UNDER THE SKULL-AND-CROSS-BONES
‘I wish he’d hurry up with that water,’ muttered Tim, his hands under
his head, his straw hat pulled over his forehead, and the rest of his
countenance obscured by the wilted leaves of the maple branch which
he had thrust between the buttons of his shirt. Pud, cross-legged,
a grass-blade between his teeth and a ruminative look on his face,
answered absently,
‘Maybe he will.’
It was getting along toward one o’clock now, and thrice they had had
to shift their positions to keep the tree boughs between them and
the glowing sun. There was a faint breath of air creeping down the
long green slope behind them which to some extent made existence more
bearable. At least, it gave them a slight advantage over the mosquitoes.
‘How far do you think we’ve come?’ asked Tim after a minute of silence.
Pud aroused himself from his abstraction and uncrossed his cramped legs.
‘Let’s see, Farquhar’s is eight miles, isn’t it? And I guess we’re
a couple of miles beyond that. Say, ten miles in an hour and three
quarters is going some, Tim! Why, we must have made six miles an hour,
and Mr. Tremble said she wouldn’t do better than five!’
‘Well, don’t you suppose the current helped some?’
‘Gee, that’s so. Maybe it did, though it isn’t very strong. Yes, I
guess it must have.’
‘How much farther do you think we’ll go to-day?’ Tim sounded sleepy.
‘Oh, I guess we’ll make the railroad bridge at Livermore,’ responded
Pud a trifle uncertainly. ‘That’s only about another ten miles, and I
dare say there’ll be a good camping-place there.’
‘You ever been there?’
‘Sure.’
‘By river, I mean.’
‘No, not by river. I’ve never been beyond Farquhar’s by river, but I’ve
been to Livermore by train.’
‘We’d ought to have a map,’ murmured Tim.
‘What for? You can’t get lost on a river, can you?’
‘Well, they say you can get lost on Fox River. They say it sort of runs
around in circles, and there’s a lot of branches and creeks too.’
‘You can’t get lost on any river,’ answered Pud decisively, ‘because
all you’ve got to do is follow the current and you’ll come out of it.’
‘Yeah, that’s so,’ agreed Tim. ‘Just the same, I heard Father tell once
how a couple of Revenue men went up there to Swamp Hole and were lost
’most a week.’
‘Must have got into the woods, or the swamp then. Say, I guess that’s a
wild place, eh?’
‘The Hole? Gosh, I wouldn’t go near that place for a million dollars!’
‘I would,’ said Pud promptly. ‘I’d like mighty well to see what it’s
like, wouldn’t you? If you could get there without being seen, eh?’
But Tim shook his head. ‘No, sir, I wouldn’t. I guess the folks that
live there would just as soon cut your throat as say “Howdy.” They say
there’s folks living in Swamp Hole that ain’t ever been outside it,
Pud.’
‘I guess a lot of ’em wouldn’t dare come out,’ chuckled Pud, ‘for fear
the sheriff would get ’em. I’m going to see if my clothes are dry.’
‘Going to put them on?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘I was thinking we might go in swimming.’
‘Gee, why not? Want to?’ Tim assented. ‘All right, I’ll get the trunks.’
Pud waded out to the launch, climbed aboard and began hunting through
the lockers. It took him a long time to find the articles, for,
although when they had stored their belongings away, they had been
quite certain they could put their hands on them again instantly, now
he couldn’t remember where a single thing was! When he had pulled most
of the dunnage from one side of the boat, he was hot but triumphant and
splashed back to shore with the bathing-trunks just as Harmon ambled
into sight. The thought of a drink of cold water was so welcome that he
didn’t say a word about the time it had taken Harmon to do the errand.
But when he had taken one gulp of the contents of the lard-pail he
found his voice.
‘For goodness’ sake,’ he exclaimed disgustedly, ‘where’d you get that
stuff? It’s as warm as――as dish water!’
‘Oh, gosh!’ moaned Tim. ‘Ain’t it any good, Pud?’
‘Well, you can drink it if you like. I won’t. He never got that out of
any well, I’ll bet!’
‘I did, too,’ declared Harmon. ‘I got it out of a gentleman that lives
in a big white house’s well. It was gran’ and col’, too, but I reckon
it done got warmed up luggin’ it back here, ’cause it’s mos’ of two
miles.’
‘Two miles! Gee!’ Pud looked from the pail to Harmon. ‘Well, I guess if
you went two miles for it, we oughtn’t to kick. Just the same, it’s
too warm to drink. And my throat’s as dry as――as――’
‘So’s mine,’ said Tim.
‘If you-all wants some col’ water,’ announced Harmon, ‘I’ll get you
plenty of it.’
‘Where?’ asked Pud.
Harmon pointed to the bank of the river. ‘Right yonder. I got to have
me a shovel, though.’
‘Gee, that’s so. I never thought of that, Tim. All we’ve got to do is
dig a hole back from the river a bit and let it fill up. But we haven’t
any shovel!’
‘That’s a fact,’ owned Tim. ‘And I thought we’d fetched everything we’d
need, too!’
Harmon, though, was resourceful, for, lacking a shovel, he used a large
iron spoon and, selecting a spot half a dozen feet from the edge of the
water, soon had a hole dug. Anxiously, their tongues almost hanging
out, the others watched the operation. From all sides of the tiny well
water trickled in, but Tim viewed the muddy result distastefully.
‘Gosh,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t drink that stuff! Why, it might poison me!’
‘Hold your horses,’ advised Pud. ‘Wait till it settles.’
Harmon, though, baled out most of the first lot very carefully. Then
the hole was allowed to fill once more, and while it settled, Pud and
Tim got into their swimming-trunks. By the time they were ready for the
river, Harmon announced the water ready for drinking. He had got a tin
cup from the launch and now he dipped it into the little reservoir and
offered it to Tim. Tim looked at it, smelled it, and finally tasted it.
Then he drank it at two gulps.
‘Gosh,’ he said, ‘that’s great! Cold, too!’
Well, it wasn’t exactly cold, but it was cool, and it was clear and
sweet, and Harmon gravely filled the cup many times before their
thirsts were satisfied. Then they went in swimming. Harmon had brought
no bathing attire, but that trifling circumstance didn’t keep him out
of the water, and long after Pud and Tim had had enough and were out
again on the grass, sunning themselves dry, Harmon still paddled or
floated idly about, the sunlight glinting on the wet ebony of his skin.
Having donned some of his clothes, Pud, invigorated by his bath, said
he guessed it was time to fix up the launch. Tim wanted to know what
he meant by ‘fix up’ and was requested to wait and see. Pud climbed
into the launch, rummaged awhile and reappeared to view with two
pieces of white oilcloth. Then he set about tacking one of them on the
bow. Tim advanced to the edge of the water and watched curiously. The
oblong of oilcloth, evidently cut from a piece that had seen service
on Mrs. Pringle’s kitchen table, was adorned with the inscription,
surprisingly well lettered in black paint, JOLLY RODGER. Several tacks
and several whacks of the hammer secured the strip of oilcloth over the
word _Kismet_, and, since the oilcloth was not particularly white any
longer, at a distance of a few yards it appeared quite as though the
new name was painted on the hull.
‘How’s it look?’ demanded Pud triumphantly as he sent the last tack
home and raised a flushed countenance to Tim.
‘All right,’ answered the other doubtfully, ‘only――’
‘Only what?’
‘I never saw “Roger” spelled with a “d,” Pud.’
‘Why not? R-o-d, Rod, g-e-r, ger; Rodger. Isn’t that right?’
Tim shook his head. ‘There isn’t any “d,” Pud.’
Pud scratched his bare head sheepishly. Then he grinned. ‘Oh, well,
what’s the diff? I guess lots of pirates didn’t spell any better than I
do! Look, here’s the one for the other side.’ He held up a second strip
of oilcloth and Tim read VENGANCE. This time he didn’t have the heart
to correct the spelling.
‘Fine,’ he said, ‘but what’s the idea of having different names?’
‘Well, I couldn’t decide which was the best. Besides, Tim, maybe it’ll
confuse the enemy.’
‘Sure,’ agreed the other gravely.
Harmon watched operations in solemn, uncomprehending silence,
noiselessly spelling the word out. Pud’s hammer tap-tapped for a
minute and then there was nothing left to inform the beholder that
this apparently piratical craft was in fact only the hitherto entirely
respectable _Kismet_. But Pud wasn’t through even yet. Next appeared
what looked to have been part of a pillow-slip. This was decorated with
a skull-and-cross-bones, none too successfully executed since the paint
had run rather badly in places. It took Pud quite five minutes to get
the thing tacked to the flagpole, and then, tossing down his hammer,
he waded back to shore and stood for an equal length of time in rapt
contemplation of the improvements. There wasn’t nearly enough breeze
blowing to display the gruesome emblem on the flag, but Pud seemed
thoroughly satisfied, and even Tim was thrilled a little by the wicked
appearance of the transformed launch. As for Harmon, curiosity at last
got the better of him.
‘What ’at flag for?’ he asked.
‘That’s the pirate’s flag,’ Pud informed him. ‘We’re going to be
pirates, Harmon.’
‘Uh-huh. How we gets to be ’em?’
Pud winked at Tim and answered gravely: ‘Oh, we kill folks and rob
them, you know; run them down and scuttle their ships and cut off their
heads and――’
You never could tell beforehand, it seemed, what would touch off
Harmon’s peculiar sense of humor. Now he dropped suddenly to the
grass and writhed in uproarious delight. His teeth flashed and his
eyes rolled and his bare heels beat a wild tattoo on the turf. For
an instant the others were too surprised to do anything save stare.
Pud, indeed, was a trifle chagrined that his explanation had failed to
impress Harmon as he had meant it to. But there was no resisting the
contagion of that laughter, and after a moment they joined in, their
amusement occasioned, though, solely by Harmon’s ridiculous antics.
Harmon ceased almost as suddenly as he had begun and sat up, supported
by widespread hands, and viewed them gravely. Pud conquered his mirth
and demanded sternly:
‘For goodness’ sake, what’s the matter with you, I’d like to know?
What’s funny about killing folks?’
Harmon was threatened with a relapse, but resisted it successfully. He
only rolled his eyes a little as he giggled: ‘Ain’ nothin’. I jus’
laugh at the way you done tell it!’
And that was the nearest to an explanation he was capable of. Pud said
‘Humph!’ doubtfully. Then he added darkly: ‘All right, but I guess you
won’t think it’s so funny when we get to pirating right!’
Harmon accepted the rebuke docilely and without comment, and wandered
away along the river. ‘He’s crazy,’ muttered Pud, still slightly
indignant. But when he met Tim’s twinkling eyes, he had to smile again.
They sat down once more in the shade and watched the ripples on the
water and talked fitfully. After a while Pud looked at his watch.
‘Gee,’ he said, ‘it’s twenty past three!’
‘Gosh,’ murmured Tim, ‘is it?’
‘Yes.’
Then silence fell again between them. A kingfisher called stridently
from the limb of a dead pine across the river and a fish broke the
water with a splash. Then Harmon returned with his arms full of dry
branches which he dropped noisily near by.
Pud sat up and stared inquiringly. ‘What’s that for?’ he asked.
‘Fire,’ answered Harmon. ‘Ain’ you-all goin’ to have no supper?’
‘Sure, but we’re not going to have it here, you chump. At least’――he
looked doubtfully at Tim――‘I don’t suppose we are.’
Tim viewed the firewood, the sky, the river, and then Pud. ‘Well, I
don’t know,’ he answered slowly. ‘This isn’t such a bad place, is it?’
‘N-no, it ain’t. We could put the tent up over there; and we’ve got
drinking water handy. I’m willing if you are.’ Tim nodded lazily. ‘All
right, Harmon, we’ll stay――’
But Harmon had gone again. Pud settled back and laid an arm over his
eyes.
It was nearly five when he woke up. There was sound of faint, elfin
music in his ears, and for a moment he couldn’t think where he was.
Then his drowsy eyes fell on the slumbering Tim a yard away, journeyed
on and encountered, seated on the fallen trunk of a tree beside the
river, the gently swaying form of Harmon, his mouth-organ at his lips.
It was cooler now, for the sun was sinking toward the rim of distant
forest and a little breeze ruffled the water. Pud yawned, stretched,
sat up and shook Tim into wakefulness.
They were very busy for a while, for all sorts of things had to be
transported from launch to land; cooking outfit, food, tent, cots, and
a dozen other things at least. By six, Harmon, spurning the intricate
camp stove they had brought, had a fire going between two dead logs
and had begun the preparation of the evening meal. Pud and Tim, seated
near by, watched anxiously. As a cook Harmon was still an unknown
quantity. But their anxiety didn’t last long. Harmon didn’t know how
to cook many things, but within his limitations he was a master. The
dexterous way in which he cracked the eggs on the rim of the fry-pan
without losing a drop of their contents and then deposited the
unseparated yolks and whites in exactly the right place in the sizzling
grease brought a sigh of relief from Pud and an anticipatory gleam into
Tim’s blue eyes. After that they both ceased offering suggestions to
the chef and just leaned back on their elbows and waited.
They called it supper, but it had all the indications of dinner.
There were bacon and eggs and baked beans and bread and butter and
tea and bananas and cake. They didn’t need the bananas, perhaps, but
Tim pointed out the undeniable fact that they were getting pretty
soft and so they ate them to save them. After such a repast the
job of putting up the tent didn’t appeal to them, but it had to be
performed. And there was no use of waiting for assistance from Harmon,
either, for Harmon had plenty to do in washing up the dishes. So,
rather half-heartedly and with many protesting groans, they set about
their task. Of course the guy-ropes were snarled and knotted, just
as guy-ropes always are, and there were four pegs missing, and the
ridgepole didn’t want to fit onto the uprights. But they conquered in
the end, and set the two cots up inside――although not before Tim had
squeezed a finger painfully in the process――and made their beds. When
they were done it was still daylight, although the sun was resting on
the tips of the far-off pines. They cut some branches for Harmon and
laid them on the ground at a short distance from the tent and then
spread a blanket over them. Harmon, through with his duties, looked on
rather dubiously.
‘’Spose a bear come along an’ eat me,’ he suggested finally.
‘There aren’t any bears around here,’ said Pud reassuringly. ‘Besides,
all you’ve got to do is yell.’
‘Yes, sir, I sure goin’ do ’at,’ he answered convincingly.
At sunset the breeze died down and the mosquitoes became troublesome
once more. So they built up the fire and smudged it with green branches
and damp wood and sat to leeward――when there was any leeward――and
watched the light fade in the west and the river turn from copper to
steel and finally become lost to sight in the darkness. By request
Harmon pulled his mouth-organ out of his trousers pocket and played
his entire programme. The music cheered them up somewhat. Harmon could
certainly make the instrument behave, as Pud phrased it! After that
Pud introduced the subject of pirates and, his memory still fresh from
his reading, told them weird and blood-thirsty tales that made even
the narrator himself glance uneasily over his shoulder at intervals.
Oddly enough, Harmon seemed utterly unaffected as to nerves. When Pud
paused, the darky, staring round-eyed across the fire, begged for more.
The more sanguinary the tales the better Harmon liked them, and when
the cutlasses flew fastest and blood filled the scuppers, he voiced
awed applause in murmured ‘Lawsies!’ or ‘My gollies!’ It was plain to
be seen that Harmon was a born pirate! Indeed, it seemed regrettable
that Morgan had lived too early to have the services of such a boon
companion and kindred soul as Harmon Johnson!
‘When we-all goin’ start this here piratin’, Mister Pud?’ he asked
finally.
‘Oh, maybe to-morrow,’ replied Pud, suppressing a yawn.
‘Uh-huh. Reckon we’s goin’ sack a town, ain’ we?’
‘Well, we’ve got to find the town first,’ chuckled Tim.
‘Sure has,’ agreed Harmon cheerfully. ‘I goin’ sharpen up ’at ol’
carvin’ knife to-morrow. Yes, sir, I goin’ put a aidge on ’at ol’
knife for sure! I ain’ needin’ no cutluss, Mister Tim, if I got me a
good knife!’ And Harmon swished an imaginary blade in a startlingly
realistic manner.
‘Guess you’d better go to bed,’ growled Pud. ‘And if I catch you
sharpening any knives around here I’ll skin you!’
Harmon accepted the rebuke meekly, although he was possibly slightly
puzzled by it, and flashlights were snapped on and they sought their
couches. Tim wanted to light the carbide lamp, but Pud said it would
attract the mosquitoes, and so they did without it. After they were
in bed and the two cots had ceased creaking, Tim heard a chuckle from
across the darkness.
‘What you laughing at?’ he inquired.
‘Harmon,’ answered Pud. ‘Bet you that boy’s good and scared, eh? Bet
you he’s got his head under the blanket all right!’
Tim murmured assent. But a few minutes later, Pud changed his mind.
From the direction of Harmon’s lowly couch came loud, measured, and
unmistakable evidences of slumber!
It might have been hours later or only minutes that Pud awoke
startledly. From close by the tent a frightened voice was exclaiming,
‘Oh, my golly! Oh, my golly! Where at’s this here door? Oh, my――’
‘What’s the matter?’ cried Tim, flouncing out of his cot.
‘It’s Harmon!’ called Pud disgustedly. ‘He’s had nightmare, I guess.
Harmon! Shut up that racket! Where are you?’
‘Here I is! I can’ find the door! Oh, my golly, Mister Pud, please,
sir, you-all let me in there!’ Then there was the sound of a stumbling
body, the tent sagged and strained and Harmon fell in on his hands and
knees, illumined by two flashlights. That something had frightened him
half to death was plain, for his eyes were rolling and his teeth were
chattering as he crawled to the nearest cot. ‘Oh, lawsy, lawsy,’ he
sighed in relief.
‘Say, what’s your trouble?’ demanded Pud, striving to quiet his own
jangling nerves by speaking very sternly. Tim, still half asleep, waved
his pocket torch vaguely about the tent, his mouth open in bewilderment.
‘Mister Pud,’ answered Harmon hoarsely, ‘it was a-standin’ right over
me when I woke up and seed it! Look like it was tryin’ to nuzzle the
blanket offen me! My golly――’
‘What was?’ asked Pud.
‘Yes, sir! Standin’ right on top o’ me, with its li’l’ ol’ eyes
a-glarin’ sort o’ greenish an’ its nose right close to my face! My
golly! It was jus’ a-goin’ to bite me when I woke up!’
‘Say, for goodness’ sake! _What_ was going to bite you?’
‘_It_ was!’
‘Well, what was _it_?’
‘That there varmint, Mister Pud! What I’m tellin’ you about! The skunk!’
‘Skunk!’ echoed Pud and Tim in chorus. ‘_Skunk?_’
‘Yes, sir, skunk! I seed the white stripes on him when he done run!’
‘Gee!’ chuckled Pud. ‘A skunk! Why, a skunk wouldn’t hurt you, Harmon!
I guess you scared him a heap worse’n he scared you.’
‘No, sir, I didn’! How-come he wouldn’ harm me? Them things bite,
Mister Pud!’
‘Get out! Who ever heard of a skunk biting any one?’
‘Besides,’ laughed Tim, ‘maybe it wasn’t a skunk at all. Maybe it was
only a polecat.’
But Harmon was in no mood for such niceties. ‘Was you ever bit by a
skunk, Mister Pud?’ he asked earnestly.
‘No, of course not.’
‘Then how you know they don’ bite?’ demanded Harmon triumphantly.
‘Why――why――’ Pud felt that there was something utterly wrong with the
other’s logic, but he couldn’t at the instant find the error, and
Harmon continued with much conviction.
‘That skunk would ’a’ bit me for sure if I hadn’ woke up! Please, can’
I sleep in here, Mister Pud, with you-all? I’s scared to go back out
yonder.’
‘Well,’ began Pud hesitantly, glancing dubiously at Tim, ‘I suppose――’
‘Sure, he can,’ asserted Tim, almost indignantly. ‘Have a heart, Pud!’
Considering that it was Tim who had protested, a few days before,
against any such arrangement as was now proposed, Pud felt that he was
being put in rather a false position, but Harmon’s fervently expressed
delight drowned his sarcasm.
‘I’s certainly obliged,’ declared the darky. ‘Yes, sir! I’ll jus’
scrooch down here an’――’
‘Without anything to lie on?’ exclaimed Tim. ‘Sakes alive, Harmon, go
get your blanket!’
It was evident that Harmon had no desire to venture forth again into
the skunk-infested night, but he finally went, flashing Tim’s pocket
torch on all sides and talking loudly to keep his courage up.
Ten minutes later quiet again reigned in the tent. Pud, seeking a more
comfortable position on the unyielding canvas cot, smiled at a thought.
‘That boy,’ he reflected, ‘might be an awful brave pirate, but he
wouldn’t make much of an animal trainer!’