THE HOUSE IN THE WOODS
They reached the shore at a point where a long stretch of pines bent
down heavily with their weight of snow. The scene was so beautiful that
Harry stopped long enough to get two time exposure pictures, using very
small stops, so that the outlines might be extra sharp.
“There must be a whole lot about photography,” observed old Runnell.
“Those men that are in the business take fine pictures without half
trying, while on the other hand I’ve been out with amateurs, as they
called themselves, and they’d take picture after picture, but none of
’em seemed to amount to much. Some would be crooked, some wouldn’t be
sharp and clear enough, and some would be printed too light or too
dark.”
“Well, I just guess there is a good deal about it,” came from Bart. “I
have a cousin who is learning the business in Boston, and he writes that
I can’t imagine how many details there are. First one must have the
right light and shade and the proper focus, and then, after the picture
is taken, the plate has got to be developed just so, to bring out the
negative to its best point, and then one must take great care in
printing the paper. He tells me that sometimes a single drop of a
certain kind of chemical will spoil everything.”
“Reckon, lad, it’s a good bit like hunting, after all,” said old
Runnell. “Some folks think they can put a gun over their shoulder, run
to the forest, and shoot down jest what they want to. Well, they can’t
at all—you know that already. They have got to learn to shoot straight,
and keep cool, and have lots of patience, and then they have got to
learn about the habits of their game.”
“And some folks never become good hunters any more than they can become
good photographers,” said Joe. “I guess one has got to have a strong
fancy for it, in the first place.”
“Yes, and a strong fancy for anything that he really wants to succeed
in,” said Joel Runnell.
When they went into a temporary camp for dinner Harry took a picture of
the group, and then Joe took another, with Harry in the middle, holding
a coffee pot in his hand. Nearly every young hunter had something—a gun,
or a hatchet, or some kitchen utensil, and this photograph caused a
great deal of laughter when it was shown around after they got home.
By moving slowly along the shore, and making a close examination of
every sheet and drift of snow, Joel Runnell at last found the tracks of
three persons who had come from the lake. The tracks were those made by
three pairs of boots or shoes of good size.
“Those must be the tramps’ tracks,” declared Joe. “Teddy was right; they
came almost directly across from the opposite shore.”
“And now the question is, How far have they gone since they crossed the
lake?” put in Harry.
“That’s the worst of it,” said Fred. “For all we know, they may be miles
and miles away from here by this time.”
“Tramps are great for stealing rides on freight trains,” ventured Bart.
“How far is the railroad from this point?”
“At least four miles,” answered Joel Runnell, “and a very rough road at
that. The nearest station is six miles. They couldn’t very well board a
freight train that was moving.”
“I don’t believe tramps like to ride much in such freezing weather,”
came from Link. “More than likely they have found some sort of a hangout
around here, and are living off of what they can pick up, by honest or
dishonest means.”
The matter was discussed for a short while, and it was concluded to
follow up the footprints until nightfall if no longer.
“We may run across them sooner nor you expect,” said old Runnell.
The tracks led directly through the woods and then toward a rise of
rocks which was swept almost clear of snow. Beyond the rocks was level
ground, and here was a country road, connecting two small villages of
that vicinity with Lakeport.
“We’re getting into civilization,” said Joe. “This feels almost as if we
were going home.”
“I don’t want to go home yet,” said Harry.
“Nor I,” came in a chorus from the others.
The tracks led along the roadway for perhaps half a mile, and then
turned still further from the lake.
“Well, I declare!” cried Joel Runnell. “Wonder if those chaps went over
to Ike Slosson’s house.”
“Where is that?” asked Fred.
“About half a mile from here.”
“Who is Ike Slosson?” asked Link.
“He is a very peculiar man, who lives by himself up in yonder woods.
Some folks say he is very rich, while others have it that he is poor.”
“Do you say he lives all alone?”
“Yes, and has for years. He used to have a son live with him, but the
boy died and that kind of made the old man queer in his head. But he
isn’t a bad sort by any means. Once, when I was caught in the woods in a
blizzard he took me in and treated me well. But he don’t care for
company.”
“He would be just the sort of man those tramps would rob,” put in Joe.
The tracks of the feet in the snow were plainly to be seen, and as they
continued on their way Joel Runnell became more and more convinced that
the three tramps had gone to Ike Slosson’s house.
“When we come in sight of the house, I want you to halt,” said the old
hunter. “For all we know it may not be safe to show ourselves.”
On and on they went. In spots the way was very rough, and they had to
help each other over the rocks. At one point they could see where the
tramps had halted for a meal, and here in the snow lay an empty liquor
flask.
“That is evidence to me that the persons are the tramps we are after,”
said Joe. “They were all drinking men.”
They had now to force their way through some short undergrowth and then
cross a small stream, which in the summer time flowed into the lake. The
stream was now a solid mass of ice.
“The house is just beyond yonder belt of trees,” said Joel Runnell, at
last. “You had better stay here while I investigate.”
“Let us go a little closer and hide behind the nearest trees,” suggested
Joe, and after a few words this was done.
With his gun over his shoulder Joel Runnell continued to advance until
he was crossing the small clearing directly in front of the house, which
was an old affair, a story and a half high, and containing but four
rooms. The place looked to be closed and deserted.
“Hullo, Ike Slosson,” sang out the old hunter, when within fifty feet of
the doorway. “Hullo, I say!”
Scarcely had he called out when there was a commotion in the house. He
heard a shuffling of feet and some excited talking.
“Go away!” cried a high-pitched voice. “Go away, I say! I want no
strangers around my house! Go away!”