THE GOLDEN BOYS ON THE RIVER DRIVE
[Illustration: Rex had some trouble at first in keeping his balance, but
he was quick to catch on to the knack.]
THE GOLDEN BOYS
ON THE RIVER DRIVE
By L. P. WYMAN, Ph.D.
Dean of Pennsylvania Military College
AUTHOR OF
“The Golden Boys and Their New Electric Cell,”
“The Golden Boys at the Fortress,”
“The Golden Boys in the Maine Woods,”
“The Golden Boys with the Lumber Jacks.”
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
THE GOLDEN BOYS SERIES
A Series of Stories for Boys 12 to 16 Years of Age
By L. P. WYMAN, Ph.D.
Dean of the Pennsylvania Military College
The Golden Boys and Their New Electric Cell
The Golden Boys at the Fortress
The Golden Boys in the Maine Woods
The Golden Boys with the Lumber Jacks
The Golden Boys on the River Drive
The Golden Boys Rescued by Radio
The Golden Boys Along the River Allagash
Copyright, 1923
By A. L. BURT COMPANY
THE GOLDEN BOYS ON THE RIVER DRIVE
Made in “U. S. A.”
THE GOLDEN BOYS ON THE RIVER DRIVE
CHAPTER I
THE BREAKING UP
“Hurrah! She’s breaking up.”
Two boys were standing on a little wharf looking out over the ice
covered surface of Moosehead Lake in northern Maine. They were fine
specimens of American boyhood. Bob Golden, nineteen years old,
lacked but a trifle of standing six feet and was possessed of a body
perfectly proportioned to its height. His brother Jack, a year
younger, was not quite so tall but his body was as perfectly
developed. Except when at school they had for years lived in the
great out-of-doors, in the Maine woods and on the Maine lakes, and
the free and open life coupled with the invigorating air of the Pine
Tree State had given them “mens sana in corpore sano.”
They had arrived at the lumber camp belonging to their father the
day before, having driven up from their home in Skowhegan, a small
town about fifty miles to the south. The Fortress, a military
college in Pennsylvania, where they were cadets, had closed for a
three weeks’ vacation and they had lost no time in reaching the
camp.
“She’s breaking up,” Jack repeated, dancing about like a wild man,
on the end of the wharf. “Just look at that crack run out into the
lake, will you,” he added, as a heavy booming sound reverberated
through the vast forest.
“And just think,” Bob declared, as he grabbed his brother by the arm
and held him fast, “by night there won’t be a speck of ice to be
seen anywhere on the lake. I wonder where it all goes to so
quickly.”
Jack was about to reply when the loud call of a horn rang through
the air.
“I don’t know, but I do know where I’m going,” he cried as he turned
and sprang for the shore. “Come on or I’ll eat all the flapjacks,”
he called back, as he saw that his brother was still watching the
ice.
“Be with you in a minute,” Bob shouted, his eyes still on the lake.
It was a fascinating sight, the ice slowly heaving with a suppressed
restlessness as though loath to give up its sovereignty of the lake.
But hunger soon overcame his desire to watch the lake and he was but
a few minutes later than his brother in entering the long mess room.
Breakfast was on the long table, along the two sides of which about
forty men were doing their best to make way with the huge piles of
hot cakes and bacon and eggs, to say nothing of doughnuts and
coffee.
“You ver’ near mees der grub, oui,” shouted big Jean Larue, as Bob
took his seat beside Jack.
“Guess there’s plenty left,” he laughed, as he glanced about the
table.
“Oui, dar’s allays pleenty der grub here,” declared another Kanuck,
a huge six footer, named Pierre, from his seat near the foot of the
table.
Pierre’s statement was correct, for Mr. Golden believed in giving
his men good food and plenty of it, and there was never any fault
found with the bill of fare in any of his camps.
“We geet the first raft heetched up tomorrow,” Jean said, as he
helped himself to another pile of cakes.
“Sure we will, eef you not eat so mooch you no can stir,” Pierre
shouted, and a roar of laughter filled the vast room in which Jean
joined. His appetite was a standing joke with the men, and he really
seemed to take pride in it.
“Dat all right,” he said, as the laughter subsided. “After breakfast
I, Jean Larue, put you on your back ver’ queek. You tink I eat too
mooch, hey?”
“You mean you try. What you call eet? You spell able once,” Pierre
grinned, as another roar of laughter greeted his words.
“Better get a wiggle,” Jack advised his brother, as he helped
himself to two more doughnuts. “I wouldn’t miss seeing that match
for a farm.”
“Nor I, but I’ll be there. Don’t you worry,” Bob replied, as he
reached for the plate of fresh cakes which the cook’s helper had
just brought in.
Both boys knew that a wrestling match between Jean Larue and Pierre
le Blanc would be worth going miles to see. Both were big men and
well known for their deeds of strength and athletic ability. Pierre
was a good-natured, generous fellow and was a favorite with his
companions. Jean, at the beginning of the winter, had been the bully
of the camp. An arrogant braggart, he had been feared and hated by
the greater part of the crew. Just after Christmas Bob, who with his
brother had come to the camp for their winter vacation, had had a
fight with the Frenchman and, thanks to his superior knowledge of
boxing, had given him a sound whipping. This seemed to have broken
the man’s spirit; but, a short time later, the boys saved his life
and to their great joy he became a different man. All his old
arrogance was gone and he became one of the most popular members of
the crew.
“Come on dar,” Pierre shouted, as he pushed back his chair. “You
hav’ now eat enough for two men. Eef you eat mooch more eet will be
no fun to put you on your back.”
“Huh, I, Jean Larue, will geeve you all der fun you want in one
leetle minute,” Jean retorted, as he too jumped up from his chair
and started for the door, followed by the entire crew.
The snow still lay deep in the woods, but in front of the bunk house
it was packed hard, making a smooth although a slippery floor. Once
outside in the crisp air, the two men quickly pulled off their heavy
mackinaws and thick woolen shirts.
“My, what men,” Bob whispered, as they stood there stripped to the
waist.
Physically, at least, they were deserving of the exclamation. Big
and thick set, without an ounce of superfluous flesh on their
torsos, the muscles played in ripples beneath the smooth skin.
No complicated set of rules governed an impromptu match of this
kind. No getting of three points on the ground was necessary to win.
The first man down was the loser, and in case both came down
together, the man on top was the winner.
A stranger would have thought, from the appearance of the men, that
it was to be a fight to the finish, but all present knew that the
two were great friends and that the loser would take his defeat in
good part and hope to win the next time. However, they had seen the
two men wrestle before and knew that each would exert himself to the
utmost to win.
For some moments the two giants circled around each other, watching
with hawk-like keenness for an opening. The right hold meant half
the battle, as they well knew, and a false hold might well mean
defeat. Suddenly, seeing his chance, Pierre leaped forward and
caught his opponent about the waist. And then the real struggle
began.
“Just look at those muscles will you,” Jack whispered to Bob.
It was little wonder that the display excited the boy’s admiration.
The huge muscles stood out like immense cords as the two men
strained with all their might to upset each other. Pulling and
pushing they whirled about on the smooth snow, neither seeming to be
able to gain the advantage. Once Jean slipped, and the boys thought
that he was going down, but he quickly recovered his footing and, in
a second, seemed on even terms again. Both men were breathing hard
and it seemed as though one or the other must yield soon, but as to
which one it would be there was no indication.
Then suddenly the end came. The boys saw Jean’s powerful arms creep
upward, then quickly he bent his back, and Pierre, taken by
surprise, flew over his head, landing on his back nearly ten feet
away. For a moment he lay there striving to regain his breath, which
had been driven from his body. Then eager hands pulled him to his
feet and he ran for Jean, who was already pulling on his shirt.
“Dat one ver’ bon hold,” he said as he grasped the victor by the
hand.
“Oui, she one ver’ fine hold,” Jean agreed, accepting the
outstretched hand with a broad grin. “I thot you had me one time,”
he added as he drew on his mackinaw.
“Oui, I ver’ near geet you,” Pierre grinned as he began to dress.
“It’s fine that those men can go through a match like that and still
be good friends,” Bob declared as he and Jack hurried away to the
wharf.
Even they, accustomed as they were to the rapidity with which the
ice breaks up when it once starts, were surprised at the change
which one short hour had wrought. What had been a broad expanse of
frozen surface now was a heaving mass of huge cakes of ice,
interspersed with stretches of open water.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Jack asked as he gazed at the sight.
“Nothing finer,” Bob agreed. “But come on, let’s get the rods and
try for trout in some of those open stretches.”
The finest fishing in the lakes of northern Maine is just as the ice
goes out. Then the big trout are hungry after the long winter
beneath the ice, and lucky is the fisherman who is there at the
time.
As the boys returned to the wharf with their rods it happened that
there was an open space just out in front. Bob was first to have a
fly lazily floating on the surface of the water, but it had hardly
struck the surface before it disappeared and a tug at the line told
the boy that he had hooked the first fish of the season. From the
way the reel whined as the line ran out he knew that it was a big
one. He pressed on the drag as hard as he dared but it seemed to
have little effect.
“You’ll have to make it snappy or you’ll lose him,” Jack shouted.
“That opening’s going to close in a minute or two, and if he gets
under the ice, good night.”
Bob saw that what his brother had said was true, and, for the
moment, was uncertain what was best to be done. But just then he
noticed that the line was slacking and he hastened to reel in. He
had recovered about half of the line when the fish darted off again
and he was forced to let the line run.
“You’ll have to pull him,” Jack shouted. “He’ll be under that cake
in another minute.”
Bob, realizing the truth of Jack’s statement, quickly lowered the
light rod and caught hold of the line. Now it was simply a question
of the strength of the line. Would it hold or would it break?
“It’s a good thing that’s a new line,” Jack cried, dancing about in
his excitement as Bob began to pull in carefully, hand over hand.
“Nothing very sportsmanlike about this way of landing a fish,” he
declared. “But we need that fellow for dinner.”
Slowly, foot by foot, the fish came in until finally it was flapping
at their feet.
“Eight pounds if he’s an ounce,” Jack declared, as he picked the
fish up by the gills and held it out at arm’s length.
For nearly two hours they fished, watching their chance whenever an
open space gave them opportunity to cast. They lost several on
account of the ice closing in before they could get them out, but
more were landed successfully and by ten o’clock they had enough for
dinner for the crew. They were all good-sized fish, none weighing
less than three pounds, but the first one caught remained the prize
of the lot by a good margin.
“Now I guess it’s up to us to clean ’em,” Jack said, as he reeled in
his line. “That’s a dandy mess if I do say it.”
They had thrown the fish as they unhooked them into a packing box,
and each taking hold of an end, they started for the mess house.
They had stepped from the wharf when Jack chanced to look back
toward the lake.
“What’s that out there?” he cried, setting his end of the box down
on the snow.
“Looks like a man,” Bob replied, as he followed suit with his end.
“I’ll get the glasses,” Jack shouted, starting on the run for the
office only a few rods away.
He was back in almost no time and, running to the end of the wharf,
quickly raised the glasses to his eyes.
“It’s a man all right,” he declared after a moment, as he handed the
glasses to his brother.
The man was probably a mile and a half from the shore, on a cake of
ice about twenty feet in diameter. Bob could see that he was sitting
in the center of the cake.
“I can’t see him move a bit,” he said, as he lowered the glass from
his eyes.
“Don’t suppose he’s dead do you?” Jack asked anxiously.
“Seems to me that he’s sitting up too straight for that,” Bob
replied slowly.
For a moment the two boys looked at each other. Each knew what was
passing in the other’s mind. They well knew that the cake of ice
which was supporting the man was liable to break up at any moment,
and that the strongest swimmer could not live long in the icy water.
All the men were off in the woods back of the camp, loading the last
of the season’s cut. To go for them might mean that it would be too
late.
“Let’s get the canoe quick,” Bob said, as he started on the run for
the office slowly followed by Jack.
The canoe, which was in a little shed back of the office, was a
small canvas affair, good enough for a short trip in smooth water,
but far too frail to be safe amid the floating ice. But it was the
only means they had of reaching the man and they did not hesitate.
To get it down to the wharf was the work of but a few moments.
Carefully they lowered it to the water, there being at the moment a
large clear space in front of the wharf.
“This is going to be a mighty dangerous trip all right,” Bob
declared, as he took his place in the stern while Jack crouched in
the bow. “We’ve got to be careful of the ice or we’ll get a hole in
her and then——”
There was no need to finish the sentence. They both knew what a hole
in the frail canoe would mean.
The wind, which had been light during the morning, had freshened
during the past hour and now was coming strong from the northwest,
directly in their faces. All over the lake the huge cakes of ice
were bobbing up and down, the spaces of clear water between them
constantly increasing and decreasing in size.
From the start their progress was very slow, as they were obliged to
follow a zigzag course wherever the open spaces would permit. In
twenty minutes they were but a few hundred feet nearer the man than
when they started.
“Can we ever do it?” Jack panted, as he dug his paddle deep in the
water and exerted all his strength to avoid a cake which threatened
to smash into the side of the canoe.
“We’ve got to,” Bob returned, a look of determination in his face.
“We’ll do it if his cake holds out long enough,” he encouraged, as
with a strong push he sent the canoe forward through a narrow lane
between two large cakes.
Now the open spaces were larger and they were able to make better
time. They were nearly half way to the man and urging the canoe
between two immense floes when suddenly Jack realized that the cakes
were rapidly approaching each other.
“Dig for all you’re worth or we won’t get through,” he shouted.
They did their best but it was not enough. Realizing that they could
not make it, Jack stopped paddling and shouted:
“We’ll have to jump for it.”
Bob quickly took in the situation and, throwing his paddle to the
bottom of the canoe, he too watched the huge floe as it approached.
They saw that the cake to their right would reach the boat first.
“Make it snappy,” Bob shouted, as the cake was upon them.
With hands gripping the side of the canoe they crouched, waiting for
the cake of ice to reach them.
“Now!” Bob shouted, and on the instant both sprang for the ice, then
turned and dragged the canoe after them.
They were not a moment too soon for, as they drew the canoe from the
water, the two floes met with a grinding crash.
“Mighty close call that,” Bob gasped, as he gazed about.
“Too close for comfort, but, thank God we made it,” Jack agreed.
“But come on. There’s no time to lose. This ice looks mighty rotten
to me, and that cake he’s on may be worse.”
The cake on which they found themselves was a large one, fully a
hundred feet across. A glance told them that between their cake and
that on which the man sat was mostly open water; and, encouraged by
the sight, they began dragging the canoe over the ice. To get it
again in the water and to embark without swamping the frail craft
took all their skill. But working carefully, they finally
accomplished it and pushed off just as, with a loud crack, the big
floe broke up into a dozen smaller ones.
“Our lucky day all right,” Jack shouted, as he dug his paddle into
the water. “Pray God it holds,” he added in a lower tone.
They now made good time, as only occasionally did a small cake cause
them to change their course, and in a few minutes they were only a
few rods away from their destination.
The stranded man had risen to his feet and as Jack raised his head
he waved his arms vigorously.
“Look, Bob,” the boy shouted, as he recognized the man. “It’s
Jacques Lamont.”
The words had hardly left his lips when a loud cracking sound
reached their ears and, to their horror, the cake parted in the
middle, and before the man had time to jump, the icy water had
swallowed him. One moment he had been standing there waving his hand
at them and the next he was gone.