OFF FOR INDIAN LAKE.
WHEN Joe Wayring beached his canoe below the boat-house, he was
immediately surrounded by his friends who were impatient to hear all
about it. They knew there had been a foul, for some of the laggards in
the race had seen it; but they could not tell how it had been brought
about, or who was to blame for it.
“It was Noble’s fault in the first place, and Tom Bigden’s in the
second,” said Joe, in response to their hurried inquiries. “It seems
that there are three ‘cliques’ in the club, one of which believes in
doing things fairly, while the other two do not. Loren Farnsworth was
‘booked’ by one of the cliques to win the paddle race, while Frank Noble
was the choice of the other. Each was determined that his opponent
should not win, and the result was most disgraceful—a deliberate
collision at the stake-boat in the presence of all these strangers. What
sort of a story will they carry back to the city about the Mount Airy
canoe club? Noble began the row by putting himself in Loren’s way and
Tom retaliated by capsizing Frank’s canoe and throwing him out into the
water.”
“Do you think he meant to do it?” inquired Hastings, who was far in the
lead at the time, and could not of course see what was going on behind
him.
“I know he did,” replied Joe, who then went on to give a circumstantial
account of the manner in which the fouling was done. The boys all
declared that it was a very neat trick, and one of them added—
“That Tom Bigden’s cheek is something wonderful. As soon as he had
backed out of Loren’s way and laid himself across the course so that we
couldn’t get by him without losing more ground than we could possibly
make up, he called out that he claimed foul on that. Did you ever hear
of such impudence?”
“Please give me your attention for one moment, gentlemen,” shouted the
president of the club; and Joe and his friends turned about to see the
referee perched upon a dry-goods box.
“Young gentlemen,” said he, as the boys gathered around him, “the
contestants in the paddle race will go over the course again this
afternoon, one hour after lunch. They will be the same as before, with
the exception of Frank Noble and Thomas Bigden, whom I am compelled to
bar out. It is exceedingly unpleasant to me to be obliged to render this
decision, but the rules under which your sports are conducted leave me
no alternative.”
“What do you think of that, fellows?” said Arthur Hastings. “If Bigden
isn’t satisfied now that he can’t run this club to suit his own ideas, I
shall always think he ought to be.”
“Well, Noble,” said Prime. “You’re done for at last. You are ruled out
of every thing. What are you going to do?”
“What are _you_ going to do?” asked Frank in reply.
“I? Nothing at all. What can I do?”
“You can go home with me, can’t you?”
“Eh? Well—yes; I suppose I could, but I don’t want to. The fun is only
just beginning.”
“And are you going to stay here and enjoy yourself and assist in making
the meet a success when one of your friends is barred out?” exclaimed
Noble, indignantly. “I didn’t think that of you, Prime. Why didn’t you
stay close to me so that you could put in a word to help me? You knew
what I was going to do.”
“I couldn’t stay close to you. Those fellows in the lead made the pace
so hot that I had to fall behind, and I didn’t see the foul when it
occurred.”
“No matter for that. You could have said something in my defense if you
had wanted to; but instead of standing by me, you left me to fight Joe
Wayring and the judge alone. Look there! Bigden’s cousins are not going
back on him as you are going back on me. Tom is preparing to go home,
and they are going with him.”
But Noble did not know what a stormy time Tom had with Loren and Ralph
before he could induce them to forego all the sports and pleasures of
the meet. Loren was particularly obstinate. He was satisfied now that he
was a pretty good hand with a double paddle, and confident that if any
of the three recognized champions beat him when the afternoon race came
off, they would have to make their canoes get through the water faster
than they ever did before. Then there was the upset race, which Ralph
was almost sure he could win, and the greasy pole walk, with Miss
Arden’s silk flag to go to the best man—must they give up all these
things just because Tom had been ruled out?
“What’s the reason I am ruled out?” exclaimed Tom, who was as mad as a
boy ever gets to be. “Isn’t it because I tried my best to help Loren win
the paddle race? I tell you that you don’t stand the least show of
winning any thing; but stay if you want to.”
Ralph and Loren were well enough acquainted with Tom to know that there
was a volume of meaning in his last words. If they braved his anger they
would be sure to suffer for it in the end, and if Tom turned against
them, where could they look for friends and associates? Prime and his
followers would not have any thing more to do with them; Joe Wayring,
unless he was as blind as a bat, had seen quite enough to make him
suspicious of them; and when they came to look at it, they found that
they were in a very unenviable situation.
“I’d give almost any thing if I could live the last half hour over
again,” declared Loren, after he had taken a few minutes in which to
consider the matter. “We’ve made Noble and his crowd so mad that they’ll
never look at us again, Tom is just as good as expelled from the club,
and we may as well give up all hope of being admitted to the
Toxophilites. We’re at outs with every body, and the only thing we can
do is to stand by one another.”
Ralph thought so, too. Without wasting any more time in argument they
put on their long coats to cover up the uniforms they would probably
never wear again, shoved off their canoes, and set out for home; and no
one except Frank Noble saw them go. The other members of the club were
too much interested in their own affairs to pay any attention to the
movements of a boy who had gone deliberately to work to mar their day’s
enjoyment.
“Tom’s got two fellows to stand by him, but I am left alone,” thought
Noble, with no little bitterness in his heart. “Prime and the rest of
them pretend to hate Wayring and his crowd, and yet they are willing to
stay and help on the sports after I have been kicked out of the lists.
For two cents I’d hunt up Wayring and tell him to look out for Scott and
Lord.”
But he didn’t do it. He knew that such a proceeding would turn every
body against him, and he had made enemies enough already. Without
attracting attention he got into his canoe and paddled down to his
boat-house.
The unfortunate ending of the paddle race had a most depressing effect
upon the members of the canoe club, some of whom declared that their
organization was on the eve of falling to pieces. After that every thing
“dragged”. The whole programme was duly carried out, but the contestants
did not enter into the sports with their usual spirit and energy. Scott
and Lord, who were “booked” for the sailing and upset races,
respectively, won nothing at all. They could not win fairly, and the
promptness with which Tom and Frank had been ruled out deterred them
from attempting any tricks. Arthur Hastings won the paddle race after a
hard struggle; Joe Wayring, being the first to walk the greasy pole,
carried off Miss Arden’s silk flag; and Roy for once went home as empty
handed as he came, the sailing and upset races being won by other boys.
But Roy wasn’t mad about it, as some of the unsuccessful ones were. He
had come there for a “good time”, and he had it; and his failure to win
a prize did not spoil his day’s sport.
After the spectators had gone back to their hotels and all the members
of the club had set out for home, the three chums sat down in the
boat-house to compare notes.
“I am glad it’s over,” said Roy, giving expression to the thoughts that
were passing through the minds of his companions. “It was the meanest
meet I ever heard of. I wouldn’t have had that affair at the stake-boat
happen for any thing. Those visitors from New London will say that we
are as bad as the professional oarsmen who saw their boats, and capsize
themselves on purpose.”
“Well, you expected something of the kind, didn’t you?” said Joe. “I
did. When Bigden told me that there were certain boys in the club who
had been ‘booked’ to win certain races, I was sure that Prime had a
finger in the pie, and that the reason Tom told me about it was because
he had got mad at him or some member of his party. The events of the day
have proved that I was right. In making up the slate, Prime and his
friends either forgot or refused to give any of the races to Tom and his
cousins, and that was what caused the trouble.”
“Well, it’s some satisfaction to know that they will never have a chance
to cause us any more trouble,” said Arthur. “They will withdraw from the
club, of course.”
“I think there’s no doubt about that,” said Joe. “I know that that is
what I should do if I were in their place. As Tom Bigden said: ‘What’s
the use of belonging to a club if you are not allowed to take part in
the contests?’ I am of the opinion that they will band together and get
up a club of their own. Now let’s talk about something else. To-morrow
we start for Indian Lake.”
This was a much more agreeable topic of conversation than the canoe
meet, and they talked about it until the lengthening shadows admonished
Arthur and Roy that it was time for them to set out for their homes.
Indian Lake was a favorite place of resort for the Mount Airy sportsmen,
and for these three boys in particular. They went there regularly every
summer. The country about the village was not wild enough to suit them,
and besides the trout streams were so constantly fished by the New
London anglers, that they were beginning to show signs of giving out.
Joe and his friends were so well acquainted with the lake that they
never thought of taking a guide when they went there for recreation.
They went everywhere that a guide could take them, and with no fear of
being lost. They were joint partners in a skiff, which they had fitted
up with special reference to these annual trips—a strong, easy running
craft, so light that it could be carried over the portages without any
great outlay of strength, and so roomy that the boys could sleep in it
without being crowded. It was provided with lockers fore and aft, in
which the owners carried their extra clothing, provisions and camp
equipage, an awning to keep off the sun and a water-proof tent which
would keep them dry, no matter how hard the rain came down. With this
boat a journey of a hundred miles—that was the distance between Mount
Airy and Indian Lake, and there was a navigable water-course almost all
the way—was looked upon as a pleasure trip. The boys would have been
astonished if they had known what was to be the result of this
particular visit to the lake.
That night there were three busy young fellows in Mount Airy, who were
packing up and getting ready for an early start on the following
morning. If you could have seen their things after they got them
together, you might have been surprised to see that there was not a
single fowling-piece among them. What was the use of taking guns into
the woods during the “close” season—that is, while the game was
protected by law? But each boy took with him a weapon which, in his
hands, was almost as deadly as a shot gun is in the hands of an ordinary
marksman—a long bow with its accompanying quiver full of arrows. The law
permitted them to shoot loons—if they could. At any rate it was sport to
try, and to see the lightning-like movements of the bird as it went
under water at the twang of the bow-string.
“There’s one thing about your outfit that doesn’t look just right,” said
Uncle Joe, pointing to the heavy bait-rod which his nephew placed in the
corner beside his long bow. “The idea of catching trout with a thing
like that, and worms for bait! Before you go into the woods again I will
see that you have a nice light fly-rod.”
“But I can’t throw a fly,” said Joe.
“Well, you can learn, can’t you?”
Joe said he thought he could, and there the matter rested for a whole
year.
The next morning at four o’clock Joe Wayring was sitting on the wharf in
front of the boat-house, watching Arthur Hastings, who was coming up the
lake in the skiff. When he arrived Joe passed down to him two cases, one
containing his long bow and quiver, the other his bait-rod and dip-net,
a bundle of blankets, a soldier’s knapsack with a change of clothing in
it, and the contents of a big market basket. The basket itself was left
on the wharf, because it would have taken up too much valuable space in
the lockers. Mars, the Newfoundlander, begged to go, too, and growled
spitefully at Arthur’s little cocker spaniel, which growled defiantly
back at him from his safe perch on the stern locker. Jim (that was the
spaniel’s name), always went on these expeditions as body-guard and
sentinel. He seemed to have a deep sense of the responsibility that
rested upon him, and the arrogant and overbearing manner in which he
conducted himself toward strangers, proved that he considered himself to
be of some consequence in the world. He was a featherweight and took up
but little room; while the Newfoundlander’s huge bulk would have been
sadly in their way. They might as well have added another boy to the
party.
Having stowed his supplies and equipments away in the lockers, Joe
picked up an oar and assisted Arthur to pull the skiff up to Mr.
Sheldon’s boat-house, where they found Roy waiting for them. He soon
transferred himself and his belongings from the wharf to the cock-pit,
and then the skiff went at a rapid rate across the lake toward the
river, the boys chanting a boat song as they steadily plied the oars.
They paused a moment at the head of the rapids, and as they gazed at
them, Arthur said—
“How do you suppose Matt Coyle ever succeeded in getting that big heavy
punt of his down there? I wouldn’t make the passage in her for all the
money there is in Mount Airy.”
“It’s a wonder to me that he didn’t smash her all to pieces,” said Joe.
“She’s in Sherwin’s Pond now, I suppose, and there she will have to
stay, for there is no way to get her out. I wonder what Matt has done
with my canoe?”
“Oh, he has snagged and sunk her before this time,” replied Roy,
consolingly. “I wonder what he has done with the rod he stole from me?”
“Some black bass has smashed it for him most likely,” said Arthur. “At
any rate you will never handle it again.”
The boys had from the first given up all hope of ever recovering their
lost property. The deputy sheriff and constable, stimulated to extra
exertion by the offer of a large reward by the Mount Airy authorities,
had scoured the woods in every direction in search of the thief, but
their efforts had met with no success. They found the site of Matt’s
shanty, as we have said, but the shanty itself had disappeared. So had
Matt and his family, and the officers could not get upon their trail.
Perhaps if we go back to the day on which Matt stole Joe Wayring’s canoe
and follow his fortunes for a short time, we shall see what the reason
was.
When the squatter picked up Joe’s double paddle and shoved away from the
shore, after taking possession of all the fishing rods and bundles that
he could lay his hand on, he told himself that he had done something
toward paying off the Mount Airy people for the shameful manner in which
they had treated him and his family.
“They wouldn’t let us stay up there to the village an’ earn an honest
livin’, like we wanted to do,” said Matt, with a chuckle, “an’ now I’ll
show ’em how much they made by it. Them things must be wuth a power of
money,” he went on, looking down at the elegant rods which he had
unjointed and laid on the bottom of the canoe, “an’ I reckon mebbe we’ve
got grub enough to last us fur a day or two—good grub, too, sich as
don’t often come into our house less’n we hooks it. This is a powerful
nice little boat, this canoe is, an’ now we’ll go up to Injun Lake, an’
me an’ the boys will set up fur independent guides. If they won’t have
us there, we’ll bust up the business.”
While communing thus with himself the squatter did not neglect to ply
his paddle vigorously, nor to look over his shoulder now and then to
satisfy himself that his rascality had not yet been discovered. But Joe
and his companions spent fully half an hour in roaming about through the
woods, looking for the bear and shooting squirrels for their dinner, and
when they came out, Matt was nowhere in sight. He had crossed the pond,
and was urging the canoe up a narrow winding creek toward his
habitation. With a caution which had become a part of his nature, he had
concealed his place of abode so effectually that a fleet of canoeists
might have passed up the creek without knowing that there was a shanty
within less than a stone’s throw of them. The only visible sign that any
body had ever been in the creek was a disreputable looking punt, with a
stove and battered bow, which was drawn out upon the bank. She had had a
hard time of it in getting through the rapids, and it was a mystery how
Matt had saved himself from a capsize, and kept his miserable old craft
afloat until he could get her up the creek. She had carried the squatter
and all his worldly possessions for many a long mile on Indian Lake and
its tributary streams, but her days of usefulness were over now. Her
trip down the rapids was the last she ever made. She was in Sherwin’s
Pond and there she must stay.
“Hi, there!” yelled Matt, as he ran the bow of the canvas canoe upon the
bank.
An answering yelp came from the bushes, and presently Matt’s wife and
boys came hurrying out. They would not have expressed the least surprise
if the squatter had come back with as many turkeys or chickens as he
could conveniently carry, because they were accustomed to such things;
but to see him in possession of a nice little canoe, five silver mounted
fishing rods and as many big bundles, excited their astonishment.
“Where did you get ’em, old man, an’ what’s into them there bundles?”
was the woman’s whispered inquiry.
“I got ’em up there in the pond clost to the foot of the rapids,”
answered Matt, gleefully. “I’ll learn them rich fellers up to Mount Airy
to treat a gentleman right the next time they see one. We’re jest as
good as they be if we are poor.”
“Course we be,” said Jake, Matt’s oldest boy. “What’s them there
things—fish poles? I want one of ’em.”
“All right. You an’ Sam take your pick, an’ we’ll sell the rest. If you
see a feller that is needin’ a pole, you can tell him that you know
where he can get one worth the money.”
“About how much?” queried Jake.
“Wal,” said Matt, reflectively, “them poles must have cost nigh onto
five dollars; but seein’ that they’re second hand we will have to take a
leetle less fur ’em—say two an’ a half.”
“An’ how much be them there things with the cranks onto ’em wuth?” asked
Sam.
“’Bout the same. You tell the feller, when you find him, that he can
have a pole an’ a windlass fur five dollars.”
This showed how much the squatter knew about some things. There wasn’t a
rod in the lot that cost less than twenty dollars, or a reel that was
worth less than thirteen. Matt would have thought himself rich if he had
known the real value of the property he had in his possession.
“What’s into them there bundles?” demanded the old woman.
“Grub,” answered Matt. “Good grub, too.”
In less time than it takes to tell it, the bundles had been jerked out
of the canoe and torn open. Matt’s family was always hungry, and his
wife and boys fairly gloated over the hard boiled eggs, bacon, sardines,
sandwiches and other nice things which the boys’ thoughtful mothers had
put up for their dinner.
“Rich folks has nice grub to eat, don’t they?” said Jake, speaking as
plainly as a mouthful of bread and meat would permit.
“Yes; an’ we’ll soon be in a fix to have nice things, too,” said Matt,
confidently. “I’ve got a boat of my own now, an’ I’m goin’ to Injun Lake
an’ set myself up fur a guide.”
“But, pap, they drove us away from there once,” exclaimed Jake. “They
was jest like the Mount Airy folks—they didn’t want us around.”
“Don’t I know it?” cried Matt, laying down his sandwich long enough to
shake both his fists in the air. “But they won’t drive us away again, I
bet you, ’cause it’ll be wuss for ’em if they try it. I’ll kick up sich
a rumpus in them woods that every body will steer cl’ar of ’em; then
what’ll become of them big hotels when they ain’t got no custom to
support ’em? I reckon we’d best be gettin’ away from here this very
night. I’m in a hurry to get to guidin’ so’t I can make some money
before the season’s over, an’ besides I kinder want to get outen the way
of that there constable. He’ll be along directly, lookin’ fur these
things, an’ I don’t care to see him.”
“What’ll we do with the house?” asked the old woman. “We can’t tote it
cl’ar to the lake on our backs.”
“Course not. We’ll burn it an’ the punt, too. They won’t never be of no
more use, ’cause ’taint no ways likely that we shall ever come here
agin’, an’ we ain’t goin’ to leave ’em fur them Mount Airy fellers to
use when they come to the pond huntin’ an’ fishin’.”
The squatter need not have borrowed trouble on this score. There was not
a hunter or a fisherman in the village who could have been induced to
occupy his shanty or use his punt, for, like their owners, they were
things to be avoided. But Matt and his family seemed to think that they
would be accommodating somebody if they left them there, and the order
to destroy them by fire was carried out as soon as they had eaten the
last of the stolen provisions.
While his wife was engaged in removing the bedding and cooking utensils,
and tying them in small bundles so that they could be easily carried,
and the boys were at work hauling the punt out of the water and turning
it up against the house so that the two would burn together, Matt busied
himself in putting the rods into their cases; after which he walked
around the canvas canoe and gave it a good looking over. Tom Bigden had
told him that if he didn’t want to carry the canoe on his back, he could
take it to pieces and carry it in his hand as he would a gripsack; but
the trouble was, Matt did not know how to go to work to take it apart.
Every thing fitted snugly, and he could not find any place to begin. The
only parts of it that he could move were the bottom boards; and when he
had taken them out, the frame-work of the canoe was as solid as ever. He
spent a quarter of a hour in unavailing efforts to start something, and
then giving it up as a task beyond his powers, he decided that the only
thing he could do was to carry it as he would carry any other canoe. A
less experienced man would have shrunk from the undertaking. It was
fully twenty miles to the river which connected the two lakes, and the
course lay through a dense forest where there was not even the semblance
of a path. But there was no other way to get the canoe to Indian Lake.
Meanwhile, Matt’s wife and boys had worked to such good purpose that
every thing was ready for the start. Each one had a bundle to carry, and
the boys had set fire to a quantity of light wood which they had piled
in the middle of the shanty. They lingered long enough to see the fire
fairly started, and then turned their faces hopefully toward Indian
Lake, the old woman leading the way, and Matt bringing up the rear with
the canvas canoe on his back.