THE HISTORIAN CONCLUDES HIS NARRATIVE.
“WHOOP-EE!” yelled Matt Coyle, dancing about on the bank in high glee.
“That was a good shot. Lookout! Here comes another that’s goin’ to send
some of you to keep company with the purp. I reckon we’ve got you whar
we want you this time, cause the taters is all on our side the creek.”
As the squatter spoke a second club left his hand, being thrown with so
much force and accuracy that if the boys had not been on the alert, some
and perhaps all of them would have been knocked overboard, for the
missile was almost as long as the cock-pit, and as it came through the
air with a rotary motion, it covered space enough to hit all their heads
at once. This was the signal for a perfect shower of clubs. Every one of
the family had two or more, which were thrown as rapidly as they could
be changed from one hand to the other, and Joe and his chums were kept
so busy dodging them, that they could not find opportunity to return the
fire. But when the squatter and his allies had thrown all their clubs
without effect, and thus disarmed themselves, the boys sprang to their
feet and opened their battery. The first potato Roy threw took Jake
square in the mouth, bringing forth another series of doleful yells from
that unlucky young ruffian, and the second put the old woman’s right arm
in a sling for a week. At the same moment Arthur wiped out the insult
that had been put upon Jim by taking Matt a whack under the eye that
raised a lump as large as a hen’s egg.
“Whoop-ee!” shouted Joe Wayring, as a potato from his own hand struck
Sam’s tattered cap from his head. “That was a bully shot. Look out! Here
comes another. We ain’t got no taters on this side of the creek, I
reckon.”
The fusillade that followed was a hot one, and the squatter and his
family, finding that they could not stand against it, beat a hasty
retreat into the bushes. Then Arthur turned to assist Jim, who had been
making desperate but unavailing efforts to climb into the skiff. He
wasn’t hurt at all, but he was very mad.
The plucky boys were not called upon to defend themselves. Matt Coyle
made an attempt to secure the provisions, but went back with an aching
head and a bloody nose, and the three chums saw no more of him that
summer. But they heard him. From his place of concealment in the bushes
the squatter and his wife abused them roundly, and shouted at them
threats that were enough to frighten almost any body.
The boys caught a fine string of trout, cooked and ate breakfast in
peace, and then kept on up the creek toward the pond. As soon as they
were out of range, Matt and his family came from their hiding-places
after the potatoes and bacon; but they made no demonstration beyond
showing the boys their fists and swearing at them.
After that things went smoothly with Joe and his companions. They
thoroughly enjoyed their outing, and when it was ended they went home
with a new lease of life, and with brains invigorated to such degrees
that they were ready to grapple with any thing that might come before
them during the school term, which was to begin on the following Monday.
During the year affairs in Mount Airy moved along in much the same way
that they do in every little village which can boast of a popular high
school and rival organizations of almost every kind. After the canoe
meet, the line was sharply drawn between the two opposing factions. They
did not come to open warfare, but they were intensely hostile, and a
very little thing would have precipitated a fight between Joe Wayring
and his friends on one side, and Noble, Scott, Prime and Tom Bigden and
his cousins on the other; for the latter did not long remain at swords’
points with the boys who made their head-quarters at the drug-store.
They had a stormy time when they first came together, and Tom announced
his readiness to thrash all the boys who had interfered with Loren
during the paddle race, provided they would come one at a time; but
Prime and a few others exerted themselves to bring order out of the
confusion, and through their efforts Tom was elected president of the
new canoe club which was organized at once. But that did not satisfy
him. If he could have had his own way in the matter, he would have
preferred to be a respected member of the other club without any office
at all. Besides, Prime and his friends could not forget that Tom, a
new-comer, had deliberately “booked” himself and his cousins for all the
best races, in utter disregard of the rights of those who ought to have
been allowed to win. They never quite forgave him for that, and there
was not that harmony in the new club that there ought to have been in
order to insure its prosperity. Tom was also elected short-stop in
Prime’s ball-club, and in the first match game that was played, had the
gratification of putting out Joe Wayring and Arthur Hastings every time
they went to the bat. That did Tom more good than any thing he had
accomplished since he came to Mount Airy, although he did feel rather
mean when Joe and Arthur complimented him on his swift and accurate
throwing.
At the next meeting of the Toxophilites many vacancies were made by the
resignation of boys who knew that they stood a fine chance of being
expelled for what they had done at the canoe meet, and by the voluntary
withdrawal of a number of others, who preferred Prime’s company and
Noble’s to the companionship of fellows who were willing to be ruled by
a lot of girls.
In the new club, of which Loren Farnsworth was chosen secretary, there
were no restrictions laid upon cribbage, cigars and billiards, and so
very good-natured was the master bowman, that he did not even object to
pipes when his men were drilling in the ranks. But he insisted on prompt
and regular attendance at all the meetings, because he wanted his
company to march in the procession on the next 4th of July.
“Say, captain,” exclaimed Tom Bigden one night after the long, fatiguing
drill was over. “We had forty men in line to-night, and I think we went
through the school of the company in a very creditable way, if some of
us are green. Couldn’t we get up a street parade just to show the
Toxophilites that some folks can do things as well as others?”
The captain was Frank Noble, and a very good drill-master he had proved
himself to be; although he was hardly strict enough to suit a veteran,
seeing that he permitted his men to smoke in the ranks.
“I have been thinking about that,” replied the captain, as the young
archers gathered about him after putting their long bows away in the
lockers. “But I think it would be better to wait awhile. It will not be
long before the lake will be frozen over, and then we will give an
exhibition drill on the ice. What’s the matter with that?”
“Nothing,” shouted all the boys. “It’s the very thing.”
“Well, then, in order to accustom ourselves to the movements and
evolutions, let every fellow bring his rollers next Thursday night, and
we will see what we can do with them.”
The boys thought it the best thing they had ever heard of, but Scott had
a suggestion to make.
“Why can’t we rent the rink for a few nights?” said he. “This armory is
hardly large enough, and besides, the floor isn’t as smooth as it might
be.”
“We could engage the rink, of course,” replied the captain. “But if we
do, the Toxophilites will find out what is going on, and we don’t want
them to know any thing about it.”
“Why, as to that, they are bound to know about it,” said Tom. “We can’t
keep it from them. You know what a fearful noise rollers make, don’t
you?”
“Well, we can’t help that,” answered Frank. “If we do our drilling here,
they can’t look through the windows and see what we are about, as they
could if we drilled at the rink. Now, if you want to go into this, you
must be on hand every night. I will promise to get you in fine trim by
the time the ice is in condition, if you will only attend to business.”
“I wonder if we couldn’t get up a competitive drill with the
Toxophilites?” said Loren.
“Not much,” replied Prime, with a laugh. “There are too many raw
recruits among us.”
“We’ll wait and give them a pull for something at the next canoe meet,”
said Tom.
“You don’t expect to enter for any of the prizes next summer, do you?”
“Of course I do,” replied Tom, “and so do my cousins. We have sent to
New London for a rowing machine, and intend to keep up our practice all
winter.”
“You might as well make kindling wood of that rowing machine when it
comes to hand, for it will not do you any good as far as winning a prize
from Joe Wayring is concerned,” said Scott. “You can’t race with him.”
“I’ll see how that is,” answered Tom, who was thinking about one thing
while Scott was thinking about another. “I was under the impression that
when our new club was organized, it was the sentiment of the members
that we were to challenge their best men for every thing. Before we can
do that, it will be necessary to have a series of trial races among
ourselves in order to determine who stand the best chance of winning,
and I calculate to be one of the select few.”
“I believe some of the fellows did speak about that, but it was all
talk,” said Captain Noble. “You see, Tom, you and I have been ruled out
of every thing by the referee’s decision on the day of the meet, and you
don’t suppose that our friends here are going to take part in sports
that we can’t have a hand in, do you? Haven’t we promised to stand by
one another?”
“Oh,” said Tom, “I didn’t know what Scott meant, but I understand the
matter now. The others won’t compete because you and I can’t. I am glad
to hear it.”
“Of course we are not barred out of any thing except the sports that
take place during the canoe meet,” added Prime. “We can play ball or
lawn tennis or polo with them. We can send a team to beat them at target
shooting, and we can enter our sail-boats for prizes in the regatta; but
I, for one, don’t care to. I’ve had quite enough of that crowd, and
think we can see all the fun we want among ourselves.”
“I think so, too,” said Tom. “I don’t care for their old canoe club, but
I should really like to see the Toxophilites go to pieces. I’d see Joe
Wayring happy before he should come into this club with my vote.”
If Tom Bigden could have stepped across the street and up the stairs
that led to the neatly furnished armory and drill-room in which the
Toxophilites were at that moment sitting down to an oyster supper that
some of the new members had provided for them, he would, perhaps, have
been very much disappointed to discover that the organization he hated
so cordially because he could not get into it, was not only in no danger
of falling to pieces, but that it was stronger than it had ever been
before. The vacancies occasioned by the resignation of Frank Noble and
his friends, had been promptly filled by good fellows, who had waited
long and patiently for an opportunity to send in their names. More than
that (and this was something that made Tom and his cousins very angry
when they found it out), the constitution had been amended so that the
membership could be increased to a hundred. The Toxophilites were
determined that the Mount Airy Scouts (that was the name of the new
club), should not beat them if they could help it; but still they did
not take in every one who applied for admission, as the Scouts did.
During the winter Tom Bigden and his cousins, who grew more vindictive
and unreasonable in their hatred as time progressed, waged a secret but
incessant warfare upon Joe Wayring and his two chums. They coaxed Mars
from the post-office to the drug-store, and sent him home with a tin can
tied to his tail. They practiced with their long bows at Roy Sheldon’s
fan-tail and tumbler pigeons as often as the birds ventured over to
their side of the lake. They went across on their skates one night, and
overturned the _Young Republic_, which Joe had hauled out on the beach
and housed for the winter; and they even thought seriously of setting
fire to his boat-house, believing that the blame would be laid upon Matt
Coyle, who was known to be trapping somewhere in the mountains. Joe knew
who it was that insulted Mars and shot at the pigeons and disturbed his
sail-boat; but when he saw by the marks on the door of the boat-house
that somebody had been trying to pull out the staple that held the hasp,
he told his chums that he had wronged Tom and his cousins by his
suspicions, and that the squatter was the culprit after all. Beyond a
doubt Matt wanted to regain possession of the canvas canoe; and in order
to save his property, Joe shouldered it one morning and took it up to
his room.
The attentive reader, if I am so fortunate as to have one, will bear in
mind that all I have thus far written is but a repetition of the story
the canvas canoe told me on that bright afternoon when I was first
introduced to him and to the other merry fellows—the long bows, the
snow-shoes and the toboggan—who found a home in Joe Wayring’s room. In
concluding his interesting narrative the canoe said:
“Now, Fly-rod, you know every thing of importance that has happened
since Tom Bigden and his cousins first stuck their quarrelsome noses
inside Mount Airy. As I said at the start, it was necessary that you
should hear the story, or else you would be at a loss to account for a
good many things that may happen to you sooner or later. I have an idea
that you are a good sort, and hope we shall pass many pleasant hours in
each other’s company.”
I thanked the canoe for his kind wishes and for the story he had taken
so much pains to tell me, and inquired how he had managed to live
through the long winter that had just passed.
“Oh, I did well enough,” was his reply. “In the first place, the long
bows and I had much to talk about, and in the next, Joe often brings Roy
and Arthur up here to spend an evening; and as they have traveled a good
deal, they are never at a loss for some interesting topic of
conversation. More than that, Joe and his uncle went off hunting last
December, and when they returned, they brought with them those conceited
things over there—the snow-shoes and toboggan—who being from another
country, think they are a trifle better than any body else. But, after
all, I have found them to be very companionable fellows, and if you can
only get them started (like all Englishmen, they are inclined to be
surly at first), they can tell you some things about shooting and
trapping that are well worth listening to.”
“Do you know what the programme is for the summer?” I asked, being
somewhat anxious to learn what I had to look forward to. “Where are we
going and what are we going to do?”
“Well, seeing that this is April, it will not be summer for three months
to come,” replied the canoe. “But you need not expect to remain idle any
longer than next Saturday. You and I will probably be employed in making
short trips about the village until school closes for the long vacation.
Immediately after the canoe meet, which in future will be held on the
3rd of July, so that the members of the club can have the whole of the
vacation to themselves, you and Joe will go up to Indian Lake—”
“But Matt Coyle is up there,” I interrupted.
“Suppose he is!” retorted the canvas canoe. “Do you think that Joe
Wayring is going to be kept away from his favorite fishing grounds just
because that outlaw has chosen to take up his abode there! You don’t
know Joe. He’ll go, you may be sure, and after he gets there, he’ll give
you a chance to show what you can do with a five pound trout.”
“Why can’t you go?” I inquired. I had already learned to like my new
friend, who had shown himself to be so good-natured and so ready to tell
me any thing I wanted to know, and I thought I would rather have him for
company than any body else.
“It is possible that I may go, but I haven’t heard any thing said about
it. I should think I might be of some use to Joe and I would not be at
all in his way.”
“But what if that squatter should steal you again? I suppose you didn’t
fare very well while you were in his hands.”
“Oh, I fared well enough,” replied the canoe, who seemed to have a happy
faculty of accommodating himself to circumstances. “But I didn’t like
the company I was obliged to keep, I tell you. Whenever Matt Coyle or
his boys took me out on the water, I would have been only too glad to
spill them out if I could have done it. I felt particularly savage on
the night Jake used me in making his raid on that old guide’s
potato-patch and smoke-house. When I saw the skiff coming after me,
wouldn’t I have laughed if I had possessed the power? I knew that Jake
was going to run me on to that snag, and when I was settling to the
bottom, I told myself that Joe would never leave me there. I wasn’t hurt
at all. I was easily mended with rosin and tallow and a piece of canvas,
and am just as good as I ever was; although I confess that I look like a
boy who has been in a fight and has to wear a patch over his eye.”
“How did the squatter make the journey from his shanty to the creek in
which Joe found you?”
“Well, he carried me on his back from the pond to the river. It took him
two days to do it, for I hindered him all I could by catching hold of
every limb and bush that came within my reach. When we got to the river,
Matt loaded me to the water’s edge with his household goods (you will
know how I shrank from contact with them when I tell you that the
blankets and quilts were so begrimed with smoke and dirt that Mars could
not be hired to sleep on them), and then one of the boys got in and
paddled me down the stream while the squatter and the rest of his family
stumbled along the bank. Matt was afraid to make his camp anywhere near
Indian Lake, because he knew that the guides would be very likely to
burn or otherwise destroy every thing he had, as they did once before;
so he turned up the creek, and hunted around until he found a place that
suited him. It was in a secluded glen, about a quarter of a mile from
the creek. He set his boys to work to build a lean-to, which would
afford them some sort of shelter until they could provide a better
covering for their heads, and started out with his rifle to get
something to eat. During his rambles he found a smoke-house and
potato-patch which he thought could be easily robbed, and as soon as he
came home, he sent Jake out on that thieving expedition which resulted
disastrously to him, for he lost his plunder and me into the bargain. I
assure you I was glad to find myself among friends once more. Why, have
you any idea what that villain meant to do? He was going to make a
pirate of me. He intended, first, to offer himself as guide for the
hotels, and if they wouldn’t take him, he intended to follow the guests
and their guides along the water courses, and rob every camp that he
found unprotected. That’s the kind of fellow Matt Coyle is. He ought to
be abolished.”
“What became of the fishing-rods he stole at the time he ran off with
you?”
“Well, they had worse treatment than I did, because they were not as
useful as I was. They have been left out in the rain and abused in
various ways, until they don’t look much as they did when the squatter
first got his ugly hands upon them. I doubt very much if their owners
would have recognized them if they could have seen them the last time I
did.”
“Will our trip to Indian Lake last all summer?” I asked.
“Oh, no; only about two weeks. After that, we shall be packed off on a
long journey, either East or West, I don’t know which, and neither did
Joe the last time I heard him say any thing about it. You see, Uncle Joe
Wayring owns large tracks of timber land in Maine and Michigan. He wants
to see them both, for he has learned that thieves are at work in both
places; but he hasn’t yet made up his mind which he wants to see the
more. When he does he will tell Joe, and then we shall find out where we
are going.”
There were a good many other questions that I wanted to ask my
communicative friend, but before I could speak again a merry whistle
sounded in the hall below, and somebody ascended the stairs three at a
time. Then I knew that my master had finished his sail on the lake, and
was coming up to his room to get ready for supper. He threw the door
open with a bang, school-boy fashion, and walking straight up to me took
me from my case and gave me a good looking over. He seemed as delighted
as a youngster with his first pair of red top boots; but I was somewhat
chagrined to learn that he did not have a very exalted opinion of my
capabilities.
“That’s a very fine rod, no doubt; but I expect to break him into a
dozen pieces before I have had him a month. A two pound trout will give
him more than he wants to do.”
What else Joe was going to say about me I never knew; for just then the
supper bell rang, and he made all haste to put me back in my case. After
a hasty toilet he bolted out of the room with the same noise and racket
he made when he came in, and I was at liberty to continue my
conversation with the canvas canoe. As usual, that useful and talkative
individual spoke first.
“What is your opinion of a boy who can deliberately persecute a fellow
like that?” said he.
“He ought to receive the same punishment you want meted out to Matt
Coyle; he ought to be abolished,” I replied. “But Joe doesn’t appear to
think much of me.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” said the canoe, encouragingly. “You will
not wonder at it when you have made the acquaintance of his bait-rod—if
you ever do; I mean the one that was stolen from him. He’s a big heavy
fellow, and strong enough to jerk a four pound black bass from the water
without any nonsense. You can’t do that, and Joe isn’t certain that he
can handle you. He doesn’t distrust you any more than he distrusts
himself. There’s one thing I forgot to tell you,” added the canoe, “and
that is, if any misfortune befalls you, you can lay it to Tom Bigden. I
heard enough during my short captivity to satisfy me that he was the
chap who put it into Matt’s head to steal Joe’s property. Matt is bad
enough, goodness knows; but the advice Tom Bigden gave him made him
worse. That is one of the secrets of which I spoke at the beginning of
my story, and it troubles me all the time. I am sure that if I could
talk to Joe about five minutes, I should feel easier; but that’s
something I can’t do.”
At my request the historian then went on to tell of other interesting
and exciting incidents in Joe Wayring’s life, but as they have no
bearing with my own exploits and adventures I omit them now, although
they may appear at some future period. By the time he grew weary of
talking it was ten o’clock, and darkness had settled down over the room;
but just as I was composing myself for the night, the door opened and
Joe Wayring came in. Making good his boast, that if folks would let his
property alone, he could find any thing he wanted on the darkest of
nights and without the aid of a lamp, Joe caught up the creel with one
hand, seized me with the other, and carrying us both down-stairs,
deposited us on the kitchen table beside something that was covered with
a snow-white cloth. Then he busied himself for a few minutes about the
stove, getting kindling and light wood together so that a fire could be
readily started; and after I had watched his movements for a while, I
made up my mind that a campaign of some sort was in prospect. When he
took the light and went out I said to the creel:
“Do you happen to know what day this is?”
“It’s Friday,” he replied. “To-morrow will be Saturday, and I should
judge by the looks of things, that we are going to make our first trip
after trout.”
Do you know by experience how a youngster feels when he is about to be
called up before a hundred or more critical school mates to recite his
little piece beginning—
“You’d scarce expect a boy like me
To get up here where all can see,
And make a speech as well as those
Who wear the largest kind of clothes.”
Do you know how he feels? Well, that’s way I felt.