FOREST COOKERY.
“HOW in the world did you manage to get separated from us so quickly?”
asked Roy, addressing himself to Tom Bigden. “The last time I saw you,
you were bringing up the rear all right, but when we lost the trail and
stopped to hold a consultation, you were not to be seen.”
Tom had been expecting this, and he was ready with his answer. Pointing
to his boots, which he had purposely stuck into a mud-hole, shortly
after his companions left him, he said:
“I got mired in the swamp, and by the time I could crawl out and pour
the water from my boots, you had left me so far behind that I could
neither see nor hear any thing of you. If I had come directly back to
the pond instead of wasting time in looking for you, I might have been
able to stop Matt Coyle’s raid on our canoes.”
“I doubt it very much,” replied Joe Wayring. “No doubt Matt has been
watching us all the morning and waiting for us to come ashore so that he
could steal something, and I believe he would have made his ‘raid’ if we
had all been here to oppose him. As it was, he had full swing, and there
are none of us hurt.”
“That’s my idea,” said Arthur. “Judging by his countenance Matt is a bad
man and a desperate one. Well, we have lost our rods and reels, which
must be worth considerably more than a hundred dollars, but we have
learned one thing, that we ought to profit by, and another that we can
use to our advantage. To begin with, so long as Matt Coyle is allowed to
stay about in this neck of the woods—”
“And I guess he’ll stay here as long as he has a mind to,” observed Roy.
“Well, I guess he won’t,” retorted Arthur.
“I know what you mean,” said Roy. “You mean that the arm of the law is
strong enough to snatch him out of the swamp. I don’t dispute it. The
trouble is going to be to get hold of him. If he finds the low lands
getting too warm for him, he will take to the mountains; and you know
that there are a good many places among them where a white man has never
yet set his foot.”
“He’ll come out, all the same,” answered Arthur; “but as long as he
stays around, Sherwin’s Pond is no place for hunting and fishing
parties, unless they bring some one with them to watch the camp while
they are rambling about in the woods. We must warn the hotel people as
soon as we get back to town.”
“You said there was something we could use to our advantage,” suggested
Joe.
“Yes. We can see any amount of sport here this fall with the grouse. We
flushed a lot of them while we were gone,” he added, turning to Tom,
“but of course we didn’t shoot at them.”
“Why not?” inquired the latter.
“Why, because the close season isn’t over yet, and the birds are
protected by law.”
Tom and his cousins had nothing to say, but they wondered if Arthur
Hastings always obeyed the game laws when he was alone in the woods.
They had not much respect for him if he did. They could not lay claim to
any great skill themselves. An October grouse on the wing would have
been as safe from harm a dozen yards away from the muzzles of their
double-barrels, as though he had been on the other side of the globe.
They always killed their game sitting; and they would shoot at a robin
as soon as they would shoot at a wild turkey.
“We didn’t come down here to go home hungry,” said Joe, pointing to a
bunch of squirrels that lay at the foot of the nearest tree. “We’ll have
two courses to our dinner or breakfast, or whatever you call a meal
eaten at this time of day, and there’s plenty of water in the spring to
wash it down with.”
The boys were all hungry, and there was nothing appetizing in looking
forward to a breakfast of meat and fish. Joe Wayring and his friends did
not mind it, for they had eaten many such meals during their vacation
wanderings in the woods; but Tom Bigden was not much accustomed to
roughing it, and he condemned the squatter almost as bitterly for
walking off with the hard-boiled eggs, sardines, canned fruit and bottle
of cold coffee, which he had provided as his share of the common dinner,
as he did for stealing his fishing-rod.
“When Matt opens my bundle and finds all that buttered tissue paper in
it I guess he’ll wonder,” said Joe, as he stepped into Roy’s canoe and
picked up one of the joints of the double paddle. “He won’t know what I
intended to do with it; do you, Bigden?”
After a little reflection Tom concluded that he couldn’t tell what use
the buttered tissue paper could be put to, unless Joe intended to start
a fire with it, and the latter went on to explain.
“We always take a supply with us as a substitute for a frying-pan,” said
he. “After cleaning the fish in good shape, we wrap him up in this
tissue paper, and then add three or four thicknesses of wet brown paper.
In the meantime, the fellow whose business it is to see to the fire has
taken care to have a nice bed of coals ready. We rake these coals apart,
put in the fish, and cover him up so quickly that the paper around him
has no time to get afire, and there he stays until he is done. Then we
poke him out, and when the paper is taken off the skin and scales come
with it; and if you relish a well-cooked fish, there he is.”
“But how do you know when the fish is done?” asked Ralph.
“A potato is as good a clock as you want to go by,” answered Joe.
“A potato?” repeated Ralph.
“Yes. I brought several with me, intending to put them on the table
after they had done duty as clocks, but they have gone off with the
sugar, lemons and other good things I had in my bundle. As soon as your
fish is covered up in the coals,” continued Joe, “put your potatoes in
alongside of him and cover them up also. You can test them with a sharp
stick at any time, and when they are done, which will be at the end of
half an hour, if your fire is just right, poke them out, break them open
and place them on a flat stone which you have previously washed, to
cool. Then poke out your fish, take off the wrappings and fall to work.
But we shall have to use boards this trip—there are plenty of them lying
around loose on the point, unless Matt Coyle has carried them off to
patch up his shanty—and make our noses do duty as clocks.”
Tom did not understand this, either; but believing that he had made a
sufficient airing of his ignorance of woodcraft for one day, at least,
he asked no more questions.
Half an hour’s steady paddling brought the boys to the point, on which
they landed to prepare their meager breakfast. That it was a favorite
resort for parties like their own was evident. Beds of ashes surrounding
the mossy bowlder from beneath which the spring bubbled up, marked the
places where roaring camp-fires had once been built, and the empty fruit
and meat cans that had been tossed into the bushes told what good
dinners had been eaten there.
Joe Wayring at once set off to hunt up a couple of suitable boards,
another started a fire, two more fell to work upon the fish and
squirrels, and the rest found employment in gathering a supply of fuel,
and providing birch-bark plates and platters. Although Tom and his
cousins did their full share of the work, they did not neglect to keep
an eye on their more experienced companions; and they were astonished to
see how easily one can get on without a good many things which the
majority of people seem to think necessary to their very existence. When
the fish had been cleaned and washed in the pond, they were spread out
flat and fastened with wooden pins to the boards, which were propped up
in front of the fire; while the squirrels were impaled upon forked
sticks and held over the coals by Arthur Hastings and Roy, who turned
first one side and then the other to the heat, until they were done to a
delicious brown.
“If Matt Coyle had only been good enough to leave us the bacon, which I
was careful to have put up with my lunch, these squirrels would be much
better than they are going to be,” said Arthur, addressing himself to
Ralph, who manifested the greatest interest in this rude forest cookery.
“Their meat is rather dry, you know, and a strip of nice fat bacon
pinned to each side of them would furnish the necessary grease—that
isn’t a very elegant word, I know, but it expresses my meaning all the
same—and give them a flavor also. It would make the fish more palatable,
too. My advice to you is, always take a chunk of bacon with you if you
are going to cook your dinner in the woods.”
“What’s he doing?” inquired Ralph, nodding toward Joe Wayring, who stood
around with his hands in his pockets, now and then elevating his chin
and sniffing the air like a pointer that had struck a fresh scent.
Arthur laughed heartily.
“Joe’s timing the fish,” was his reply. “When they smell so good that he
can’t wait any longer, he will know they are done; and then dinner will
be ready. It’s rather a novel way, I confess, but Joe hits it every
pop.”
This was the first time that Tom and his cousins had ever sat down to a
meal that was composed of nothing but fish and meat, but it tasted much
better than they thought it would. Perhaps the reason was because they
were hungry. At any rate they disposed of all that was placed before
them, and would have asked for another piece of squirrel if there had
been any more on the big slice of bark that did duty as a platter.
“This meal will give you an idea of what we could have done if that
squatter had not stumbled on our canoes while we were after that bear,”
said Roy, who stood holding the empty platter in one hand and his light
bird gun in the other. As he spoke, he sent the platter flying over the
pond, and broke it into inch pieces by the two charges of shot he put
into it before it struck the water. “What’s the next thing on the
programme?” he continued. “I don’t much like the idea of undertaking
that long carry during the heat of the day, but I don’t see what else we
can do unless we are willing to stay here and be idle for hours to come.
We can’t fish any more, that’s certain. We haven’t brought our long bows
with us, and who wants to shoot squirrels with a shot gun? Not I, for
one.”
There was no debate upon the question Roy had raised. They had their
choice between going home, and staying where they were until the sun
sank out of sight behind the mountains; and they were not long in making
up their minds what they would do. When Joe Wayring picked up his gun
and stepped into Roy’s canoe (it was a Rice Laker, and not being decked
over, it could easily accommodate him and its owner), the others got
into theirs, and the fleet started toward the upper end of the pond.
We have said that Mirror Lake and Sherwin’s Pond were fifteen miles
apart, and that there were about twelve miles of rapids in the stream by
which they were connected. This, of course, would leave three miles of
still water; but the trouble was, it could not be made use of by any one
going from the pond to the lake. At every one of the points at which the
rapids ceased and the stretches of still water began, the banks were
high and steep, and so densely covered with briers and bushes that the
most active boy would have found it a difficult task to work his way to
the water’s edge, and an impossible one if he had a canoe on his back.
This being the case our six friends had a long portage (they generally
called it a “carry”) to look forward to; but three of them, at least,
went at it as they went at every thing else that was hard—with the
determination to do it at once and have it over with. Arthur Hastings
went first with his little Rob Roy on his back, Joe Wayring followed
close behind him with all the guns and paddles he could carry (the rest
of them were lashed fast in the cock-pits so that they would not fall
out when the canoes were turned bottom up), and they led their
companions nearly a third of the distance before they put down their
loads and leaned up against a tree to rest.
“This is my last visit to Sherwin’s pond this season,” panted Arthur, as
he drew his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the big drops of
perspiration from his forehead. “It’s too much sugar for a
cent—altogether too much.”
“Every time you come through here on a hot day you say the same thing,”
observed Joe.
“I know it; but I am in dead earnest now. The game isn’t worth the
candle.”
“What’s the matter? Are you sorry that you didn’t smash your canoe in
the rapids?” asked Roy.
“Or didn’t you catch fish enough to suit you?” chimed in Ralph.
“Perhaps he is disgusted because he didn’t shoot that bear,” said Joe.
“It’s hard work,” repeated Arthur. “The fun of running the rapids,
catching a nice string of bass and seeing a bear, does not repay one for
the horrors of this fifteen mile carry. It is worse for me to-day than
it ever was before, because we have been so very unlucky. We have used
our rods for the last time, and Joe will never see his canvas canoe
again.”
This was the way in which Arthur and his two friends referred to their
losses whenever they referred to them at all. There was no unreasonable
exhibition of rage, such as Tom Bigden would have been glad to indulge
in, if he could have found the least excuse for so doing.
If Tom had possessed even the semblance of a heart, it would have smote
him when he saw how patiently Joe and his chums bore up under their
misfortunes. If Matt Coyle had turned the matter over in his mind for a
whole month, he could not have hit upon anything that was so well
calculated to render these three boys miserable, as was the piece of
villainy which he had that day carried out at the suggestion of Tom
Bigden. Tom was glad of one thing: His companions did not ask him any
questions, and consequently he was not obliged to tell them any lies.
The boys rested a good many times while they were on the carry, and when
at last they launched their canoes on the broad bosom of the lake they
were so weary and devoid of ambition, that it was a task for them to
paddle down to the boat-houses; but, like their arduous journey across
the portage, it was accomplished at last by steady and persevering
effort, and when they separated near the middle of the lake and pulled
away toward their respective homes, they told one another that the next
time they went down to the pond they would see to it that Matt Coyle had
no chance to spoil their day’s sport.
“There’s something about that business that don’t look just right to
me,” said Ralph Farnsworth, as soon as Joe and his friends were out of
hearing. “I don’t mind my own loss, but I am really sorry for Joe
Wayring.”
“So am I,” said Loren. “He prized that canoe very highly. I believe he
would rather have lost his handsome breech-loader. I tell you we made a
mistake in having any thing to do with George Prime. Wayring and his
crowd are much the better lot of fellows.”
These remarks settled one thing to Tom Bigden’s satisfaction. Ever since
his interview with the squatter he had been asking himself whether or
not he ought to take his cousins into his confidence, and now he knew
that he had better not. He was afraid, as well as ashamed, to show them
how far his unreasonable enmity toward Joe Wayring had led him, and so
he said nothing.
Great was the indignation among some of the Mount Airy people when it
became known that Matt Coyle had turned up again when he was least
expected, and that he had walked off with a hundred and fifty dollars
worth of property that did not belong to him. But Mount Airy, as we have
seen, was like other places in that it numbered among its inhabitants
certain evil-minded and envious persons, who were never so happy as when
they were listening to the story of some one’s bad luck. George Prime
and the boys who made their head-quarters in his father’s store were
delighted to hear that the squatter had begun operations against Joe and
his chums, and hoped he would “keep it up” until he had stolen or
destroyed every thing they possessed. They declared that they were sorry
for Tom and his cousins, but when they came to say that much to them by
word of mouth, as they did the next afternoon when Tom, Ralph and Loren
dropped into the drug-store on their way to the post-office, they did it
in such a way that Tom became disgusted, and left without buying the
cigar he had intended to ask for.
“The more I see of those fellows, the less I like them,” said Tom; and
then he was about to open his battery of abuse upon Prime and his
friends, when he discovered several of the Toxophilites coming down the
side-walk. “I’ll tell you what’s a fact, boys,” Tom added in a lower
tone. “It’s a lucky thing for us that we didn’t buy those cigars. Here
comes Miss Arden with a whole crowd of girls, and there isn’t a street
or alley that we could slink into if we had a weed in our hands.”
The boys lifted their hats as the girls came up, and passed on rejoicing
over their escape. If they had been caught in the act of smoking they
might have said good-by to all their hopes of getting into the archery
club. A little further on they stopped in front of the window of a
jewelry store, where some of the prizes that were to be distributed at
the canoe meet had been placed for exhibition. Their three companions of
the previous day were there, and their attention was concentrated upon a
beautiful blue silk flag, trimmed with gold fringe and bearing in its
center the monogram of the Mount Airy canoe club, which occupied a
conspicuous position among the prizes.
“That’s some of Miss Arden’s handiwork,” said Joe Wayring, after he had
cordially greeted Tom and his cousins. “It is to go to the first one who
walks the greasy pole.”
“Great Moses!” ejaculated Tom. “To what base uses—”
“That’s just what I said,” interrupted Arthur Hastings. “I told her,
too, that it wouldn’t make half the fun the greasy pig did, and you
ought to have seen her stick up her nose. Another thing, now that I
think of it: Unless the wind is just right, the flag will wallop itself
over and around the pole until it is all covered with grease.”
“And the boy who is lucky enough to capture it will have to take it into
the water with him, and there is her elegant prize ruined at the start,”
chimed in Joe Wayring.
“Don’t you think Miss Arden had wit enough to provide for that?”
exclaimed Mr. Yale, the jeweler, who happened to overhear this remark.
“Do you see that little flag beside the blue one? Well, that is intended
to represent the prize. If you are fortunate enough to capture that, you
can fly the blue pennant at your masthead.”
Miss Arden was right when she told her friends that she was sure that
the gallant fellows who belonged to the canoe club would work harder for
her flag than they would for a greasy pig. Every one of the boys who
stopped in front of Mr. Yale’s window that afternoon to look at the
prizes, told himself that if he did not win that flag it would be
because some lucky member walked off with it before he had a chance to
try for it.
During the next two weeks little or nothing happened in or about Mount
Airy that is worthy of note. A deputy sheriff and constable went down to
Sherwin’s Pond to arrest Matt Coyle, and, after a three days’ search
returned empty-handed. They found the place where the squatter had built
his shanty, but it was gone when they got there, and so were Matt and
his family. The authorities at Indian Lake were requested to keep a
look-out for him, but Matt was too old a criminal to be easily caught.
He and his boys offered themselves as guides to the guests of the
hotels, but when they were told that they were not wanted, they set
themselves to work to carry out the programme of which Matt had spoken
to Tom Bigden on the day he stole Joe Wayring’s canoe—that is, to break
up the business of guiding in the region about Indian Lake, and to make
the people who came there for recreation so sick of the woods that they
would never come there again. Whether or not they succeeded in their
object shall be told further on.
Tom Bigden and his cousins never knew how near they came to being
black-balled when their names were brought before the canoe club at its
next meeting. Prime and his friends were suspicious of Tom. The latter
kept away from the drug-store altogether; he and his cousins were often
seen in Joe Wayring’s company, and Prime said that looked as though Tom
wasn’t in earnest when he promised to assist in carrying out the
arrangements that had been made for defeating Joe and Arthur at the
coming canoe meet.
“I’ll vote for him,” said Prime, after Noble, Scott, and one or two
others had labored with him for a long time, “but if he plays us false,
as I really think he means to do, he can just hang up his fiddle, so far
as the Toxophilites are concerned. I’ll take pains to let Miss Arden and
the rest of the girls know that he and his cousins smoke and play
billiards and cards on the sly, and they’ll make dough of his cake in
short order.”
“The agony is over at last,” said Tom, after Joe Wayring and his
inseparable companions Arthur and Roy, who came over in the _Young
Republic_ the next morning to announce the result of the ballot, had
gone home again. “Bear in mind, now, that we are to stick to our
original programme and win if we can. If we find that we have no show,
and that the prizes must go to Wayring and his friends, or to Prime and
his followers, we’ll stand by Wayring every time. We’ll teach that
drug-store crowd that the next time they make up a slate they had better
put our names on it if they expect us to help them.”
It never occurred to Tom and his cousins that possibly Joe Wayring, and
all the other boys who believed that friendly trials of strength and
skill, like those that were to come off during the canoe meet, should be
fairly conducted, would not thank them for their interference. Joe had
warned all his friends that there were boys in the club who had been
“booked” to win by fair means or foul (of course he did not tell them
where he got his information), and they made some pretty shrewd guesses
as to who those boys were. Being forewarned they were forearmed, and
they did not want any help. Tom found it out on the day the races came
off.