One morning, as I was poking about among the seaweed and stuff, I came
across a fine-looking bunch of pearl-shells. I made a grab at them, but
they were firmly rooted and refused to come away. I laid down my
handspike, took hold of the cluster with both hands, and shifted my
foothold so as to get a good chance to pull.
“‘Up came the bunch of shells at the first wrench, much more readily
than I had expected. To recover myself I took a step backward; down went
my foot into a crevice, “slumped” into something soft, and _snap!_ my
leg was fast in a grip that almost made me yell there in the little
prison of my helmet.
“‘Well, as you may imagine, just as soon as I recovered from the start
this gave me, I reached out for my handspike to knock that clam-shell
into flinders. But a cold shiver went over me as I found I could not
reach the weapon! As I laid it down, it had slipped a little off to one
side; and there it rested about a foot out of my reach, reclining on one
of those twisted conch-shells such as the farmers use for dinner-horns.
“‘How I jerked on my leg trying to pull it out of the trap! That,
however, only hurt the leg. All the satisfaction I could get was in the
thought that my foot, with its big, twenty-pound, rubber-and-lead boot,
must be making the clam’s internal affairs rather uncomfortable. After I
had pretty well tired myself out, stretching and tugging on my leg, and
struggling to reach the handspike, I paused to recover my wind, and
consider the situation.
“‘It was not very deep water I was working in, and there was any amount
of light. You have no sort of idea, until you have been there yourself,
what a queer world it is down where the pearl-oyster grows. The seaweeds
were all sorts of colors—or rather, I should say, they were all sorts of
reds and yellows and greens. The rest of the colors of the rainbow you
might find in the shells which lay around under foot, or went crawling
among the weeds; and away overhead darted and flashed the queerest
looking fish, like birds in a yellow sky. There were lots of big
anemones too, waving, stretching, and curling their many-colored
tentacles.
“‘I saw everything with extraordinary vividness about that time, as I
know by the clear way I recollect it now; but you may be sure I wasn’t
thinking much just then about the beauties of nature. I was trying to
think of some way of getting assistance from Larry. At length I
concluded I had better give him the signal to haul me up. Finding that I
was stuck, he would, I reasoned, hoist the anchor, and then pull the
boat along to the place of my captivity. Then he could easily send me
down a hatchet wherewith to chop my way to freedom.
“‘Just as I had come to this resolve, a black shadow passed over my
head, and I looked up quickly. It was a big turtle. I didn’t like this,
I can tell you; but I kept perfectly still, hoping the new-comer would
not notice me.
“‘He paddled along very slowly, with his queer little head stuck far
out, and presently he noticed my air-tube. It seemed to strike him as
decidedly queer. My blood fairly turned to ice in my veins as I saw him
paddle up and take hold of it in a gingerly fashion with his beak.
Luckily, he didn’t seem to think it would be good to eat; but I knew
that if he should bite it I would be a dead man in about a minute,
drowned inside my helmet like a rat in a hole. It is in an emergency
like this that a man learns to know what real terror is.
[Illustration: “It seemed to strike Him as decidedly Queer.”—Page 140.]
“‘In my desperation I stooped down and tore with both hands at the
shells and weeds for something I might hurl at the turtle, thinking thus
perhaps to distract his attention from my air-tube. But what do you
suppose happened? Why, I succeeded in pulling up a great lump of shells
and stones all bedded together. The mass was fully two feet long. My
heart gave a leap of exultation, for I knew at once just what to do with
the instrument thus providentially placed in my hands. Instead of trying
to hurl it at the turtle, I reached out with it, and managed to scrape
that precious handspike within grasp. As I gathered it once more into my
grip, I straightened up and was a man again.
“‘Just at this juncture the turtle decided to take a hand in. I had
given the signal to be hauled up at the very moment when I got hold of
that lump of stones, and now I could feel Larry tugging energetically on
the rope. The turtle left off fooling with the tube, and, paddling down
to see what was making such a commotion in the water, he tackled me at
once.
“‘As it happened, however, he took hold of the big copper nut on the top
of the head-piece; and that was too tough a morsel even for _his_ beak,
so that all he could do was to shake me a bit. With him at my head, and
the clam on my leg, and Larry jerking on my waistband, you may imagine I
could hardly call my soul my own. However, I began jabbing my handspike
for all I was worth into the unprotected parts of the turtle’s body,
feeling around for some vital spot,—which is a thing mighty hard to find
in a turtle! In a moment the water was red with blood; but that made no
great difference to me, and for a while it didn’t seem to make much
difference to the turtle either. All I could do was to keep on jabbing
as close to the neck as I could, and between the front flippers. And the
turtle kept on chewing at the copper joint.
“‘I believe it was the clam that helped me most effectually in that
struggle. You see, that grip on my leg kept me as steady as a rock. If
it hadn’t been for that, the turtle would have had me off my feet and
end over end in no time, and would probably have soon got the best of
me. As it was, after a few moments of this desperate stabbing with the
handspike, I managed to kill my assailant; but even in death that iron
beak of his maintained its hold on the copper nut of my helmet. Having
no means of cutting the brute’s head off, I turned my attention to the
big clam, and with the steel point of my handspike I soon released my
foot.
“‘Then Larry hauled me up. He told me afterward he never in all his life
got such a start as when that great turtle came to the surface hanging
on to the top of my helmet. The creature was so heavy he could not haul
it and me together into the boat; so he slashed the head off with a
hatchet, and then lifted me aboard. Beyond a black-and-blue leg, I was
not much the worse for that adventure; but I was so used up with the
excitement of it all that I wouldn’t go down for any more pearls that
day. We took a day off,—Larry and I, and indulged in a little run
ashore.’
“‘You had earned it,’ said I.”
“Now, Queerman,” said Sam, “as your turn comes round again, give us
something less lugubrious than your last. Be light; be cheerful!”
“It seems to me that I remember,” replied Queerman, “a merry little
adventure that befell me some years ago. If it is not hilarious enough
to suit you, Sam, you can stop me in the middle of it. While you fellows
were fishing this afternoon, I was reading Mr. Gummere’s _Handbook of
Poetics_. Without by any means indorsing all that he says, I was struck
by many imaginative passages. In one place he says, ‘Something dimly
personal stood behind the flash of lightning, the roaring of the wind.’
That is suggestive. I’ll tell you a case in point from my own experience
in Newfoundland. Let us call the story—
‘THE DOGS OF THE DRIFT.’
“The very home of visions, and strange traditions, and mysteries, is
Newfoundland, that great half-explored island in the wild North
Atlantic.
“Here the iron coast, harborless for league upon league, opposes a black
perpendicular front to the vast green seas, which slowly and unceasingly
beneath their veil of fogs roll in, and fall in thunder amidst its
pinnacles and caverns.
“At wide intervals the cliffs give way a little, forming narrow coves
and havens, so limited that scarce a score of fishing-boats can find
safe harborage therein. In almost every such cove may be found a tiny
settlement, remote from the world, utterly shut in upon itself save
during the brief months of summer, with no ideas but what spring from
its people’s daily toil and from the stupendous aspects of surrounding
nature.
“Is it strange that to such simple and lonely souls the wild elements
become instinct with strange life, and seem to dominate their thoughts
and their existence?
“For them the driving mists are filled with apparitions. The gnarled and
wind-beaten firs take on strange features in the dusk. Through the
ravings of the gale against those towering cliffs comes to their ears a
hubbub of articulate voices, mingled with the cries of the baffled
sea-birds.
“Men dwelling under such influences are imaginative. If left in
ignorance, they grow, of necessity, superstitious. The mouths of these
islanders overflow with unearthly tales, nearly all of which may be
traced to the workings of some natural force.
“But their faith in these fancies is as unquestioning as our acceptance
of the word that the world is round.
“What were variously known to the islanders as ‘The Dogs of the Drift,’
‘The White Dogs,’ and ‘The Gray Dogs,’ I heard of all over the island.
“As went the tale generally, and ever with bated breath, these beings
were a team of gigantic dogs, lean and pale in color, driven furiously
by a gaunt woman in flowing garments of white.
“They were said to appear to travellers caught journeying in a storm,
and to dash past with shrill howls when the storm was at its highest.
“Never closer did they come than within a stone’s throw; but their
coming meant death ere sunset to one or another of those met by the
apparition.
“In the winter of 1888 a fire took place in the out-harbor where I was
then living, and a large part of the winter’s stores was destroyed. To
our secluded settlement this was an overwhelming calamity; and there was
nothing for it, if we would escape actual starvation, but to send some
one for supplies to Harbor Briton.
“The journey was one of great difficulty and hardship,—some hundred and
odd miles to be traversed through an unbroken wilderness, and the only
means of conveyance a dog-team and a sledge. Being young and
venturesome, and ever on the search for a new experience, I volunteered
for the service, taking with me my man, Mike Conley, a keen hunter, and
one well skilled in driving dogs.
“Our team was a powerful one, led by a great black-and-white fellow,
whom the other dogs devotedly obeyed. With provision for ourselves and
team, with blankets and the other necessaries of such a trip, our long
sledge was well loaded down; and we took with us money to buy supplies,
as well as pay the transportation of them back to the famishing
settlement.
“We marched on snow-shoes for the most part, save over those open
stretches of plain where the crust had hardened like ice, and where the
dogs were able, at a brisk gallop, to draw both ourselves and their
load.
“At such times, exhilarated by the swift motion in that keen air and
sparkling sunshine, the hardships of our journey were forgotten, and we
thrilled under the beauty of the glittering world of white. But far
otherwise was it when our course lay, as it generally did, through
“juniper” swamps and tangled accumulation of forest-growths.
“Then a whole day’s severest toil advanced us but a few miles on our
way. The dogs, floundering in the drifts and gullies, would get their
traces into an almost hopeless snarl; and many a beating the poor brutes
brought upon themselves by the dangerous temper they displayed under
such annoyances. They were a fierce and wolfish pack, and a strong hand
we were compelled to keep over them.
“Our nights, when it was fine and calm, were pleasant enough, as we lay,
wrapt in many blankets, around our fire. Our custom was to dig a deep
hollow in the snow, and floor it with soft boughs, leaving a space at
one side for the fire.
“Such a camp, nestled in a thick grove of “var” or spruce, was snug in
all ordinary weather. But sometimes the rage of the gale would make a
fire impossible. The wind-gusts would fairly shatter it to bits, and,
bursting in upon us from every quarter, drive the brands and coals all
over the camp. There was then nothing left for us but to smother the
remnants with snow, and huddled altogether in a heap—men, dogs, and
blankets—to await wretchedly the coming of the stormy dawn.
“Always on such occasions would Mike, who was superstitious to the
finger-tips, be looking out in fascinated expectation for the dreadful
‘Gray Dogs.’
“At each yelling blast he strained his eyes through the dark, till from
laughing at him I grew angry, and he was constrained to hide his fears.
I represented to him that, as long as he kept his eyes beneath his
blanket, these dogs of the drift need have no terrors for him, even
should they come the whole night long and career about the camp; for the
portent only applied to those beholding it.
“This view of the case, however, was but little relief to him, as his
fears were no less on my account than on his own.
“Notwithstanding one or two such grim experiences, all went well with us
till our journey was two-thirds done, and the hardest of the way lay
behind us.
“Then, as we floundered one afternoon through a deadwood swamp, Mike
slipped between two fallen trunks, and broke his left arm near the
shoulder. This was a most unlooked-for blow, but the poor fellow bore it
like a hero.
“With rude splints I set the arm and bandaged it; and after a day’s
halt, I fixed him a sort of bed on the sledge, so that we were enabled
to continue our journey.
“But now we were forced to make long detours, in order to avoid rough
country.
“On the following morning, to our satisfaction, we came out upon a chain
of lakes which promised us something like fair going for a while.
“In a sheltered place on the shore we found a rude cabin occupied by two
hunters, who had their traps set in the surrounding woods. Neither the
faces nor the manner of these men did I find prepossessing; but they
received us hospitably, fed us well, and pressed us to stay with them
over night.
“Not unnaturally, they were curious as to the motives of our strange
journey, and before I could give him a hint of warning, my garrulous and
fearless Mike had put them in possession of the whole story.
“The greedy look of intelligence which passed furtively between them
upon learning we were on the way to purchase stores aroused all my
suspicions, and set me sharply on my guard.
“Their hospitality now became doubly pressing. In fact, when they saw me
bent on immediate departure, they grew almost threatening in their
earnestness.
“At this, assuming an angry air, I asked them why they should so concern
themselves about what was entirely my own business; and I gave them
plainly to understand that I wanted no interference.
“Changing their tone at once, and deprecating my warmth, they called to
my notice the storm that was gathering overhead.
“They were right; the signs could hardly be mistaken. The little bursts
and eddies of drift that rose fitfully from the lake’s white surface;
the long, whispering sob of the gusts that woke at intervals behind the
forests; the heavy but vague massing of clouds all over the sky, which
at a little distance was confused with the earth by a sort of pearly
haze—all portended a hurricane of snow before many hours.
“With reason on their side, and the evident desire of my wounded Mike as
well, our hosts urged delay till the storm should have spent its fury.
“But silencing Mike with a glance, I rejected politely, but decidedly,
their proffered shelter, and made ready the team for a start.
“As soon as I had begun to tackle the dogs, the younger of our hosts
suddenly took up his gun and left the cabin, saying he thought he’d
better visit a few traps before the storm set in.
“He turned, I noticed, down the shore of the lake, parallel to the
direction in which our own course lay.
“The older man speeded our departure with all seeming good-will,
announcing that he only waited to see us safely off, and would then
follow his partner to examine the traps.
“Once underway I retailed my suspicions to Mike, who, heedless as he
was, had been putting this and that together during the last few
minutes. Bitterly he bewailed his helplessness; and many and varied were
the maledictions which from his couch in the blankets he hurled upon our
prospective foes. At his suggestion we shunned the wooded shores, taking
our course as nearly as possible down the middle of the lake.
“With my rifle in one hand and my long-lashed whip in the other, I urged
the team to such a pace as it strained my running powers to keep up
with.
“The snow was soft, and for the dogs, as for myself, the work was too
severe to last; but my aim was, if possible, to settle with the first
ruffian (who had, it seemed likely, undertaken to head us off) before
the second could overtake and join forces with him.
“But suddenly, with a whistle and a biting blast, the storm was upon us.
For a moment the dogs cowered down in their tracks, and then we were
fain to hug the shore for shelter.
“The shelter was not much, for the storm seemed to rage from all
quarters; yet, breathless and blinded though we were, we were able to
make some headway. At a momentary lull between the gusts we rounded a
sharp headland, and entered a long, narrow passage between the shore and
a wooded island.
“‘A likely place enough for the murderin’ thief!’ exclaimed Mike.
“But we plunged ahead.
“The words had scarcely left his mouth when the snow seemed to rise
thinly about us in a thousand spirals and swirls. A tremendous wind
drove down the channel and smote us in the face, with a long, confused,
yelping howl, which made my flesh creep with its resemblance to a cry of
dogs. Our team trembled terribly and lay down.
“‘The gray dogs!’ came in a hoarse cry from Mike’s lips.
“And at the same moment there swept past us, in the heart of the
whirlwind, a pack of wild, huddling, and leaping drifts, followed by a
tall, bent, woman-like figure of snow-cloud, which seemed to stoop over
and urge on their furious flight.
“The vision vanished, the shrill clamor died away over the open reaches
of the lake, and shaking off my tremor, I cheered our dogs again to the
road.
“But as for Mike, he was overwhelmed with horror. He would admit no
doubt but that one of us must die before nightfall. And for my own part,
I felt that our circumstances lent only too ugly a color to his fancy.
“A succession of fitful though not violent gusts confronted us through
our whole course up this defile. The air was white with fine snow, and
we made but meagre headway.
“It must have been about half a mile that we had covered since seeing
the apparition, when we were startled by a sharp report just ahead of
us; and instantly our dogs stopped short and fell into wild confusion.
“Springing to their heads, I found the great black-and-white leader in
his death-struggle, bleeding upon the snow.
“‘Cut the traces!’ cried Mike.
“And though not comprehending his purpose, I stooped to do so.
“It was well for me I obeyed. As I stooped, a shot snapped behind us,
and the shrill whimper of a bullet sang past my ear.
“At the same moment, the gust subsiding, I saw our first assailant step
boldly out of cover just ahead of us, and raise his gun to shoulder for
a second shot.
“But I had severed the traces; there was a sort of fierce hiss from
Mike’s tongue, and with a yell, the whole team sprang forward to avenge
their leader.
“The ruffian, realizing at once his peril, discharged his gun wildly,
threw it down, and fled for his life.
“But he was too late! In briefer space, I think, than it takes to tell
it, the pack was upon him. He was literally torn to pieces.
“With whip and gun-stock I threw myself upon the mad brutes, who
presently, as if satisfied with their dreadful revenge, followed me back
in submission to their places.
“As for the second scoundrel, he had taken swift warning, and vanished.
“The dogs themselves seemed cowed by what they had done; and for my own
part, I was filled with horror.
“But no such weak sentimentality found the slightest favor with Mike.
Rebuking me for having beaten them, he lavished praise and endearments
upon the dogs.
“He reminded me, moreover, that they had saved the lives of both of us,
or had, at the very least, saved myself from the necessity of taking
blood upon my hands.
“Realizing this, I made hasty amends to the poor, shivering brutes,
comforting them with a liberal feast of dried dogfish.
“My present feeling toward them, as I look back upon the episode, is one
of unmitigated gratitude.
“The rest of our journey was accomplished without more than ordinary
trouble.
“A good deal of my spare energy I wasted in the effort to overturn
Mike’s faith, which stands still unshaken in the supernatural character
of the Dogs of the Drift.
“With such terrible testimony in his favor I could hardly have expected
much success for my arguments; for, as he concluded triumphantly, ‘if
the spectral team came down that channel, as it plainly did, then the
scoundrel lying in wait for us must have seen it, as well as we—and did
not he meet his doom before nightfall?’”
“If that’s what you call a _merry_ tale,” said Ranolf, “then the one
_I’m_ going to tell you of Newfoundland will make your eyes drop
‘weeping tears.’ It concerns the fate of—
‘BEN CHRISTIE’S BULL CARIBOU.’
“Ben Christie was first mate of the little coasting steamer Garnet, of
the Newfoundland Coastal Service. Born in one of those narrow
‘out-harbors’ that wedge themselves in somehow between the cliffs and
the gray sea, his eyes had been bent seaward from the beginning. Inland
all was mystery to him—alluring mystery.
“He had never been out of sight of the sea, except when the fog was too
thick for him to distinguish it as he leaned over the vessel’s rail. He
had grown up with a codline in his hands, in his eyes the alternation of
fog and flashing sunlight, in his ears the scream of the seafowl, and
the shattering thunder of the surf upon the cliffs.
“Of his native island he knew little but the seaward faces of her rocky
ramparts, over which he had often climbed to gather the eggs of puffin
and gannet. Of towns he knew but the wharves and water-fronts of St.
John’s and Halifax and Harbor Grace. But he was at home in his dory as
it climbed the sullen purple-green slopes of the great waves on ‘the
Banks,’ and he knew how to follow the seal, and triumph over the perils
of the Floating Fields.
“One day in Halifax, in a little inn on Water Street, Ben Christie saw
the stuffed and mounted head of a well-antlered bull caribou. It fired
his fancy; and from that day forth to shoot a bull caribou became his
consuming ambition.
“When he had been serving as mate of the Garnet for about two years, the
boiler of that redoubtable craft refused to perform its functions, and
she was laid up in St. John’s harbor for repairs.
“Christie’s opportunity had come. He furbished up his old muzzle-loading
sealing-gun, long of barrel and huge of bore, and took passage on a
little coasting-schooner bound for the West Shore and the mouth of the
Codroy River.
“Arrived at the Codroy, he remained in the settlement for a few days,
looking for a suitable comrade to go with him into the interior.
“When his errand became known,—which was right speedily, seeing that he
could talk of nothing but bull caribou,—he found plenty of practised
hunters ready to accompany him on his quest; but none of these were
quite to his liking. They all knew too much. They seemed to him to be
impressed with the idea that he did not know anything about caribou
hunting, and they talked about ‘getting him the finest pair of horns on
the barrens.’
“Now just what Ben wanted was to get those horns himself. He wanted to
do the shooting himself, and the hunting himself; and he did _not_ want
any one around to patronize him, and deride his mistakes. Ben was off on
a holiday, and he felt himself entitled to make mistakes if he wanted
to.
“At length he met a harum-scarum little Irishman named Mike Slohan, who
said he doted on hunting, but couldn’t hit anything smaller than a barn
door, and wouldn’t know—to use his own phrase—‘a spruce caribou from a
bull pa’tridge.’
“Ben took him to his heart at once, and without delay the pair made
ready for their expedition. Inextinguishable was the mirth of all the
experienced hunters, and grievous were the mishaps they prophesied for
our amateur Nimrods till at last Ben’s keen blue eyes began to flash
dangerously, and they judged it prudent to check their jibes.
“Whatever Mike Slohan’s inefficiency as a hunter, he was as fearless as
a grizzly, and he understood to its minutest detail the art of camping
out with comfort. He armed himself only with a little muzzle-loading
shotgun, but in other respects the two went well equipped.
“When Mike declared that all was ready, he and Ben embarked in a canoe
they had hired in the settlement, and started gayly up the river.
“After ascending the main stream some fifty or sixty miles, they turned
into a small tributary which flows into the Codroy from the northward.
This stream ran between precipitous banks, often more than a hundred
feet in height. Its deep and gloomy ravine was chiselled through a vast
table-land without landmark or limit, scourged by every wind that blows.
“This inexpressibly bleak region Mike declared to be ‘the barrens,’
where they would find the caribou. Into its depths they penetrated till
their way was barred by fierce rapids, at the foot of which they made
their camp in a warm and windless cove.
“It was well on in the autumn, a season when the bull caribou are very
pugnacious, whence it came that Ben Christie had not long to wait before
finding himself face to face with the object of his desire.
“The first day’s hunting, however, was fruitless. Leaving the camp after
a by no means early or hasty breakfast, Ben and Mike climbed the great
wall of the ravine; and no sooner were they fairly out upon the level
waste than they descried three caribou feeding about half a mile away.
This to Ben seemed quite a matter of course; nevertheless, he was
exhilarated at the sight, and set out in hot pursuit, followed by the
laughing Mike. They made no secret of their approach, but advanced in
plain view, as if they were driving cattle in a pasture. And the
caribou, being in a pleasant humor and willing to avoid disturbance,
discreetly withdrew.
“After pursuing them for three or four miles, Ben gave up the chase,
much disappointed to find the animals so wild.
“When the hunters started to return to the river, they were astonished
to find no sign of a river, or the course of one, anywhere in the
landscape. Mike at once concluded that they were lost, but Ben was not
troubled. He had the sun to steer by, and was amply satisfied.
“Indeed, he felt much at home on the barrens, where, as he said, ‘there
was plenty of sea-room, and a chap could breathe free.’ He shaped his
course confidently for the camp, and ‘fetched’ the river as unerringly
as if it had been a port on the South Shore.
“The barrens, which cover so large a portion of the interior of
Newfoundland, vary somewhat in character in different parts of the
island.
“Where Ben and Mike were investigating them, they were covered with wide
patches of a sturdy, stunted shrub called, locally, ‘skronnick.’
“This skronnick played a most important part in the experiences which
presently befell the hunters. It grows about shoulder-high at its
highest, and spreads out like a miniature banyan-tree. Its twisted stems
are bare to a height of from two to three feet, and its top so densely
matted as almost to shut out the light. The shrub is an evergreen, a
remote cousin to the juniper, and its stems are wide enough apart for
one to freely crawl about between them. When one is caught in a storm on
the barrens, the skronnick patches make no mean shelter.
“Scattered thinly amid the skronnick stood bald, white-granite bowlders
from two or three to ten or twelve feet high; and here and there lay
deep pools,—cup-shaped hollows—filled to the brim with transparent, icy
water.
“‘Arrah,’ said Mike, as they climbed down the ravine to the camp, ‘but
it’s a quare counthry!’
“To Ben, however, all dry land was queer. So he hardly comprehended
Mike’s remark.
“On the following day before they set out for the hunt a council of war
was held. Said Ben,—
“‘You see, the critters won’t let us git nigh enough to fire at ’em
afore they clear out; an’ _then_ where are we?’
“‘Sure, an’ we’ll hide in the skronnick,’ replied Mike, ‘an’ shoot thim
as they go by.’
“‘An’ maybe they won’t _go_ by just to oblige us,’ suggested Ben. ‘I
reckon we’ll hev to git down, so’s they can’t see us, an’ crawl up on
’em!”
“These tactics decided upon, the hunters mounted to the plain,
enthusiastic and sanguine. Eagerly they scanned the bleak reaches. Not a
caribou was there in sight. Ben’s face fell, and he heaved a mighty sigh
of disappointment. But Mike was not so easily cast down.
“‘Come on,’ said he cheerily, ‘an’ we’ll find the bastes ’fore ye know
where ye are.’
“With their guns over their shoulders, they picked their way through the
skronnick for a couple of hundred yards, till suddenly, out from behind
a bowlder, not twenty paces in front of them, stepped a huge bull
caribou.
“The caribou was solitary, and in a very bad humor. He shook his
spreading antlers and snorted ominously.
“‘You shoot! He’s yourn!’ shouted Mike in wild excitement, brandishing
his gun at full cock over his head.
“Proudly Ben raised his long weapon to his shoulder and pulled the
trigger. There was no marked result, however, as he had forgotten to
cock the gun. Just as he hastily remedied this oversight, the caribou
charged madly. Ben fired—and missed!
“‘He’ll kill ye! Dodge him in the skronnick,’ yelled Mike.
“And obediently Ben dived into the nearest patch.
“Acting upon a natural instinct, he scurried from side to side to throw
his pursuer off the track.
“The caribou sprang furiously upon the bushes where Ben had disappeared,
and trampled them with his knife-like front hoofs. Then he turned on
Mike, who had been anxiously waiting for him to keep still and give him
a fair shot.
“In desperation Mike fired, just grazing the animal’s flank, and then he
darted, like a rabbit, under the skronnick bushes.
“When those deadly forehoofs came down on the place where he had
vanished, the little Irishman was not there. Nimbly and noiselessly he
put all the distance he could between himself and the spot where he
heard his enemy tearing at the skronnick.
“Finding himself unpursued, Ben made haste to reload his gun.
“At the sound of Mike’s shot he thrust his head out of his hiding-place
in time to see his comrade go under cover. Very deliberately Ben rammed
the bullet home and put on the cap. Then, standing up to his full
height, and taking aim at the caribou’s hind-quarters, which were
towards him, he shouted, ‘Load up, Mike!’ and fired again.
“Unfortunately for the accuracy of Ben’s aim, the caribou had wheeled
sharp round at the sound of his voice, and charged without an instant’s
delay; so again the shot went wide. And again, with alacrity that did
credit to his bulk, Ben scuttled under the skronnick.
“But this time the indignant bull, furious at being thus outwitted,
bounded into the bush, and began thrusting about at random with horns
and hoofs.
“More than once Ben narrowly escaped those terrible weapons, and his
trepidation began to be mingled with fierce wrath at the idea of being
‘hustled ’round’ this way by a ‘critter.’
“He could get no chance to load up again, and he was on the point of
stepping forth and attacking the animal with the butt of his gun. He
felt as if he was battened under hatches in a sinking ship.
“Before he could put his purpose into effect, however, there was another
shot from Mike. It evidently struck the animal somewhere, for he
bellowed with rage as he bounded over the thickets to join battle with
his other assailant.
“The Irishman had not waited to mark the result of his shot, but had
plunged instantly out of sight, and betaken himself to a position well
removed.
“The angry bull had no idea of his whereabouts, but thrashed around
wildly, while the little Irishman chuckled in his sleeve.
“As soon as Ben once more got his gun loaded, he stuck his head up
through the skronnick. He observed that in his wanderings beneath the
scrub he had worked his way very nearly to the big granite bowlder
before mentioned.
“He did not fire, for he was resolved not to waste his shot this time.
Just as he made up his mind to try a rush for the bowlder, from the top
of which he would be master of the situation, the caribou looked up, and
caught sight of him again.
“The animal’s charge was so lightning-like in its rapidity that Ben
could do nothing but dive once more beneath the kindly skronnick.
“As fast as he could, he worked his way toward the bowlder, but in his
haste the movement of the bushes betrayed him. One of the razor-edged
hoofs came down within a foot or two of his face, and he shrank back
swiftly, making himself very small.
“His changed course brought him to the very brink of one of the deep
pools already spoken of, and he almost fell into it. In turning aside
from that obstacle, the shaking of the bushes again gave the bull a hint
of his position. With a cough and a bellow the animal leaped to the
spot, just missed Ben’s retiring feet, and plunged headlong into the
pool.
“This seemed to Ben just his opportunity for gaining the rock. He sprang
up and made a dash for it. But before he reached its foot,—and a glance
told him that it was not to be scaled on that side,—the caribou had
picked himself nimbly out of the water and was after him, his fury by no
means dampened by the ducking.
“Grinding his teeth, Ben darted yet again beneath the scrub, but this
time it was the closest shave he had had. The skronnick was thinner
here, and he would hardly have succeeded in evading his antagonist for
more than a minute, had not Mike come to the rescue. The Irishman rose
up with a wild yell, discharged his gun right in the caribou’s face,
missed with his customary facility, and dropped again into the
skronnick.
“The foaming animal dashed away to hunt him; and Ben, creeping
stealthily around the bowlder, found its accessible side, and scrambled
to the summit as the caribou came bounding to its base.
“If the bowlder had been a very few feet lower, the adventure might have
had a very different issue. But as it was, the height proved sufficient.
Ben surveyed those spear-sharp prongs from his point of vantage, just
three feet beyond reach of their vicious thrusts, and thought proudly
how fine they would look mounted in the cabin of the Garnet.
“He was in no great hurry to end the performance, and he did not like to
fire while the caribou was so close to the muzzle of the gun. But
presently the animal paused and looked around for Mike.
“He turned, in fact, as if to go and hunt the little Irishman again, and
Ben’s heart smote him for having even for a moment forgotten the peril
in which his comrade yet remained. He took careful aim at a point close
behind the caribou’s shoulder. At the report the animal sprang straight
into the air, and fell back stone dead.
“Very triumphant, quite pardonably so, in fact, were Ben and Mike as
they returned to the Codroy settlement with their spoils. They
discreetly refrained from detailing at Codroy all the particulars of the
hunt. But if the tourist, exploring the coasts of Newfoundland in the
steamer Garnet, chances to remark upon the immense pair of caribou
antlers which hang over the cabin door, he will hear the whole story
from Ben Christie, who is endowed with an excellent sense of humor.”
When Ranolf ended he received unusual applause. Then I stepped, so to
speak, into the breach. “I cannot hope,” said I, “to win the ears of
this worshipful company with any such gentle humor as Ranolf has just
achieved. But I have a good rousing adventure to tell you, with lots of
blood though little thunder. The scene of it is not far from
Newfoundland. Let this fact speak in its favor!”
“Fire away, Old Man!” said Queerman.
“I take for my narrative the simple title of—
‘LABRADOR WOLVES.’
said I.
“In early June, two years ago, my friend, Jack Rollings, of the Canada
Geological Survey, was occupied in exploring parts of the Labrador
coast, from the mouth of the Moisic River eastward. The following
adventure, one of several that befell him in that wild region, has a
peculiar interest from its possible connection with a throng of terrible
legends, the scenes of which are laid along those shores.
“Ever since the Gulf of St. Lawrence became known to the fishing-fleets
of Brittany and the Basque Provinces, its north-eastern coast has been
peopled, by the vivid imaginations of the fishermen and sailors, with
supernatural beings of various fashions, all agreeing, however, in the
attributes of malignity and noisiness. Demons and griffins and monsters
indescribable were supposed to haunt the bleak hills and dreadful
ravines. Ships driven reluctantly inshore by stress of weather were wont
to carry away strange tales of howlings and visions to freeze the marrow
of the folks at home.
“The probable origin of those myths may be found in the fact that from
time to time the coast has been ravaged by hordes of gigantic gray
wolves, sweeping down from the unfathomed wilderness of the high
interior plateau. One of these visitations was in 1873, when many of the
coast dwellers, whose scanty settlements cling here and there in the
lonely harbors, were torn to pieces on the shore, or shut up in their
cabins till starvation stared them in the face. No great stretch of
fancy is required to metamorphose a pack of ravening wolves into a
yelling concourse of demons.
“What befell Jack Rollings I will tell in his own words.”
“Our schooner,” said Jack, “lay at anchor in a little landlocked bay
where never a wind could get at her, and much of our exploration was
done by means of short boat trips in one direction or the other. One
morning Frank Jones and I made up our minds to take a day off, and try
and kill a salmon or two.
“About five miles west of where we lay, there was a cove where, behind a
low, rocky point, a little river came down out of the mountains. Half a
mile above the head of tide the stream fell noisily over a shallow fall
into a most enticing pool, and we calculated that we would be just in
good time for the first run of the salmon.
“There was a stretch of shoals off the mouth of the stream, and no
sheltered anchorage near; so we took the small boat for the trip, and a
fresh breeze off the gulf blew us to our destination speedily. It was
high tide when we arrived; and we hauled up the boat in the cove, under
shelter of the point.
“Besides our rods, we had enough grub for a good lunch, and our
top-coats in case it should blow up cold in the afternoon. Frank had
brought his gun along, with a few cartridges loaded with number one and
number two shot, in case he might want to shoot some big bird for his
collection, which is already one of the best private collections in
Ottawa.
“When we had put our rods together, we moved up along the wet edges of
the beach, which glistened in the morning sun, and presently found
ourselves at the basin where we expected our sport. Over the low,
foaming barrier of the falls we saw a salmon make way in a flashing
leap, and we knew we had struck both the right place and the right time.
“I need not tell you the particulars of the sport. You know what a
Labrador salmon stream is when you happen to take it in a good humor.
Enough to say, when we began to think of lunch it was about two o’clock;
and we had six fish, ranging from ten to thirty-five pounds, lying in
splendid array beneath a neighboring rock. As much of our spoils as we
could carry at once we took down to the spot where the boat lay; and
building a little fire of driftwood, we proceeded to fry some salmon
collops for lunch.
“While enjoying our after-dinner smoke we observed that the wind had
shifted a point or two to the east, and was blowing up half a gale.
“‘Great Scott!’ exclaimed Frank. ‘If we don’t get away from here right
off, we’re going to be storm-stayed! This wind will raise a sea
presently that we won’t be able to face. Let’s leave right off! I’ll
drag the boat down to the water, while you go after the rest of those
fish.’
“‘No, no!’ said I. ‘We’ll just stay where we are for the present. Don’t
you see that the waves are already breaking into the cove too heavy for
us? If you were round on the other side of the point now, you’d see what
the water is, and you’d be glad enough you’re out of it, I can tell you!
We’re all right here, and we may as well fish till toward sundown; and
if the wind has not eased off by that time, we’ll just have to snug the
boat up here, and foot it over the hills to the schooner. It’s not more
than five or six miles anyway.’
“Frank strolled across the point for a look at the sea, and came back in
agreement with my views. Then we returned to the pool, and whipped it
assiduously till after five o’clock, but without a repetition of the
morning’s success.
“Meanwhile the wind got fiercer and fiercer, so we went back to the boat
and made a hearty supper as preparation for the rough tramp that lay
before us. We took our time, and smoked at leisure, and cached our
prizes, and resolved not to start till moonrise. By this time the tide
was well out, and the cove had become an expanse of shingly flats,
threaded by the shallow current of the stream, and fringed along its
seaward edge with a line of angry surf.
“By and by the moon got up out of the gulf, round and white, and
bringing with her an extra blow. As the shore brightened up clearly, we
set out, moving along the crest of the point. Frank was just saying,
‘How spectral those scarred gray hills look in this light! How suitable
a place for the hobgoblins those old Frenchmen imagined to possess
them!’ when, as if to point his remarks, there came a ghostly clamor,
high and quavering, from a dark cleft far up the mountain-side.
“We both started; and I exclaimed, ‘The loons have overheard you, old
fellow, and are trying to work on your nerves! They want revenge for the
stuffed companions of their bygone days.’
“‘That’s not loons!’ said Frank very seriously. ‘It’s no more like loons
than it’s like lions! Listen to that!’
“I listened, and was convinced.
“‘Then it must be those old Frenchmen’s friends,’ I suggested; ‘and I
feel greatly inclined to avoid meeting them if possible.’
“‘It’s the wolves from the interior,’ rejoined Frank. ‘I’d rather have
the griffins and goblins. Don’t you remember ’78? I’m afraid we’re in a
box.’
“‘Let us get down to windward of the point, and lie low among the
rocks,’ I suggested. ‘As likely as not the brutes won’t detect us, and
will keep along up the shore.’
“Instantly we dropped into concealment, keeping, through the apertures
of the crest, a fearful eye upon the mountain slopes. We were fools, to
be sure; for we might have known those keen eyes had spotted us from the
first, silhouetted as we had been against the moonlit sea.
“Presently Frank suggested the boat, but my sufficient answer was to
point to the raging surf. So we lay still, and prayed to be ignored. In
a few minutes our suspense was painfully relieved by the appearance of a
pack of gray forms, which swept out into the moonlight beyond the river,
and came heading straight for our refuge.
“‘Two dozen of ’em!’ gasped Frank.
“‘And they’ve certainly spotted us,’ I whispered.
“‘There’s not a tree nor a hole we can get into!’ muttered Frank.
“‘We can get on top of this rock, and fight for it,’ I groaned in
desperation.
“‘I have it!’ exclaimed Frank. ‘The boat! We’ll get under it, and hold
it down!’
“Leaping to our feet we broke wildly for the boat. The wolves greeted us
with an exultant howl as they dashed through the shallow river.
“We had just time to do it comfortably. The boat was heavy, and we
turned it over in such a way that the bow was steadied between two
rocks. Once safely underneath, we lifted the craft a little and jammed
her between the rocks so that the brutes would be unable to root her
over.
“One side was raised about eight or ten inches by a piece of rock which
Frank was going to remove; but I stopped him. By this time the brutes
were on top of the boat, and we could hear by the snarling that they had
unearthed our salmon. Just then a row of long snouts and snapping jaws
came under the gunwale, and we shrank as small as possible. The brutes
shoved and struggled so mightily that it seemed as if they must succeed
in overturning the boat, and a cold sweat broke out on my forehead.
“‘Shoot,’ I yelled frantically; and at the same instant my ears were
almost burst by the discharge of both Frank’s barrels. A terrific
yelping and howling ensued, while our crowded quarters were filled to
suffocation with the smoke.
“When the air cleared somewhat we could see that the wolves were eating
the two whose heads Frank’s shot had shattered. Our position was very
cramped and uncomfortable, half-sitting, half-lying, between the
thwarts; but by stretching flat we could peer beneath the gunwale, and
command a view of the situation. We had a moment’s respite.
“‘Frank,’ said I, ‘we might as well be eaten as scared to death. Don’t
fire that gun again in here. It nearly blew my ear-drums in. Club the
brutes over the snout. All that’s necessary is to disable them, and it
seems their kind companions will do the rest.’
“‘All right,’ responded Frank; ‘only you must do your share!’ and he
passed me up the hatchet out of the ‘cuddy-hole’ in the bow.
“By this time the slaughtered wolves were reduced to hair and bones, and
the pack once more turned their attention to us. Once more the ominous
row of heads appeared, squeezed under the boat-side, and claws tore
madly at the roof that sheltered us.
“As combatants, our positions were exceedingly constrained; but so, too,
were those of our assailants. A wolf cannot dodge well when his head is
squeezed under a gunwale.
“Hampered as I was I smashed the skulls of the two within easiest reach,
barking my knuckles villanously as I wielded my weapon. I heard Frank,
too, pounding viciously up in the bow. Then the attack drew off again,
and the feasting and quarrelling recommenced.
“I turned to make some remark to my companion, but gave a yell of dismay
instead, as I felt a pair of iron jaws grab me by the foot, and tear
away the sole of my boot. In the excitement of the contest my foot had
gone too near the gunwale.
“The wolves were now growing too wary to thrust their heads under the
gunwale. For a time they merely sniffed along the edge; and though we
might easily have smashed their toes or the ends of their noses, we
refrained in order to gain opportunity for something more effective.
“We must have waited thus for as much as ten minutes, and the inaction
was becoming intolerable, when the brutes, thinking perhaps we were dead
or gone to sleep, made a sudden concerted effort to reach us. There must
have been a dozen heads at once thrust in beneath the gunwale. One
preternaturally lean wolf even wriggled his shoulders fairly through, so
that he was within an ace of taking a mouthful out of my leg before I
could have a fair blow at him with my hatchet.
“I think we either killed or disabled four at least in that assault.
Thereupon the pack drew off a little, and sat down on their haunches to
consider.
“They could not possibly have been still hungry, having eaten two or
three wolves and a hundred pounds or so of nice fresh salmon, and we
were in hopes they would go away.
“But instead of that they came back to the boat, and set up a tremendous
howling, which may have been a call for re-enforcements, or a challenge
to come out and settle the trouble in a square fight.
“I asked Frank how many cartridges he had left.
“‘Oh,’ said he, ‘a dozen or more, at least!’
“‘Verily well,’ said I; ‘you’d better blaze away and kill as many as you
can. I’ll protect my ear-drums by stuffing my ears full of rags. Try and
make every shot tell.’
“As the wolves were not more than eight or ten feet away, the heavy
bird-shot had the same effect as a bullet. Two of the brutes were clean
bowled over. Then the others sprang furiously upon the boat. When Frank
thrust forth the muzzle of the gun, it was seized and all but wrenched
from his grasp. He bagged two more; then the rest moved round to the
other side of the boat.
“But very soon the survivors appeared to make up their minds to a new
departure; and after a little running hither and thither with their
noses down, they suddenly crystallized, as it were, into a well-ordered
pack, and swept away up the shore. Their strange, terrible, wind-like
ululations were soon re-echoing in the mountains.
“We came forth from our uncomfortable but effectual retreat, and counted
our victims. When the last sound of the howling had long died away, we
set forth in the direction of the schooner, which was _not_ the
direction in which the wolves were journeying.’