RUNNING THE RAPIDS.
“NOW that we are here by ourselves,” continued Ralph, “I’d like to ask
you why you told Joe that the best man was not to be allowed to win at
the next meet. I never heard of such a thing before in my life. What do
you suppose Prime and his crowd would say to you if they should find it
out?”
“I don’t believe they will ever find it out,” replied Tom, who did not
seem to think that he had been guilty of any thing mean. “If I have
formed a correct estimate of Joe Wayring’s disposition and character, he
is a boy who knows how to hold his tongue. I posted him simply to
off-set the coolness and impudence displayed by Prime and his friends in
shutting us out of all the races, without so much as saying by your
leave. Since they would not give us a chance to win some of the prizes,
I say that _they_ shall not win _any_ of them. We are not going to play
into the hands of boys who work against us.”
“That’s what I say,” exclaimed Loren. “But I thought Joe acted very
indifferently.”
“Because he did not ask me to go into the particulars of the scheme, and
give him the names of the fellows who were in it?” said Tom. “I thought
so myself at first, but after turning the matter over in my mind, I came
to the conclusion that his indifference was put on; and that the reason
he did not ask me to go into details was because he was afraid I would
say to him that I was taught not to tell names and tales too.”
“It seems to me that that is about the size of it,” Loren remarked. “But
look here, Tom. You have undertaken a pretty big contract if you expect
to keep on the right side of both those crowds. One or the other of them
will very soon have reason to suspect you, and then down you will go.
What are you going to do about the races?”
“My proposition is, that we keep up our regular exercise and training,
and do the best we can to carry out our own programme, leaving Prime’s
clique and Joe’s to carry out theirs, if they are able to do it. If we
find that we stand no show, I would much rather see Joe and his friends
win than Prime and _his_ friends.”
“So would I,” said Ralph. “Now I should like to have some one tell me
what excuse we have for being down on those boys. We got mad at them
simply because they would not break their rules and take us into their
archery club.”
“And wasn’t that reason enough?” cried Tom, hotly. “I wasn’t used to
such treatment while I lived in the city, and I won’t submit to it now.
I don’t think any more of Hastings than I did on the day he so coolly
told me that he would not help me get into their club. I don’t care
whether he wins or not. What I mean to say is, that Prime and the rest
shall not carry off any of the prizes if I can help it. I intend to show
them that the next time they want any help from me, they had better let
me have a voice in making up the programme; and I shall do it in such a
way that they can not possibly misunderstand me. You two can do as you
please, of course; but if you are going to weaken, I wish you would say
so at once, so that I may make my arrangements accordingly.”
Ralph and Loren hastened to assure their cousin that they had not the
slightest intention of going back from their original agreement, and
that they would stick to him through thick and thin, no matter what
happened; but still they wished that Tom would learn to like Joe
Wayring, and give up his idea of being revenged upon him for slights
which were wholly imaginary. Joe had a much larger following than Prime
and Noble, through him they could get more invitations to parties,
picnics and hunting and fishing excursions than they could in any other
way, and his influence might eventually gain for them an honor which
they craved above all others—a membership in the Toxophilites; for those
young ladies they met at Miss Arden’s lawn party were handsome and
stylish, that was a fact, and Ralph and Loren had more than once told
themselves that they would even be willing to give up their cigars, if
by so doing they could win the privilege of shooting with those same
young ladies twice a week. If they became intimate with George Prime,
and were often seen in his company, the Toxophilites would drop them
like so many hot potatoes; and then, when invitations for any social
gathering were issued, they would be left out in the cold, the same as
George was. But whatever they decided to do they must keep on the right
side of Tom, for if they did not, he would be sure to make things
unpleasant for them. It looked as though Ralph and Loren would have to
do the very thing against which they had cautioned their vindictive
relative, that is, try to carry water on both shoulders and take their
chances of spilling some of it.
“Now we’ll take Joe’s skiff back and put it where we found it, provided
the boat-house is open,” said Tom. “If there is any boy in the world who
ought to be supremely happy, he is the fellow. He has every thing he can
ask for, including a rich and good-natured uncle, who takes him off on
hunting and fishing trips nearly every year. Why that boy, young as he
is, has shot caribou and moose and caught salmon.”
Yes, Joe Wayring was happy, but it was not wholly on account of his
pleasant surroundings. His source of happiness was within himself, and
he knew it. He had been taught that lesson at the same time that he was
being instructed in athletics and field-sports. He thought more of
others than he did of Joe Wayring, and he would go into the dumps in a
minute if he saw any of his friends in a disconsolate mood. If things
didn’t go right with him—and they went wrong sometimes, as they do with
every body—it made no sort of difference with Joe’s good-nature. He kept
his troubles to himself; but Tom would get angry and go into the sulks
and make all around him miserable. While going on the principle that
whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well, Joe was nevertheless
perfectly willing to be beaten by any one who could do it fairly; but
Tom wanted to be first at any cost. This was the principal difference
between the two boys.
Tom cast off the skiff’s painter while Loren and Ralph stepped the mast
and shook out the sail, and in twenty minutes more they found themselves
in the boat-house, where Joe and his two friends were waiting for them.
“I saw you coming and took the cover off one of my pets so that you
could take a look at her,” said the former, directing the attention of
his visitors to a neat cedar shell in which he had been wont to win
honors before he became a convert to canoeing. “She has taken me first
by the judges’ boat in more than one hotly-contested race while I was
going to school at Dartmouth Academy. Handsome, isn’t she? No doubt you
will be surprised to hear me say it, but _there_ is something that I
think more of than I do of her.”
As Joe said this, he pointed toward an ungainly looking object which lay
on the floor at the further end of the boat-house. It was a canvas
canoe, whose battered sides bore evidence to numerous encounters with
sharp-pointed rocks and snags.
“It must be on account of its associations,” replied Loren, looking
first at the clumsy canoe and then at the clear-cut lines of the shell.
“If I had my choice between the two, it would not take me long to make
up my mind which one I wanted.”
“Of course not. There is as much difference between them as there is
between a trotter and a plow-horse; but each one has served the purpose
for which it was intended, and served it well, too. I like the canoe
better, because she was the first thing in the shape of a boat I ever
owned. She has carried me a good many hundred miles, first and last, and
although she has often got contrary and spilled me out into the water
when I wasn’t expecting it, I have had any amount of fun with her
exploring creeks and ponds that I could not otherwise have reached. She
is fourteen feet long, weighs fifty pounds fully equipped, and packs in
that little chest you see there. I know she isn’t very good-looking, but
when it comes to running the rapids she is there, every time. That’s the
reason I took her out of the chest. We are going down to Sherwin’s Pond
to-morrow after bass; will you join us?”
Tom and his cousins replied that they would be glad to do so, and Joe
went on to say:
“You see, the fishing in the pond is better than it is in the lake. The
people who come here to spend the summer do not often go down there,
because there is no wagon road through the woods, and they are afraid to
trust themselves to the rapids. Well, they are frightful to look at,
that’s a fact, but—”
“We know that very well,” interrupted Ralph. “We have gone down there a
dozen times with our minds fully made up that we would run those rapids,
or smash our canoes in trying, and we have as often come back without
making the attempt. When we reached the place where the water leaves the
lake, and goes foaming and boiling over the rocks in the gorge below,
our arms always went back on us.”
“Your arms?” repeated Sheldon.
“Yes. Our hearts were brave enough for any thing, but our cowardly arms
wouldn’t pull the canoes into the rapids.”
“Oh!” said Sheldon. “Well, your cowardly arms were the wisest part of
you, for you certainly ought not to try to go through until you know
where the channel is. Those rapids have been run hundreds of times,
though not always without accident to be sure, and if you will follow
close in our wake to-morrow, we’ll take you safely to the bottom.”
“We must make an early start,” said Hastings, “for we want to reach the
pond just about the time the first rays of the sun strike the water. Can
you be ready at four o’clock? All right. Catch a good supply of minnows
to-night, and then you won’t have to waste valuable time over it in the
morning.”
“And take the strongest and stiffest bait-rod you have,” added Joe.
“Leave your fly-rods, if you have any, at home, for you will have no use
for them. About June 1st, when the bass season opens, those who know how
to throw a fly have very fine fishing among the rocks close to the
shore; but as the weather grows warmer the fish gradually draw off into
deep water, and all the bass we shall catch to-morrow will be near the
middle of the pond where the springs boil up.”
“And don’t forget your gun,” said Sheldon.
“Nor your rubber blankets,” chimed in Hastings.
“Do you think it will rain?” asked Ralph.
“We hope not, and indeed there are no signs of it. When we reach the
head of the rapids we will pull off our heaviest clothing, so that we
will be ready for a swim in case we are unlucky enough to capsize, and
the things we don’t wear we will wrap up in our rubber blankets so that
they won’t get wet.”
“Suppose we get down all right,” said Loren. “How are we going to get
back?”
“We’ll shoulder our canoes and come up the portage road which has been
cut through the woods around the rapids. For that reason we don’t want
to take any thing with us that we can possibly dispense with.”
After listening to a few more hints like these, Tom and his cousins set
out for the post-office; and having secured their mail they went home by
the road that led around the foot of the lake, running at the top of
their speed all the way through the woods to improve their wind. Their
skiff, patent minnow buckets and dip nets were at once brought into
requisition, and by the time the supper bell rang, they had caught bait
enough to last them through a long day’s successful angling.
Promptly at four o’clock the next morning Tom Bigden opened the front
door of the boat-house, and waved his hat in response to a similar
signal of greeting which came to him from over the lake. Joe Wayring and
his friends were just putting their canoes into the water.
“Splendid day,” said the former, when the two little fleets came
together near the middle of the lake. “There’s going to be just wind
enough to ripple the water, but not enough to raise a sea, and I
wouldn’t take a dollar for my chance of catching the finest string of
bass that has been seen in Mount Airy this year.”
“So say we all of us,” exclaimed Sheldon; and this suggested the song
which every school-boy knows, but to Tom Bigden’s ill-concealed disgust,
it was sung to the words: “Joe Wayring is a jolly good fellow,” and that
was a sentiment in which Tom did not fully concur. It put him in bad
humor for the whole of the day, or, rather, until circumstances threw in
his way an opportunity to make that jolly good fellow as miserable as he
was himself. After that he felt better.
Under the steady motion of the sinewy arms which swung the long double
paddles, the light canoes made quick work with the three miles that lay
between the boat-houses and the lower end of the lake, and presently
Arthur Hastings turned toward the nearest shore, looking over his
shoulder as he did so to call out to the canoeists behind him:
“Let’s make believe this is a hurry-skurry race, and that there is a
prize in the pond waiting for the man who reaches the bottom of the
rapids first.”
The challenge was promptly accepted. In a twinkling the little crafts
were going toward the beach with greatly increased speed, and in a
remarkably short space of time six young athletes, clad only in
flesh-colored tights, were prancing around their canoes, busily engaged
in wrapping their clothing in their water-proof blankets, and lashing
their rods and minnow buckets fast so that they would not be thrown out
into the water by a heavy lurch, or even by a capsize. Tom Bigden was
the first to shove his canoe away from the shore, but there he had to
stop. He was not acquainted with the channel, and needed a guide to show
him the way through; but he won the second place, and was prompt to fall
into it when Arthur Hastings caught up his paddle and pulled away from
the beach.
Tom and his cousins had often viewed the rapids from the bank while
trying in vain to screw up courage enough to attempt their passage, and
if they looked dangerous to them then, they looked ten times more
frightful when they surveyed them from their canoes on this particular
morning. The sight of them was enough to make any body’s nerves quiver.
They looked as steep as the roof of a house, and the bottom of the gorge
through which they ran, seemed to be literally covered with bowlders.
Tom could not see a single place which looked wide enough to admit of
the passage of a canoe.
“What do you think of them?” asked Arthur, as he and Tom backed water
with their paddles to keep their canoes from taking the plunge before
they were ready.
“Who was the first man who went down here?” said Tom, in reply.
“One of the hotel guides.”
“Was he a graduate of a lunatic asylum, or did he go there afterward?”
inquired Tom.
Arthur laughed until the woods echoed.
“Neither,” he answered, as soon as he could speak. “He’s got a level
head on his shoulders yet, if one may judge by the constant demands that
are made upon his time. Some of the people who come here every summer
like him so well that they begin to make bargains with him before the
ice is out of the lake. They wouldn’t do that if they had any reason to
believe he was crazy, would they? Well, what do you say?”
“I say, go ahead whenever you get ready,” was the response.
“All right,” said Arthur, who saw by the expression on Tom’s face that
he had no intention of backing out. “Now, watch every move I make, and
let me get at least twenty or thirty feet ahead of you before you start.
Look out for both ends of your boat. You won’t run on to an isolated
rock unless you try, because the water runs away from it. That has a
tendency to throw the bow from the obstruction, and the stern toward it;
so the minute the bow is out of harm’s way, drop your paddle into the
water on the side opposite the rock, and use it the best you know how.”
“Why, that will throw me square upon the rock,” cried Tom.
“No, it won’t,” insisted Arthur. “It will throw you away from danger,
and the current rushing around the rock will carry you still further
away. But if you use the paddle on the other side, you will come up
against the rock ker-chunk; and then you will have to swim the rest of
the way down, because the stern of your canoe will, most likely, be
smashed in. Understand?”
Tom replied that he did; whereupon Arthur settled his cap more firmly on
his head, took his paddle in both hands and with one bold stroke sent
his frail craft into the rapids. The moment the current caught him in
its grasp, he began to shoot ahead like a boy coasting down hill. Tom
shut his teeth hard and gripped his paddle until the muscles on his bare
arms stood out like a gold-beater’s; and so intent was he upon watching
every move his guide made, that he forgot to look out for himself, until
he was called to his senses by a warning shout from his friends behind.
“Look out, there,” yelled Joe and Roy, in concert. “You’ll be over the
brink the first thing you know.”
Tom heard the warning, but it came too late. He dropped his paddle into
the water and made desperate efforts to check his canoe, which had
already gained rapid headway; but the swift current had taken firm hold
of him, and finding that it was much stronger than he was, he resolved
to go ahead and trust to luck to keep from running into Arthur Hastings,
in case the latter met with an accident.
[Illustration: SHOOTING THE RAPIDS.]
Tom afterward said that he did not remember much about that wild ride.
He was lost in admiration of Arthur Hastings’s skill as a canoeist, and
followed in his wake through all the turns he made, which were so
numerous and bewildering that Tom did not see how one boy’s head could
contain them all. It was a lucky thing for him and his cousins that they
did not attempt to go through there without a guide. He did not hear the
waters foaming and roaring around him, nor did he see a single one of
the rocks past which he went with such speed that the wind whistled
through his hair; but he did see the smooth surface of the pond the
instant he came within sight of it, and when he shot into it, propelled
by the momentum he had acquired during his descent of the rapids, he
called out gleefully that he had not touched a solitary obstruction on
the way.
“Of course not,” answered Arthur. “If you had, you would not be as dry
as you are now. There is a clearly defined channel all the way through
the gorge, and you won’t touch any thing if you keep in it. What would
happen to you if you should get out of it, I don’t know; but I think you
would be fortunate if you came off with a simple capsize.”
It was a thrilling sight that was presented to their gaze as they sat
there in their canoes at the bottom of the rapids and watched the others
as they came down. First Joe Wayring dashed into view around the bend,
closely followed by Ralph Farnsworth, who seemed to be quite as much at
his ease as his guide was, and handled his paddle and managed his canoe
quite as skillfully. By the time they reached the smooth water at the
foot Roy and Loren came in sight, and in five minutes more the little
fleet was reunited. The hearts of three of the canoeists beat a trifle
faster than usual, but they had accomplished the run in perfect safety,
and without a wetting, and they were ready to try it again at the very
first opportunity.
“Take time to learn the channel before attempting any thing reckless,”
cautioned Joe. “After that you can come down by yourselves as often as
you feel equal to the task of carrying your boats back over the
portage.”
The boys went ashore long enough to put on their clothes, untie their
rods, and put fresh water on their minnows, and then they were ready for
the bass.