One of the incidents which made that night memorable in the life of Mike
Murphy was that it brought him a compliment, the equal of which he had
never received before, nor in the years to come can any similar words so
touch his heart.
Ruth Spellman, or “Sunbeam” as she was coming to be called, was so
interested in his fairy stories that when the time arrived for her to go
to bed she was restless and the mother feared it was something in the
nature of a fever that disturbed her. The father, however, assured his
wife that it was due to mental excitement and would soon pass away. When
Ruth had said her prayers, kissed each good night and lain down on her
cot, with the thin blanket spread over her, she still fidgeted. From the
next room the three heard her tossing as children will do when sleep
fails to soothe them.
Suddenly they heard her pleading voice:
“Cousin Mike, won’t you please sing to me?”
“I’ll do my bist,” he replied with a laugh, as he walked back and sat on
a camp stool beside her couch, where only a small portion of the light
from the front apartment reached them. He began the baby song with which
his mother had often lulled him to slumber in infancy. Its exquisite
sweetness was beyond description, the parents sat motionless and
listening as much enthralled as the little one for whose benefit it was
sung. They were almost holding their breath when Sunbeam murmured during
one of the slight pauses:
“I think one of the angels you told me about, mamma, is singing.”
“I don’t wonder,” whispered the father; “I never heard anything like
it.”
Five minutes later the child had drifted away into dreamland and Mike
came forward and joined the two on the outside. They sat silent for a
few minutes. Neither referred to the wonderful treat they had enjoyed,
for it would have grated when compared with the simple words of Sunbeam.
Nor did Mike speak of it, but, as has been said, his heart had been
touched as never before.
It was comparatively early in the evening when he bade his friends
good-by, having declined their invitation to stay over night, and walked
down to the water, accompanied by the doctor.
“When you next see Uncle Elk, assure him that his wishes shall be
respected by me; I shall not call at the bungalow in the evening unless
you signal for me, nor do I intend to go near his home.”
Mike promised to carry out the doctor’s wishes and turned the prow of
the boat south, which was the most direct course home. He glanced back,
and observing that his friend had gone up the path, made a change of
direction, his action showing that he did not wish the doctor to notice
it.
The truth was that Mike was obsessed with what he had witnessed that
afternoon. There must be an explanation of the fright of the two tramps,
but he could not frame any theory that would stand for a moment.
“And I’ll niver be able to do it,” he muttered, “till I larn a good deal
more than I know now, which isn’t anything at all, as Ted Ryan replied
whin his taycher asked him what he knowed about his lesson.”
Now, as that which terrified Biggs and Hutt seemed to have appeared in
the lake near them, it would seem that there was the spot to look for
the solution of the mystery, and yet it was impossible to hit upon the
precise place. He and the doctor had come pretty near it some hours
before, without any result.
“We agraad that what the spalpeens saw was _in the water_, but that
couldn’t be. It must have been on the land and that’s where I’ll hunt
for the same.”
There were just as strong objections to this supposition, the chief of
which was that the vagrants when they went overboard swam with frantic
energy toward the shore; in other words, they made for the point where
the terror was awaiting them. Moreover, their actions in diving
repeatedly and glancing back proved that what they dreaded was behind
them.
It was useless to theorize, for the more Mike tried it, the more puzzled
he became. He decided to paddle slowly and silently to the point where
the tramps had landed and make his investigations there. Using his eyes
and ears to the utmost, he ought to learn something, provided always
there was something to learn. He certainly displayed “nerve,” but no
more than he had done on other occasions.
It has been shown that the youth was only an amateur in handing a canoe,
but by slowly and carefully moving the paddle, he caused scarcely a
ripple and was sure no one could detect him through the sense of
hearing. There was no moon, but the sky was clear and studded with stars
whose brilliancy enabled him dimly to see objects at a distance of a
hundred yards or so. From the first, he kept so close inshore that the
undergrowth and wood were in sight and served him as a guide. Even an
expert in the circumstances would not have been able to decide precisely
where Biggs and Hutt left the water, but Mike was sure he was not far
from the spot when he ceased plying his paddle.
He decided not to land, at least not for the present, but to halt where
the bow of the canoe rested directly under the dipping branches. Thus,
should it become necessary, he could slip out of sight under the leafy
screen, or could retreat if it should prove advisable to do so.
An overhanging bough rested on the prow of the craft and held it
motionless, a very slight force serving as an anchor in the case of so
delicately poised a craft. First, with his heart beating a little faster
than usual, he peered round in the gloom that shut him in on every hand.
To the southward he saw the lights of the bungalow twinkling like stars,
one of the windows throwing the rays well out on the lake, but in no
other direction could be noted a sign of life.
“Every one of the byes, not forgitting Scout Master Hall, are there, for
the ones that wint out in t’other canoe must have gone back while I was
at the docther’s. They know where I wint so they won’t be worrying about
me, which they wouldn’t be likely to do annyhow,” he added with a touch
of his natural whimsicality, “if they didn’t know anything about me at
all, at all.”
No sound reached the intently listening ears, except that deep almost
inaudible murmur which is never absent in a stretch of forest or near
the ocean.
“I’ll try it awhile, but if Mike Murphy knows his own heart, which he
thinks he do, he isn’t going to sit in this steamboat many
more—whisht!”
From a point not fifty feet distant shot out a canoe, like an arrow
driven from a bow. In it a single man was seated and vigorously swinging
the paddle. He had emerged from under the overhanging limbs and sped
southward, absolutely without any noise at all. Mike was so startled by
the apparition that he stared breathless for a minute, nor did his wits
fully come back until the craft and its occupant were swallowed up in
the gloom.
Not only was the unexpected appearance of the canoe startling, but the
recognition of the Master of Woodcraft who drove the boat forward like a
skimming swallow, added to the amazement of Mike. Beyond a doubt he was
Uncle Elk. He was so near when he first darted in view that there was no
possibility of mistake.
“I wonder ef I’m Mike Murphy or a big fool or jest both,” muttered the
youth, when able to pull himself together. “I lift Uncle Elk in his
cabin studying his primer or spelling book, and now he is in _this_ part
of the world.”
After a moment’s reflection the youth added:
“Which the same may be said of mesilf, so that don’t count. It looked to
me as if he was heading for the bungalow and an interisting question
comes before me: being that I obsarved him, did he return the compliment
and obsarve _me_?”
After turning the question over in his mind, Mike said to himself:
“If I kaap at this much longer I’ll go clean daft, as Jimmy Hagan did
whin he tried to whirl his two hands in opposite directions at the same
time. Can it be I’m mistook?”
He sniffed the air several times and was convinced that he caught the
odor of a burning cigar which could not be far off, else the nose would
not have detected it when no wind was blowing.
“Uncle Elk doesn’t smoke, leastways I niver obsarved him doing the same,
and if he did he ain’t here, so the perfume can’t be projuiced by him.”
He now ventured to draw his canoe nearer shore, by gently pulling the
overhanging bough. It was blankly dark all around him, the foliage
shutting out the star gleam, so that he had literally to feel his way.
Suddenly there was a slight jar, proving that the bow had touched shore.
He paused to consider whether anything was likely to be gained by
leaving the craft. While it seemed almost certain that Uncle Elk had
come to this lonely spot to meet some one, there was no obvious way by
which Mike could assure himself on the point.
He still noted the aroma of the cigar, which he judged to be a pretty
fair specimen of the weed, though he was so accustomed to the pipe of
his father that he was a poor judge.
“The spalpeen can’t be fur off,” concluded Mike still gently sniffing,
“and begorra! he isn’t!”
The exclamation was caused by the sound of a voice, not in speaking, but
in chortling, as if pleased over something. The sound was so near that
had there been the least illumination Mike must have seen the one from
whom it came. Then a second person—as the peculiar sound proved—joined
in the ebullition, the two so near together that otherwise the listener
would have thought the laugh came from one.
“It’s them tramps!” was the thought of the startled Mike; “though one of
’em wouldn’t be smoking a cigar unless he stole it or Uncle Elk had give
the same to him.”
It was unpleasant thus to associate the hermit with the pestiferous
vagrants with whom the youth had had much trouble already. He waited for
the strangers to speak, but they did not seem to care to do so. Once he
thought he saw the glowing end of the cigar, but was probably mistaken,
for a second look failed to reveal it, nor did either of the men laugh
again.
With a feeling akin to disgust, Mike stealthily worked his canoe from
under the overhanging boughs and set out on his return to the clubhouse.