[Illustration]
ALLAN was awakened just as dawn was breaking by a sensation of cold, and
found McConnell tugging at the coverings in an effort to bury his head
without uncovering his feet.
“Are you cold, McConnell?” Allan asked.
“About frozen,” was McConnell’s plaintive response.
“Let us get up and stir around.”
They both climbed out without disturbing Owen, and soon had the
breakfast fire started.
“I never knew it was so cold early in the morning,” said McConnell.
Just then a head appeared from under the canvas shelter of the
_Arabella_. “How about that swim, McConnell?”
“No, you don’t!” retorted McConnell. “A little later in the day will do
for me.”
Owen laughed as he emerged from the boat, which now was afloat again.
“I’m going to try for a fish,” Owen announced; but the best he could
accomplish was a very small weakfish, which he cleaned with as much
satisfaction as if it had been a ten-pound bass.
Small as it was, the fish gave a delicious relish to the breakfast.
“This is simply gorgeous!” exclaimed Owen.
“Yes,” said Allan, as he sipped his coffee from the tin cup, “a
millionaire in his fifty-thousand-dollar yacht couldn’t live any sweller
than this.”
“Before we go,” said Owen, “I want to make a picture of the camp. Guess
I’ll do it now—from that point over there,” and Owen extracted his
camera from the waterproof blanket in the bow, told Allan and McConnell
to stay where they were, and clambered over to the view-point he had
chosen. The morning was so still that at a distance of over a hundred
and fifty feet they could hear the click of his shutter.
Cool as the early morning had been, the day was pleasantly mild when the
sun shone, and the _Arabella_ sailed away with the boys in high spirits.
Allan made his course to the north again, with the wind west and
freshening. They decided upon a landing at a picturesque point three
miles up the river, before turning about for a leisurely journey home.
Allan and McConnell brought forth their cameras and looked them over as
a huntsman might his gun, or a fisherman his rod.
“I want to make some shore pictures,” said McConnell, “with long,
quivering reflections in the water.”
“And a white sail,” added Allan, “somewhere against the green of the
shore.”
“And a man in a small boat in the foreground,” Owen offered in
supplement.
All of these elements seemed to be present at one time or another. The
shore was rich in interesting bits. The river-sailing craft gleamed in
the mellow early sun. From private docks and invisible coves small boats
drifted into the open. It was a fresh, buoyant morning. During the short
run to the point the boys had fixed upon for another landing, the breeze
became still more energetic, and the boys were delighted with the
spirited way the _Arabella_ behaved when Allan brought her up into the
wind preparatory to landing.
With the breeze blowing inshore, they dropped anchor and landed from the
stern. After all three had clambered out with their cameras, Owen and
Allan went aboard again, lowered the sail, and drew a stern line to a
boulder on shore.
From the point where they had landed, the river looked beautiful indeed.
Ruffled by the wind, the river had no placid lines of reflection save in
the turns of the shore, but the changing lines of the water under the
tumbling white clouds, the smudge of New York’s smoke far away to the
south, the variegated river craft, coal and ice barges, tow-boats,
lighters, river steamers, ferries; the gulls circling from the white of
the clouds to the white of the steamers’ wake—these were sights to make
a boy reach for his camera now and then, until it seemed that no more
plates could be devoted to the river.
They climbed to the brow of the bluff, a picturesque, wooded place, and
discussed a view-point for a picture which should have a queer twist of
the rocks and trees for a foreground, and for the distance the blue
crest of the Palisades with the blue-green river between.
“With the breeze like this,” said Allan to Owen, “I shouldn’t want to
try tripod work just here.”
Owen had just returned from a little run overland, where he found a
waterfall and an abandoned bit of orchard. Presently the three boys
followed the line of the bluff to the north, and at a distance of a
quarter of a mile they came upon what at first seemed like an abandoned
hut, but which turned out to have for an inhabitant a queer old man, who
sat just within the open door smoking a pipe.
The old man nodded to the boys and then stared past them at the river.
“I suppose he’s a hermit,” whispered McConnell.
“He does look rather lonesome,” said Owen.
“And savage,” said Allan.
“If he didn’t look so savage,” McConnell suggested, “I’d like to take
him sitting there at the door.”
Probably Owen and Allan had been thinking the same thing. Yet when they
stood looking out over the river they heard a rustle in the tall grass
and the queer old man had come close behind them.
“Cameras?” asked the old man in a strange voice.
“Yes,” answered Allan.
“Take me,” said the old man. “You will find nothing in the river so
interesting as I am,” and he smiled a smile so extraordinary that the
boys unanimously grew uneasy.
“You are polite boys,” said the old man, “and you do not say ‘who are
you?’ Nevertheless I will tell you. I am Alexander Hamilton.”
To this the boys said not a word.
[Illustration:
“A picturesque, wooded place.”
]
“I can see your astonishment,” said the old man. “You had thought with
the rest of them that I was killed in the duel with Aaron Burr. Ha! ha!”
and the old man laughed as a disordered phonograph laughs. “Yes, you
thought I was killed. But I am not killed—dangerously wounded, but not
killed, and I crawled away out of their sight.”
Now Allan knew that the poor old fellow was crazy, but this did not make
him less uneasy.
“Then you must be very old,” suggested Allan.
“One hundred and thirty one this year,” muttered the old man.
“The duel was in 1804, wasn’t it?” asked Owen.
The old man nodded. “You remember it, then?” he added with increased
interest.
“No,” stammered Owen, “not exactly that—I remember reading of it.”
The old man’s outstretched hand pointed to the south. “On Weehawken
Heights. It seems like yesterday. Ah! my dear boys, Burr was no
gentleman! I wish I had time to show you my last letters to him, and my
onion patch too. Do you like onions?” the old man suddenly asked
McConnell.
“I like them pickled,” said McConnell.
“Dear me!” exclaimed the old man, “I haven’t one pickled. But suppose
you photograph me anyway. I’m the oldest thing here except the hills and
the river.”
“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind standing in the doorway of your house,”
ventured Owen.
“My house! Nonsense!” ejaculated the old man. “I am only living here
temporarily. The place is but forty years old. I shall soon have to have
another place. I outgrow them all. No; take me here with the trees. Just
wait,” and the old man walked away to the hut and soon returned with a
straw hat on his head. “I must look like a gentleman,” he said.
“You don’t mind us all taking you?” asked Allan.
“No,” returned the old man, “I don’t mind. It is a long time since I was
photographed; it was on my hundredth birthday, I think, in 1857. Dear
me! how time flies when you are busy with state papers and onions and
things.”
[Illustration:
“‘I must look like a gentleman,’ he said.”
]
“Poor old man!” said Owen as they moved away after thanking him.
“When people talk queer like that,” said McConnell, “it gives me a
creepy feeling.”
“I wonder how he lives,” queried Allan, “and how long he has been gone
that way. I wish I knew more about him.”
“Well, I don’t,” said McConnell. “Crazy people upset me. I’m afraid of
them.”
“There was nothing to be afraid of,” Allan insisted; “the old fellow is
evidently harmless.”
“Yes, I know,” McConnell said; “but these harmless people—ugh!” and he
shuddered. “They are worst of all.”
The boys were again on the edge of the bluff. Just beyond the crest of
the slope rose a shaft of rock, tufted on the top with grass, as you
might fancy a stone giant with a shaggy wig. Owen made a picture from
the north side, showing the shore and hills with the stone sentinel
standing in the foreground.
Allan decided that if he could reach the top of the rock he could
command the path by which they had come, the old man’s hut, the spur of
the hills, and the anchorage of the _Arabella_.
“I wouldn’t risk it,” said McConnell. “It looks rather narrow.”
“I can do it easily,” insisted Allan, “if one of you will hand up the
camera afterward.”
Owen took charge of the kodak while Allan, by a long reach, caught a
shelf of the rock, got foothold, and hauled himself safely to the top.
A beautiful scene spread out before him. Low trees swayed between him
and the river bank. On the opposite side was the long ledge of grass and
bush-grown land and the sloping hills. North and south were the
irregular lines of the shore, lighted by patches of sunlight that were
moved quickly by the scurrying white clouds overhead.
“I can just see the _Arabella_,” said Allan, as Owen reached far out
with the camera.
To stand firmly on the head of the rock proved to be no easy matter, by
reason of the narrow space and the energy of the breeze. The
difficulties Allan overcame successfully as he opened his camera and set
his diaphragm and shutter. It was at the moment when, with the bulb in
his hand, he was sighting the camera that a huge fragment of the
weather-worn rock on which he stood crumbled away, carrying with it more
than half of the tuft of grass on which he stood, and Allan, after a
quick effort to preserve his balance on the narrowed support, fell with
the crumbling stone and disappeared from the sight of his companions.
McConnell rushed closer to the edge of the bluff with a startled cry,
but he could see nothing through the fringe of leaves in the treetops
below. Owen caught McConnell and pulled him back, then himself started
to find a way to the river bank. McConnell started in the opposite
direction, and by chance it was he who first found an opening through
which he could slide and tumble to the lower level of the shore.
Tearing his way through the bushes in the direction of the shaft of
rock, McConnell peered about him for some sign of Allan. When he did not
find him immediately, his terror increased.
Turning farther from the foot of the rock he found the camera lying in
some bushes, apparently unhurt. Then, in a little open space, he found
Allan, lying on his back, his face white and still.
“Oh, Allan!” was all McConnell could say, with his heart beating so
hard. The thought that Allan might be dead, stupefied him.
At the sound of Owen making his way through the bushes, McConnell sprang
up and cried, “Here he is!” The sight of McConnell’s quivering lips
prepared Owen for what he saw in the little opening. They knelt down
beside Allan, and Owen bent closely over him, lifting his head on his
arm. “He is breathing!” cried Owen.
“Is he?” gasped McConnell; “I didn’t know.”
“Yes,” continued Owen, peering anxiously into Allan’s face; “perhaps he
is only stunned. We must do something right away. If we only had some
water!”
[Illustration:
“He found Allan lying on his back, white and still.”
]
While Owen was lifting Allan so as to place him with his head resting
more comfortably, McConnell rushed to the river and filled his joined
hands with water. When he had struggled back, most of the water was
gone, but they sprinkled this on Allan’s face and bathed his forehead.
“Do you think he has broken—anything?” asked McConnell.
“Somehow, I don’t,” Owen said. “It seems as if he had only knocked his
head; but I can’t find a cut anywhere. If we could only get him up to
the queer old man’s hut.”
“Yes,” assented McConnell. “We must do it. And I don’t see how.”
“You got down a shorter way,” said Owen. “We must carry him that way.”
But they both stared anxiously at Allan’s face. _Would_ he wake up
again?
While they were carrying him toward the opening in the ridge by which
McConnell had descended, Allan opened his eyes.
“What’s the matter?” asked Allan.
Then they set him down, and McConnell began to cry and laugh at the same
time, and to dance around until Owen said, “McConnell, you’re as crazy
as the old man of the hut.”
But McConnell didn’t care. He hugged Allan’s hand without a word until
Allan said, “What _are_ you fellows doing?”
“Oh, nothing!” replied Owen. “Only trying to get you back where you
started from.”
Allan put his hand to his head. “Yes,” he said slowly, “I slipped,
didn’t I?”
“I should say you did.”
“And I grabbed a limb of the tree, and it broke with me, and my head
struck another limb, I think, that swung me around. Yes, here it is—feel
that walnut I’ve got here,” and Owen found the spot where Allan’s head
had suffered in the tumble.
Allan started to his feet, then sank down again. “Oh, I’m not broken,”
he faintly assured Owen; “but things are swimming around frightfully.
_Will_ you keep still, McConnell?”
After a while Owen gave Allan a little help, and they pushed and dragged
him up through the opening to the top, where the queer old man stood
with his hands in his pockets.
“This way,” commanded the old man, as if he knew just what had happened;
and he led the way toward the hut, at the door of which he paused, made
Allan sit on the step, and disappeared within.
When he reappeared, the old man had a cup in his hand. “Drink this,” he
said to Allan, extending his hand.
Allan hesitated. There was a dark liquid in the bottom of the cup.
“Drink it!” repeated the old man, and Allan did as he was told.
Whatever the liquid was, it made Allan feel much better, so much better
that he soon began to make light of the accident and asked McConnell to
go after the camera.
“These rocks are very old,” said the man of the hut, “older than I am.
They are getting feeble. You must not trust their strength.”
“It was a close call,” Owen declared fervently. “I expected to have to
piece you together. But you were only out of focus and very much
fogged.”
“Your kodak seems to be all right,” said McConnell, coming up with the
camera.
Allan looked curiously at the set lever of the exposer. “I must have
squeezed the bulb, anyway,” he laughed. “The shutter went off.”
“I wonder what sort of a thing you got,” said McConnell.
“Probably some interesting sky,” was Allan’s opinion.
The sky! They had not noticed that within the last ten minutes the
clouds to the south had grown heavier. The wind was now from the
southeast and decidedly fresh.
Allan arose and felt quite steady again. “I’m all right. Good-by—Mr.
Hamilton.”
“Good-by,” said the old man.
“I am very much obliged to you.”
“You are entirely welcome, sir.”
When he started to walk Allan found that he had bruised his right leg;
but he sought to make light of this to himself as well as to the others;
and, indeed, the stiffness which came into it while he sat on the step
of the hut soon wore away.
The _Arabella_ was tugging at her anchor line as if impatient to be
away.
Allan looked doubtfully at the river and sky. “We shall have to put in
again somewhere if things get any fresher,” he said.
“I don’t think it’s going to be any worse,” was Owen’s opinion. “This is
a fine breeze for a spin.”
“Well, we’ll try it.”
After the cameras had been stowed, they debated as to whether they had
better eat lunch before starting, and decided that in case they had to
anchor later it would be best to spend the immediate interval in getting
to a more sheltered position. “We can eat a bite on the way down,” said
Owen.
But when they had turned the head of the _Arabella_ east to clear the
point, and had made a half mile from the shore on this tack, the full
force of the rising breeze became apparent, and the sky to the southeast
was by no means reassuring. Allan gave the tiller to McConnell after
they came about, and the two others set to work to take a reef in the
sail—an undertaking to which Allan soon found that he was not equal. A
peculiar weakness, the natural result of his mishap, made it imperative
for him to drop on his knees and steady himself when the _Arabella_
careened to starboard.
They realized now that they had been foolish in not reefing before
starting, if they had not been unwise in starting at all.
“Hold her as close as you can!” called Allan to Owen, as the latter took
his place in the stern after abandoning the effort to reef. “We had
better make straight for shelter.”
Presently it began to be plain that they could make little choice as to
an anchorage. A low growl of thunder was accompanied by a spatter of
rain, and in an incredibly short time the rain began to fall heavily.
The wind whistled under the boom; whitecaps were all about them.
Allan and McConnell, who had drawn in on the sheet, now paid it out
again, and Owen took care that the sail should not fill too full as he
headed straight for the west shore.
With this precaution the boat made little headway, the sail was
drenched, and its increased weight, added to the strength of the wind,
kept the end of the boom much of the time in the water.
Right ahead was a shallow place and ugly rocks. To lift the centre-board
here and attempt to come up into the wind would mean being blown on the
rocks and the destruction of the _Arabella_.
“We must come up closer to the wind again!” cried Allan. “There is a
cove a little farther to the south.”
But the savageness of the wind and the wet sail made this very
difficult. When they drew in the sheet, the _Arabella_ took water on the
starboard side. The boys were wet to the skin, and were up to their
ankles in water.
“Straight for the beech tree,” muttered Allan, “the water seems deep
there. Don’t swing her until the last minute. I’ll be ready to lower
away and drop anchor. McConnell, you take this other line. I’ll hold the
sheet free with my left.”
Owen found no fault with the directions. Plainly it was the only thing
to do. Owen did not put down the tiller until they were within forty
feet of the shore. Then Allan let go the peak, pushed over the anchor,
and they all sprang at the flapping sail.
Fortunately the cove afforded shelter from the full vigor of the wind,
and made less difficult than might have been expected the task of
lowering the sail. The slight shelter made it possible also to hold the
lowered sail in a position to cover the pit of the boat.
“All hands to the pumps!” shouted Allan, and all three (McConnell with a
drinking-cup) bailed energetically until the boat had again been made
habitable. The rain fell heavily on the sail over their heads; but the
situation had a pleasant flavor of adventure, and Owen distributed
rations as successfully as the cramped situation would permit.
“I wish we had something warm,” said Owen. The rain had chilled them,
and their clothes had no chance of drying in the present situation.
Owen finally made known his determination to get ashore and reconnoitre.
He took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his trousers, and slid over
the stern with a line which he fastened to the low branch of a tree that
overhung the water.
When he returned, in ten minutes, it was with news of an empty old house
at a short distance, a house with a fireplace where they could “get a
chance to dry up.” They clambered up to the old house, entered through a
broken kitchen window, and soon had a blaze going in the front room
fireplace. McConnell carried up the cooking traps.
“How are you feeling?” asked Owen, with a suspicious glance at Allan.
“Don’t worry about me,” Allan replied. “I only want to get my feet
dried—and a cup of coffee,” he added, glancing wistfully at the kettle.
“You’ll have your coffee, Captain, in three minutes. Move up to the
fire. McConnell, skin out and get me some water.”
It still was raining heavily, though the wind had modified.
“If the storm keeps up,” said Allan, “we shall have to spend the night
here, and we might as well make ourselves as comfortable as possible.”
They carried up some boxes from the cellar and McConnell found an old
rocker upstairs.
“The Captain, being wounded, has the rocker,” declared Owen.
[Illustration:
“They clambered up to the old house.”
]
“The Captain doesn’t want to be babied,” said Allan. “The Captain will
be as good as any of the crew in another hour.”
The prediction almost seemed to come true. Later in the afternoon, Allan
insisted on going down with Owen and McConnell to make things more
secure on the _Arabella_, and to carry up the cameras, further supplies
of food, and the three blankets. They couldn’t reach home before dark
unless with a fair wind and smooth water, and tide, wind, and water were
all against them now, not to speak of the rain which continued until
after dark.
Thus it happened that they passed the night in the old house, the
blankets folded up for beds. When he awoke in the morning, Allan caught
sight of Owen in a far corner photographing the room and the sleepers.
“Keep still!” whispered Owen. “Let me surprise McConnell by and by,
anyway.”
Their breakfast exhausted the resources of the commissary department.
“You see,” said Owen, “we didn’t expect to be away until to-day, did
we?”
“We’ll be late for church,” chuckled McConnell.
“We may be late for supper,” complained Allan. “Do you see the fog?”
“Yes,” said Owen; “you could cut it with a knife. We can’t budge until
it lifts.”
“And all the grub gone,” sighed McConnell.
“We haven’t even a horn,” said Allan. “It makes you feel helpless. If it
shouldn’t clear by this afternoon, we should have to strike over to a
West Shore railroad station and get around that way. I shouldn’t want to
worry the folks; but I haven’t but half a dollar with me.”
“I haven’t a cent in these clothes,” said Owen, as they stood looking
out into the fog.
“Nor I,” said McConnell.
They returned to the boat, and, to be prepared for sailing the moment
the fog should lift, stowed everything on board, and drew in the stern
line.
------------------------------------------------------------------------