AN EXPLOIT AND A SURPRISE.
AS I could not comply with my friend’s invitation to “come on”, I was
obliged to wait until Joe had exchanged his heavy boots for the buckskin
moccasins he always wore whenever he went anywhere with the canoe. This
being done, we pushed away from the skiff, and moved leisurely up the
pond toward the perch hole, Joe whistling merrily as he plied the
paddle. I do not think he was quite so light-hearted when he came back.
Half an hour’s paddling sufficed to bring us to our destination. If I
hadn’t heard Joe say that the perch hole was located in the mouth of a
creek, I should not have known it, for it looked to me more like an arm
of the pond which set back into the land. When I was taken from my case,
after the anchor had been dropped overboard, I took note of the fact
that one could not see more than twenty or thirty feet up the creek, a
high wooded point limiting the range of vision in that direction. I
didn’t know at the time why I observed this, but I thought of it
afterward.
Joe made his first cast with a scarlet ibis, and the result was
surprising to both of us. The fish that took the lure did not give much
of a bite—I have known a half-pound trout to seize the bait with more
vim than he did—but when Joe fastened the hook with a scientific twist
of his wrist, I couldn’t have doubled up quicker if he had caught a log.
“Scotland’s a burning! what’s that?” exclaimed Joe, speaking so rapidly
that the words seemed to come out all at once. “I declare, it’s a bass,”
he added a moment later, as the green and bronze side of the beautiful
captive could be seen for an instant just under the surface of the
water. “I wish he was at the bottom of the pond, for he’ll break my rod
and I’ll have no more fishing this trip.”
But Joe did not give up because he thought he was going to be worsted in
the fight. He brought into play all the skill of which he was master,
and after an exciting struggle of fully half an hour’s duration, caught
up the landing net and hauled into the canoe the largest thing in the
shape of a fish I had seen up to that time. He was killed at once, the
pocket scales were brought into use, and the weight of the “catch” was
written down in Joe’s note-book.
“Whew?” panted the boy, pulling out his handkerchief and wiping the big
drops of perspiration from his forehead. “If that wasn’t a tough battle
I wouldn’t say so. I never supposed that little rod could catch a fish
like this. Hello, here! It’s getting dark already. I know the fellows
will laugh at me for coming back with a single fish, but I don’t believe
they will be able to show one that will weigh more.”
Joe jumped to his feet as he spoke, and made all haste to put me away in
my case. He stood with his face to the pond while he worked, and
consequently he did not see what I did. My attention was first called to
it by an exclamation from the canvas canoe who said in a suppressed and
excited whisper:
“Upon my word, there’s that everlasting Matt Coyle again. He’ll gobble
the whole of us this time.”
I looked over Joe’s shoulder, and there in the bight of the bend, with
its ugly nose just sticking around the high wooded point of which I have
spoken, was a clumsy scow built of rough boards that had doubtless been
stolen from some saw-mill. In the scow sat Matt Coyle and his two boys.
I had heard them described so often that I should have recognized them
at once, even if the canoe had not told me who they were. They held
their paddles poised in the air, and Matt who sat in the bow, having
raised his hand to attract the attention of his boys, was now pointing
silently toward my master, and going through a series of contortions
with his head and eyes that must have had a volume of meaning in them.
At any rate Jake and Sam understood them, for they dipped their paddles
into the water, and the scow moved around the point and turned directly
toward us, while the squatter prepared himself for business by taking
off his hat and pushing back his sleeves. I trembled all over with
excitement and alarm, and so did the canoe.
“Oh, why don’t Joe turn around?” cried the latter. “Matt intends to take
him by surprise, and he’ll be alongside in half a minute more.”
Just then one of the boys allowed his paddle to rub against the side of
the scow. The noise he made was very slight, but it was loud enough to
attract the attention of Joe Wayring, who faced about to find his
enemies within less than twenty feet of him. He was so astonished to see
them there, that for a few seconds he could neither move nor speak. He
stood as motionless and silent as a wooden boy; while Matt, seeing that
he was discovered, snatched up his paddle and raised a yell of triumph.
“Now I reckon I’ll have my boat back an’ you into the bargain,” he
shouted, swinging his paddle around his head and then shaking it
savagely at Joe. “When I get my hands onto you, the way I’ll wear the
hickories out on your back will extonish you wuss nor any thing you ever
see.”
“An’ won’t I punch your head though, to pay you fur hittin’ me with that
there tater up there in the creek last summer?” chimed in Jake. “I guess
yes.”
These threatening words called Joe to his senses. He knew that he would
not have time to pull up the anchor and escape in his canoe, for he had
paid out a good deal of rope in order to place himself in the best
possible position for casting, and before he could haul it in, his
enemies would be upon him. There was but one way to elude them, and that
was to take to the water and to trust to his powers as a swimmer. It
looked like a slim chance, but the odds of three against one were too
heavy to be successfully resisted, and what else could he do? As quick
as a flash he turned again, and without releasing his hold upon me, took
a header from the stern of the canoe.
“So that there’s your game, is it?” yelled the squatter. “Wal, it suits
us, I reckon. Never mind the boat, Jakey. She’s fast anchored, and will
stay there till we want her. Take after the ’ristocrat whose dad won’t
let honest folks live onto his land less’n they’ve got a pocketful of
money to pay him fur it. Jest let me get a good whack at him with my
paddle an’ he’ll stop, I bet you. Hold on, there, ’cause it’ll be wuss
fur you if you don’t.”
In obedience to Matt’s instructions the scow was turned toward the
swimmer; but although Jake and Sam exerted themselves to the utmost,
they could not cut him off from the shore. Joe made astonishing headway.
There were but few boys, or men either, in Mount Airy who could swim as
fast as he could, and he afterward said that he never made better time
than he did when he was trying to get away from Matt and his boys. He
was afraid of the lily-pads which lined the banks of the creek on both
sides, so he swam down the stream until he was clear of them before he
attempted to make a landing; but Matt, believing that he could do better
on shore, dropped his own paddle into the water, turned into the lilies
and tried to force the scow through them. That was a lucky thing for Joe
Wayring. The strong stems of the lilies were entwined about one another
in all sorts of ways, and the squatter stuck fast in them before he had
made half a dozen strokes.
“Back out! Back out!” shouted Matt, who was quickly made aware that he
had committed a blunder. “Be in a hurry, or he’ll get sich a start on us
that we can’t never ketch him. Hold up, there!” he went on, jumping to
his feet and swinging his paddle around his head as if he were on the
point of launching it at the object of his wrath. “Come back, or it’ll
be wuss fur you. You hear me, I reckon.”
In the meantime Joe made good his landing, and looked over his shoulder
to see the heavy paddle coming toward him, end over end. It struck the
ground near him, and was immediately sent back where it came from with
all the force that the boy’s sinewy arm could give it. Flying wide of
the mark for which it was intended, the broad blade hit Jake fairly in
the face, giving him such a splitting headache that he could not take
part in the pursuit that followed. This was another lucky thing for Joe.
Jake was the best runner in the squatter’s family, and although there is
not the slightest doubt that he would have been soundly thrashed if he
had succeeded in overtaking Joe, he might have been able to detain him
until his father and brother could come to his assistance, and then Joe
would have had more on his hands than he could attend to.
[Illustration: JOE IN AN AWKWARD FIX.]
“That’s another thing we’ve got to pay you fur when we get our hands on
you,” yelled Matt, who was almost beside himself. “Work lively in
backin’ out, or he’ll have a mile the start of us before we tech the
shore.”
Jake, who had dropped his paddle and sat holding his chin in his hands,
paid no attention to the order; but Matt and Sam worked to such good
purpose that they finally succeeded in backing the scow out of the
lilies into clear water. When they reached the bank, Joe Wayring was out
of sight; but they knew which way he had gone, and at once set out in
pursuit; while Jake stayed in the scow and howled dismally.
Joe ran like a deer, and made surprising progress in spite of the logs
and bushes that obstructed his way. He was very quiet in his movements,
but Matt and his boy made so much noise that it was an easy matter to
keep track of them and tell just how far they were behind. At last the
squatter, seeing that he was not going to capture my master by following
him on foot, thought it best to change his tactics.
“Sam,” he shouted, in stentorian tones, “go back to the creek, and you
an’ Jakey take the canoe an’ paddle down the pond so’s to cut him off
when he tries to swim off to the skiff. You understand what I say to
you, I reckon.”
Joe understood it, whether Sam did or not and it put new speed into him.
He ran so swiftly that he very soon left his single pursuer out of
hearing, but he exhausted himself in the effort, and when he dashed out
of the bushes and stopped on the bank in plain sight of the skiff, he
was so nearly out of breath that he could not raise a shout to draw the
attention of his chums, who were hard at work putting up the tent. But
Jim saw him, and announced the fact by a joyful bark, followed by a
vigorous wagging of his tail. Arthur and Roy looked toward the bank, and
there stood Joe, swinging his arms wildly about his head. When he saw
that he had attracted their notice, he pointed to the woods, and then up
the pond toward the canvas canoe which was coming down with all the
speed that Jake and Sam could give it. The boys in the skiff saw and
understood. The anchor came up quicker than it ever did before, the oars
were shipped, and the skiff came toward the bank with a heavy bone in
her teeth. By this time Matt Coyle arrived within hearing again, and
Joe, fearing that he might make his appearance before his friends could
rescue him, stepped into the water and struck out to meet the skiff.
Jake and Sam yelled savagely at him, and redoubled their efforts to
place themselves between him and his friends; but they might as well
have saved their breath and strength. The skiff came up rapidly, and Joe
knew that he was saved. Suddenly a bright idea suggested itself to
him—one that would have enabled him to turn the tables upon the squatter
very neatly, if his friends had only been prompt to act upon it. Raising
himself as far out of the water as he could, he called out:
“Boys, never mind me. I’ve got my second wind now, and can swim for an
hour. Go up there and capture my canoe, or else run over her and send
her to the bottom. Don’t let those villains take her away from me
again.”
“All right,” replied Roy, still giving away strong on his oar. “We’ll
get your canoe back for you, but we will take care of you first.”
“No, no!” insisted Joe. “Capture or sink the canoe first, and attend to
me afterward. I am all right, I tell you. I can easily keep afloat until
you come back.”
“Why, boy, you haven’t got a breath to spare,” said Arthur. “I know it
by the way you talk. Come in out of the wet.”
“You held fast to your fly-rod through it all, didn’t you?” said Roy, as
he took me from Joe’s hand.
“Yes. I didn’t know whether or not I could outrun them, and I wanted
something to defend myself with in case they came up with me.”
When Joe tried to climb into the skiff, he found that he was by no means
in as good condition as he thought he was. He could scarcely help
himself at all, and his chums were obliged to pull him in by main
strength. The moment they let go of him he sank down against the stern
locker and panted loudly; but he was as full of determination as ever.
“Now go up and sink the canoe,” he almost gasped.
But a single glance was enough to show Arthur and Roy that it was too
late to do any thing with the canoe. Jake and his brother heard the
order that Joe shouted at his friends while he was in the water, and
made all haste to put themselves out of harm’s way. When Joe was hauled
into the skiff they were so close to the shore that all attempts to
intercept them would have been unavailing.
“It’s no use, Joe,” said Arthur. “They’re too far off, and there’s Matt
Coyle standing on the bank.”
“But for Joe’s sake we will see what we can do,” exclaimed Roy.
As he spoke, he opened the forward locker and took from it a stout paper
bag. When he first put it there, Arthur and Joe supposed that it
contained lemons; but when Roy opened it, they saw that it was filled
with potatoes.
“They helped us out of a scrape once, and why shouldn’t they do so
again?” said Roy. “My plan is to pull into shore, drive Matt and his
boys into the bushes, clap onto the canoe with the boat-hook and tow her
out into the pond.”
Arthur declared that that was the way to do it, but subsequent events
proved that it wasn’t. They laid hold of their oars again, but before
the skiff had gone far toward the shore, Joe Wayring, who had by this
time recovered his power of speech and motion, announced that Roy’s plan
wouldn’t work at all, and that it was useless to make any effort to sink
or capture the canoe. And the rowers found it so when they faced about
and looked toward the shore.
The squatter and his boys had dragged the canoe from the water, and were
now carrying her back into the bushes where they knew the boys would not
dare go after it.
Matt had not yet forgotten the tactics they used when he and his boys
tried to club them out of their boat the year before. He was very much
afraid of Roy, and when the latter ceased rowing and got upon his feet
to see what had been done with the canoe, Matt and his allies ran into
the woods like so many frightened turkeys.
“I’m onto your little game,” said the squatter in a triumphant tone, as
he looked out from behind the tree that sheltered him. “You don’t fire
no more taters at me if I know it. Your boat is here, an’ if you want it
wusser’n we do, come an’ get it. ’Tain’t much account nohow.”
“I’m going to bust it into a million pieces to pay you fur that there
whack you gin me with pap’s paddle a while ago,” shouted the invisible
Jake, who would not show so much as the top of his cap to the boys in
the skiff. “I’ve stood jest about all the poundin’ I’m goin’ to.”
“What did you do to him, Joe?” inquired Arthur, as he and Roy turned the
skiff around and pulled back toward their anchorage.
“Matt threw his paddle at me when he saw that I was about to slip
through his fingers, and I threw it back,” answered Joe. “It didn’t hit
Matt, as I meant it should, but it came pretty near knocking Jake out of
the scow.”
“The scow?” repeated Roy. “Have they got a boat of their own, I’d like
to know.”
Joe replied that they had a boat in their possession (of course he
didn’t know where they got it, or whether or not they had any right to
call it their own), and then went on to tell of the exploit I had
performed at the perch hole, and of the surprise that followed close
upon the heels of it. He wound up his story by saying—
“I didn’t have time to draw up my anchor, so I had to go overboard. I
swam the best I knew how in order to reach the bank before Matt did;
then I raced a mile or more through the woods in my wet clothes, and
that was what tired me out.”
“I wonder if we are to find that fellow hanging around every time we
come into the woods?” said Roy, angrily. “Hallo, here!”
A slight splashing in the water drew their attention at the moment, and
Joe and Arthur started up in alarm, expecting to find that the squatter
and his boys had stolen a march upon them. There was a canoe close
alongside of them, but the broad-shouldered, brown-whiskered man who
handled the paddle was not Matt Coyle or any body like him. He was one
of the hotel guides who had assisted in driving the squatter out of the
Indian Lake country, and he was looking for him now.
“Hallo yourself,” he replied, good-naturedly. “Well, I swan to man, if
there ain’t Roy Sheldon and—Why, you’re all here, ain’t you? Say! seen
any thing of Matt Coyle since you have been hanging around?”
“Mr. Swan, how are you?” exclaimed all the boys, in a breath. They knew
the guide, and liked him, too.
“You have come to the right place to learn a good deal concerning Matt
and his doings,” continued Roy. “What has he been up to now?”
“Well, you see,” answered the guide, speaking with so much deliberation
that the impatient boys wanted to hurry him, “he came here last year
from somewhere, and wanted to set in for a guide; but the hotels down to
the lake wouldn’t have him, ’cause they didn’t think he was a safe man
to trust with a boat, and Matt, he allowed that he’d fix things so’t
there wouldn’t be no guidin’ for none of us to do. So he’s took to the
woods, and he robs every camp he can find, if there don’t happen to be
any body around to watch it. Leastwise we lay it to him, ’cause we know
he’s around here, and some of us thought that we’d like to take a peep
at his shanty, if he’s got one.”
“We can’t tell you where his shanty is,” said Joe, “but we can show you
where Matt and his boys were not ten minutes ago. He stole my canvas
canoe and gave me a long chase through the woods. He promised that if he
could get hold of me, he would wear a hickory out over my back.”
“Sho!” exclaimed the guide. “What for?”
Joe’s story was a long one, for in order to make the guide understand
how he and his companions had incurred the enmity of the vindictive
squatter, it was necessary that he should go back to the time when Matt
and his family first made their appearance in Mount Airy. He described
the fight between them and the constable and his posse, the particulars
of which he received from eye-witnesses; told how Matt had stolen the
canoe and six fine fishing-rods and reels, while he and his companions
were looking for the bear they saw on the shore of Sherwin’s Pond; and
gave a glowing account of the fight in the creek, at which the guide
laughed heartily.
“I’ll jest bet that them was my taters that you pelted him with,” said
he; “’cause while I was out in the woods with a guest from Boston, my
wife said that my garden and smoke-house were both robbed in one night.
As for them fish poles—I think I can tell you where to find them.”
“Good for you, Mr. Swan,” cried Arthur. “Where are they?”
“Of course, I don’t know that they belong to you; I only suspect it,”
continued the guide. “You see, one day last summer, Jake Coyle brung six
as purty poles as you would want to look at up to the Sportsman’s Home,
and told Mr. Hanson, the new landlord, that he got ’em in a boat trade.
He couldn’t use ’em, fur they wasn’t the kind that he’d been in the
habit of handlin’, and so he wanted to sell ’em. I told Hanson that I
was as sure as any thing could be that they had been stole, and that
mebbe the owner would come along some day looking for them; so Hanson,
he buys ’em, reels and all, for four dollars apiece—all except one that
Jake said had been broke by a bass, and for that he give two dollars.
They were covered with mud and rust, but I cleaned ’em up, and now they
look as good as new.”
“They are our rods, and I know it,” exclaimed Roy. “If mine is the one
that’s broken, I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that I paid Jake
for it in advance by hitting him in the mouth with that potato.”
“And if it’s mine, I settled with him this afternoon by slapping him in
the face with his father’s paddle,” chimed in Joe Wayring.
The guide laughed again. “You’re as plucky a lot of youngsters as I ever
see,” said he, “and you may rest assured that them folks won’t bother
you or any body else much longer. We are going to put ’em in jail for
thieves when we catch ’em.”
“Ah! Yes,” said Arthur; “but that’s right where you are going to see
trouble. Our deputy sheriff and constable searched every inch of the
ground around Sherwin’s Pond, and all they found was the place where
Matt’s shanty once stood. He set fire to it before he left for Indian
Lake.”
“I know that the woods about here are tolerable thick, and that Matt is
a boss hand at hiding,” replied the guide; “but he will find that
there’s a heap of difference between dodging a couple of townies, and in
getting away from a lot of men who have lived in the woods ever since
they were knee high to so many ducks. Go on, Joe. What else do you know
about Matt Coyle?”
The rest of Joe’s story related solely to the events of the evening, and
it did not take him long to describe them. When he concluded the guide
was almost as angry as he and his chums were. The idea that that
worthless vagabond should threaten to beat such a boy as Joe Wayring,
simply because he had showed the courage to defend himself when he was
assaulted! The guide made no remark, but there was a look in his eye
that would have made the squatter uneasy if he had been there to see it.
“It’s too late to do any thing to-night,” said he, at length. “I reckon
you boys have got something good to eat in them lockers? I thought so.
Well, suppose we go ashore and camp.”
Joe and his friends readily agreed to this proposition. They had spent
five days and nights in their boat, and they longed for a good, sound
sleep on a bed of balsam-boughs, with the spreading branches of some
friendly pine for shelter instead of their water-proof tent. They were
not afraid to go into camp on shore now that they had the stalwart guide
for company. Matt and his boys would not be likely to show themselves as
long as they knew that he was with them; but the trouble was, they
didn’t know it, although they were in plain sight when the boys built
their fire on the bank, and laid their plans to pay them a visit before
morning.