ON DIBBLE MOUNTAIN
The belated quest of the needle in the haystack now went forward in real
earnest. In the cool of that same afternoon they stood on the brow of
Dibble Mountain. Gordon’s hands were dyed purple from the berries he had
picked and eaten along the way, and a goodly smootch ornamented his
cheek. Sometimes the ascent was so steep that they found the easiest way
was to “shinny” up the slender trees along the mountain side, and step
off on to the jutting cliffs. It was slow work. From a great bowlder
they finally looked down upon the surrounding country, which now, for
the first time, as Gordon said, actually did look like a map.
To the east, and almost under them, as it seemed, was the lake, and
beyond it the green hills of western Vermont. On its northern side the
mountain sloped gradually, including Breed’s Hill and Sugar Hill in its
easy descent, and beyond these lay the little village of Crown Point.
Close on the west rose the great bulk of Buck Mountain, towering above
them and closing out their view. Five miles southward lay Ticonderoga,
and looking to the west of the village the boys followed an imaginary
course northward, trying to pick out in the dense woods the location of
the Albany camp. The several roads which they had traversed looked like
gray pencilings.
Between them and the lofty Buck Mountain ran a high, walled valley,
almost a cañon indeed, known as Burgoyne’s Pass, for it was through this
valley that the British general led his army for the surprise of
Ticonderoga,—the army which, hungry and forlorn, was destined to
surrender to the Americans at Saratoga. Far in the north, but near
enough to see its outline clearly, rose Bald Knob, a veritable monarch
amid its great neighbors. Here and there thin columns of smoke rose,
suggesting pleasant habitations and reminding the hungry boys that it
was supper time.
“Well, what do you think of our seats up in the family circle, Kid?
Pretty good view up here, hey?”
“It’s A-No. 1! But I don’t see the troop, do you?”
“Certainly, right over there.”
“Not! That’s a church! Let’s take a squint through that field glass,
will you? Placing the telescope to his eye,” Gordon continued, suiting
the action to the word, “our young hero now proceeded to gaze round the
landscape, when suddenly—”
“The bully, who was standing near,” interrupted Harry, also suiting his
action to the word, “gently took it from him.”
“Ha! I will be even with you yet!” said Gordon, dramatically.
“Kid, I think the best thing for us to do is to camp here for the night.
If the moon comes out, we can see pretty nearly the whole section of
country that I marked on the map—I mean we could see any smoke that
rose. This is the very nearest mountain to the shore. We can overlook
the low land immediately north and south. As for the west, that big
chunk of earth is in the way, but they wouldn’t be to the west. If we
have to go up Buck Mountain, we will. But to-night I think we’d better
perch here, and when these folks about the country get through supper
they’ll let their fires go out, and any smoke we see after that will be
from a camp-fire. There’s no use going west of that ridge, is there?”
“What ridge?”
“Why, we’re in the Champlain Valley; this mountain happens to be
standing almost alone, commanding north and south.”
“Is it standing in the bottom of the valley, Harry?”
“Yes.”
“How about old shaggy-headed Buck, next door, here?”
“That’s part of the ridge.”
“I believe you’re honest, Harry, so I’ll take your word for all that.”
“All right, we’ll stay here, then.”
“But answer me one question, Harry, before I trust my fate to thee.
Where is the other side of the valley?”
“Over in Vermont. The Green Mountains.”
Gordon looked about. “Over there?”
“Yes, but I’m not considering that side. I’m only considering this side
of the lake.”
“You are splitting the valley down the middle like a piece of kindling
wood?”
“Correct.”
“Harry, you would not deceive me?”
“I’ll _gag_ you in a minute.”
“And this mountain is a kind of knot in the wood, Harry? Do all the
splitting you like, but for goodness sake, be careful—”
Harry placed his hand over Gordon’s mouth, and by a dexterous movement
tumbled him on to the ground. “Get up now, and help pitch camp, and I’ll
make you a rice pudding with figs in it. How does that strike you?”
“I can stand it if you can.”
“No sooner said than stung,” observed Harry.
Their first business was to find water, and this they soon discovered—a
crystal spring, ice cold, that bubbled temptingly up between the rocks.
While Gordon kindled a fire, Henry felled a small sapling and binding it
horizontally between two other saplings, in a sheltered spot, threw his
balloon silk shelter over it, drawing it diagonally toward the earth on
either side. Gordon kept up a running accompaniment as he busied himself
with the fireplace.
“‘Oh, we are merry mountaineers,
And have no carking cares or fears.’
“What kind of a care is a carking care, Harry?”
“Don’t know.”
“One that’s made out of khaki, I guess—don’t you throw that! Roll that
green log this way, will you, Harold? Many thanks. Placing the green log
in a parallel position to the other one, our young hero now knelt
stealthily—”
“Our young hero will never see home again if he isn’t careful,” said
Harry, as he tugged at the cover of a can.
“When suddenly,” continued Gordon, “the bully—”
But actions spoke louder than words. The bully let fly both camp
cushions, one after the other, and under this rapid fusillade “our young
hero” sank to the ground.
“Coward! Coward!” he called.
“Look here, Kid,” said Harry, standing over him and brandishing the can
opener, “I’ve got you on the top of this lonely mountain. My contract
provides that I shall accompany you in searching for camp. It does _not_
include your old friend Alger, nor Harry Castleman, either. In just a
minute—”
Gordon rose contritely. “What next—Harold?”
“Put some water to boil.”
They sat with their backs against the trunk of a large tree, and Gordon
admitted that fried bacon never tasted so good, and that nothing went so
well with it as pilot biscuit. “I don’t see what they have bread and
butter for, anyway,” said he. But his inventive genius would not long
remain satisfied with the fare which Harry provided, and presently he
was announcing luscious combinations. “I say, try this, Harry—it’s
simply great!” He handed Harry two slices of bacon with a fig between
them. When the rice pudding was served, words failed him. He ate it with
silent and serene delight. They topped off with squares of chocolate, on
one of which Gordon was on the point of pouring a little “fly-dope” by
way of experiment.
When they had finished the meal, Gordon suggested “going back the way
they had come,” beginning with chocolate, thence to rice pudding, thence
to bacon; but Harry vetoed this novel plan.
It was with considerable suspense that they awaited the rising of the
moon. As the twilight faded, the smoke which rose here and there in the
distance disappeared till no stir was visible on the horizon. The boys
knew that a cooking fire in the open, unless it were very close at hand,
would hardly be discernible, but they set their faith in the campfire of
huge logs, such as Red Deer had never tired of describing. About nine
o’clock Gordon, who had gone to the spring for water, came rushing back,
wildly pointing to a circling line of smoke in the southwest which was
thrown into clear relief against the moonlit sky.
“Look, Harry, there they are!” he cried.
“Yes, I saw that,” said Harry. “You see that little silvery streak just
beyond? That’s the stream. It’s the Albany camp. I’d like first rate to
be there with them, too.”
“We’ll see them again,” said Gordon, somewhat crestfallen.
“You bet,” Harry answered, “when we surprise them in the old fort.”
“We’ll give them a jocular demonstration, all right, hey, Harry?”
“Ocular!” said Harry.
They played mumbly-peg in the moonlight, and discussed the proposed
attack upon the “British stronghold.” Gordon was for doing everything,
even to the smallest detail, with historical fidelity. “You must be sure
to call ‘What, ho!’ Harry, when Mr. Wade asks who it is, because that’s
in the book, and you must roll your r’s the way they do up in Vermont. I
wish we had an old rusty sword!”
“What’ll we do with them when we’ve made them prisoners, Harry?”
“That’ll be our chance to return their hospitality,” Harry answered.
“They’ll be the guests of the Green Mountain Boys, and Mr. Wade will
have to go away back and sit quietly down.”
“Oh, it’ll be great!” said Gordon, with a positive groan of delight. “I
wish it was the last two weeks of August now!”
“If we do it.”
“_If_ we do it? Of course, we’ll do it!”
It was ten o’clock or after when Gordon’s roaming vision was arrested by
a thin, gray line rising out of the black woods far to the north. Harry
got out his compass and found that it was a little west of north and, as
nearly as he could judge, five or six miles distant. He studied it
closely.
“That’s it, sure,” said Gordon.
“You might run up there and see,” Harry answered dryly. “I’ll wait till
you get back.” He got out his map and tried to determine the locality.
“Port Henry is eight or nine miles north of here, see?” he said. “It may
possibly come from there, but it’s not coming out of a chimney, I’m
almost certain. Of course, there’s no telling how far north it is, but
it’s probably this side of the high land which begins with Bulwagga
Mountain. I dare say it’s between Bulwagga and the shore. There’s a
stream there, too—Grove Brook—and that would attract them.” He studied
it long and carefully. “I don’t see any suggestion of lightness below
it, do you? It must be at least five miles off.”
“Harry, I have an idea!”
“Good for you.”
“You know Red Deer’s rule—eleven o’clock sharp. We all agreed to it.
You remember what he said about not leaving any fire burning? Well, now,
if they smother that at eleven o’clock—I can just see Conway jumping up
like a little tin soldier and piling on green stuff as soon as Red Deer
gives the word. You’ll see, Harry, something will happen to that at
eleven o’clock!”
Harry folded his map, took a piece of chocolate, and settled himself
comfortably against the tree trunk. “We’ll wait and see,” he said.
The thin, distant column wavered in the moonlight, its top dissolving in
the air. Sometimes it was scarcely visible. As eleven o’clock drew near,
they watched it with growing suspense. The smoke in the southwest had
long since died away. For twenty minutes or so before the hour the boys
fancied that the column was losing somewhat in volume. Eleven o’clock
came—five—ten minutes after eleven and nothing happened. Gordon looked
puzzled. “I—I guess, maybe, Red Deer’s watch is wrong,” he said.
“Look!” shouted Harry, jumping to his feet.
The thread of smoke had suddenly expanded into a dense mass. They could
see it plainly now.
“We’ve found them! We’ve found them!” shouted Gordon.
“When our young hero gets over his fit,” said Harry, “I will gently
remind him that we have _not_ found them at all. There is something
going on up in that direction—there seems to be a fire. That’s all we
know.” But they watched the thickening mass intently. “Well,” said
Harry, “we may as well obey the rule, Kid; let’s turn in. In the morning
we’ll cut up through Crown Point village and camp on high ground
to-morrow night.”
“No, _sir_! We’ll go straight—”
“Where?”
“To that—to camp.”
“Yes, but where?”
“Right where that smoke is.”
“There won’t be any smoke there to-morrow morning. Where do you propose
to go? Can you point me out on the map just where that smoke is? Well,
then, come down out of your airship and listen to reason. If to-morrow
is very clear we may possibly be able to pick out the smoke of the cook
fire—assuming that that’s our own camp. But I don’t think there’s much
chance of our seeing it. That smoke has been coming from several
good-sized logs—it’s a big fire. To-morrow we’ll drop into Crown Point
and return this little reticule to its owner and then—”
“And you’ll ask questions in Crown Point, Harry, and they’ll tell you
just where our camp is, and you’ll spoil the whole business. No sirree,
we’ve picked up the trail ourselves, and I’m not going to run the chance
of our getting information.”
“I’ll promise not to ask a soul, Kid.”
“Then what _will_ you do?”
“We’ll get up north of Crown Point and camp to-morrow night on Bulwagga
Mountain. If my idea is correct, we ought to see that smoke to-morrow
night close underneath us. Then the next morning we can drop right in on
them—_if_—”
“There’s no _if_ about it,” said Gordon. But he reluctantly agreed to
this cautious advance, and they turned in for the night. Gordon sang
Kipling’s “Scout Song,” chastising his companion by way of
accompaniment:
“These are our regulations:
There’s just one law for the scout.
And the first and the last.
And the future and the past,
And the present and the perfect is,
Look out!”
With every emphasized word a camp cushion came down upon Harry’s head.
“And the first” (_bang_) “and the last” (_bang_).
“You bet it’s the last!” said Harry, “Look out!” and he promptly
returned the compliment with the other cushion.
“And the first and the last,
And the future and the past.
I say, that’s a terrible song, isn’t it, Harry? Say it. Go on, say it
once. You can never get it out of your head. There was a fellow over in
England—a tenderfoot—and he learned it and it drove him crazy. Go on,
say it, Harry.”
“Who told you that?”
“You say it once—please.”
Harry said it, and lost two hours of his night’s sleep in consequence.
For while Gordon slept peacefully, dreaming of what the next day was to
bring forth, his friend lay looking out into the darkness and saying,
over and over:
“And the first and the last,
And the future and the past,
And the first and the last,
And the future and the past,
And the present and the perfect is,
LOOK OUT!”
He finally shouted the last two words in hopeless exasperation.
“What’s the matter?” said Gordon, sitting suddenly up. “Look out for
what?”
“And the first and the last,
And the future and the past,”
moaned Harry, while a smile of delight stole over Gordon’s sleepy
countenance.
“Kipling’s a fiend, isn’t he, Harry?”
“Kid, if you ever mention that song to me again, I’ll do something
desperate!”