’er, Sipes. We’ll pour in the juice an’ start ’er up in the mornin’.
Then we’ll buzz off on the lake an’ look at the nets.”
“She oughta have a name on ’er, like a boat,” suggested Sipes. “S’pose
we call ’er the ‘Anabel,’ er sump’n like that?”
“‘Anabel’ ain’t no kind of a name fer anythin’ o’ this kind. I seen
that name on a sailboat once’t that didn’t make no noise at all, an’
this thing will. Wot’s the matter with ‘June Bug’?”
“All right,” said Sipes, “‘June Bug’ she is, now let’s go to sleep.”
Loud snores resounded in the shanty, and the “June Bug” spent the night
on the floor near the stove. Fortunately there was no leak in the
gasoline tank or fire in the stove.
With the coming of dawn the old cronies hastily prepared breakfast.
The lake was calm and everything seemed propitious for the initial
voyage with the June Bug. That deceptive bit of machinery was carefully
carried to the big flat-bottomed boat, and, after an hour of hard work,
was securely attached to the wide stem. The gasoline tank was filled
to the top, the batteries adjusted, the spark tested, and every detail
seemed to tally with the directions. Sipes gave the fly-wheel a couple
of quick turns. The motor responded instantly. The propeller ran in
the air with a cheerful hum, and the regular detonations of the little
engine awoke the echoes along the shore.
With shouts of boyish glee the old shipmates pushed the big boat
over the rollers on the sand and down into the water. There was much
discussion as to which should run the engine and steer. Sipes produced
a penny and, by flipping it skilfully, won the decision.
“I don’t s’pose they’s any use takin’ the oars, but I’ll put ’em in,”
he observed as he threw them into the boat.
Saunders complacently took his place forward. Sipes gave the boat a
final shove and jumped in. He pushed it well out with one of the oars,
and turned and looked with pride on the wonderful labor-saving device
on the stern. It seemed too good to be true.
“Say, Bill, to think that us fellers c’n go hundreds o’ miles out’n the
lake, if we want to, an’ ev’rywhere else, an’ let this dingus do all
the work. We c’n set an’ smoke an’ watch the foam, an’ listen to the
hummin’ o’ the Bug. I’ve heard fellers go by way out b’yond the nets
with them choo-choo boats, but I never seen wot did it before. Gosh!
but this is fine. Now all we gotta do is to touch ’er off an’ away we
go!”
The old man’s single eye beamed with enthusiasm, as he grasped the
handle and made the prescribed turns. The result was a couple of pops
and some coughing sounds somewhere in the concealed iron recesses.
“Guess she’s coy, an’ I didn’t give ’er enough. I’ll whirl ’er some
more.” His efforts were again ineffectual.
“Lemme try ’er,” pleaded Saunders.
“Not on yer life! You keep off. You don’t know nothin’ ’bout machines.
She’ll be all right in a minute. Gimme that book!”
The boat drifted sideways for some time while Sipes studied the
directions and puttered over the parts with various tools.
“I’ll jolly ’er up with the screw-driver an’ monkey-wrench, an’ she’ll
feel better.” He tinkered and cranked for nearly an hour, during which
time Saunders offered many ill-received suggestions. Then came a
torrent of invective.
“You got too many whiskers to swear like that,” remarked Saunders,
“you’ll burn ’em.”
“Never you mind, I’m watchin’ ’em! The man wot ’ud make a thing like
this, an’ take good cash money fer it, er even fish, oughta be cut up
an’ sizzled!” he declared. “The skin’s all offen my hands, an’ I wish
the devil wot built this gas bug ’ud ’ave to keep ’is head in hot tar
’til she went. Come ’ere, Bill, an’ start ’er up. You seem to know so
much about it.”
They exchanged places and Sipes glared maliciously at the rebellious
motor from the bow. Saunders put his pipe in his pocket, produced
a chunk of “plug twist,” and bit off a large piece. He stowed it
comfortably and considered the problem before him. After a couple of
hours of fruitless efforts the profanity in the boat became unified
and vociferous. The ancestors of the makers of the motor, and those of
the man who had it last, as well as the undoubted destiny of everybody
who had ever had any connection with it, were embraced in sulphuric
execration. John was, in a way, excepted. He “meant well,” but he was
“a damned old fool.”
After this general vituperation the old sailors rested for a while and
rowed back. The constant cranking had turned the propeller a great many
times. The boat had made erratic headway and was quite a distance from
shore. They landed, pulled the boat out on the sand with the windlass,
and retired to the shanty for lunch and consultation.
Saunders strolled out a little later, with a piece of cold fried fish
in his hand, and looked the motor over again. He gave the fly-wheel a
careless turn and the engine started off gayly. Sipes heard the welcome
sound and ran out, spilling his coffee over the door step. Lunch was
discontinued, and the boat was re-floated. There was more cranking, but
no answering vibrations. With more profanity the craft was restored to
its berth on the sand, and another retreat made to the shanty.
“The Bug’ll run all right on land,” declared Sipes, “an’ we’ll turn the
propeller so’s the edges’ll be fore an’ aft, an’ belay it. We’ll bend
a rim on it an’ fasten some little truck wheels on the bottom o’ the
boat. Then we’ll run the ol’ girl up an’ down on the hard sand ’long
the edge o’ the water. We won’t go in the lake at all ’til we git ’er
well het up, an’ then we’ll turn ’er in sudden an’ cut them lashin’s.
She won’t know she’s in an’ ’way she’ll go.”
For many days the old shipmates struggled with the obstinate
mechanism. It once ran for an hour without a break and they were
jubilant. “Some gas bug that!” Saunders exclaimed joyfully, but just
then it sputtered and stopped. They were quite a ways out, and the oars
had been forgotten. Fortunately there was a light in-shore breeze and
they drifted to the beach about two miles from home.
The oars were finally procured and the day closed with everything snug
and tight at the shanty.
“I bet we ain’t got the right kind o’ gasoline,” declared Sipes.
“They’s lots o’ kinds. This ’ere wot’s in the Bug ain’t got no kick to
it. We got too much oil mixed in it, an’ we gotta git s’more.”
When John came again the many troubles were related to him. He knew
nothing of motors, but offered to get some more gasoline when he went
to the village, and to bring the former owner of the motor over to see
if he could suggest anything.
“You jest fetch that feller,” said Sipes, “an’ we’ll take ’im out fer a
nice little spin on the lake, an’ we’ll go where it’s deep.”
When the new gasoline came there was much more tinkering and study of
the directions. Resignation alternated with hope. Sometimes the motor
would run, but more often it refused. John finally took it to the
village and it was shipped to the makers. A carefully and painfully
composed letter was put in the “pustoffice.” The long-delayed answer
was that the machine needed “overhauling,” which would cost about half
as much as a new one.
“The money that them pie-biters makes ain’t sellin’ motors, but
overhaulin’ ’em,” declared Sipes. They sell one o’ them bum things an’
git their hooks in an’ git a stiddy income from it long as you’ll stand
fer it.”
It was decided, after much discussion, to send the money “fer the
overhaulin’.” Several months elapsed. The machine came back too late to
be of further use that season, and was carefully stowed away for the
winter.
“She’ll prob’ly need another ‘overhaulin’’ in the spring ’fore she’ll
go, an’ them fellers’ll want to nick us ag’in an’ keep ’er all next
summer,” said Saunders. “If they charged by the days they kep’ ’er
instid o’ by the job, we’d be busted. They’ll bust us anyhow, an’ it
might as well be all at one crack. The Bug’s goin’ to stay in the
house now, where she won’t git wet. She ain’t goin’ out on the vasty
deep no more ’til spring. If she gits uneasy, she c’n run ’round in
’ere.”
The following May I called at the shanty and found Sipes sitting
disconsolately in the door-way. After visiting with him for a while, I
inquired for Saunders.
“Poor Bill’s dead. I ain’t got no partner now an’ it’s awful lonesome.
He was a nice ol’ feller. He fussed ’round with the gas bug fer days
an’ days, an’ ’e couldn’t make it go. He come in one night late, an’
the next mornin’ ’e didn’t git up. He didn’t seem in ’is right mind.
His hand ’ud keep goin’ ’round an’ ’round, like it was crankin’ sump’n.
Then ’e’d make sputterin’ sounds with ’is mouth like as if a motor was
goin’, an’ then ’e’d keep still a long time like the Bug does, an’ then
begin ag’in. He wouldn’t eat nothin’, an’ one night he said ’e guessed
’e needed overhaulin’. Then ’e said ‘choo-choo! choo-choo!’ three er
four times, an’ ’e was gone. Come on with me an’ I’ll show you where ’e
was laid away.”
We walked along the shore a short distance, crossed the beach and
climbed the bluff. Near the foot of an old pine was a mound, on which
was scattered the dried remnants of many spring flowers, which probably
had come from the low ground in the ravine. Several bunches of white
trilliums, with their leaves and roots, had been transplanted to the
mound, but they had withered and died. A wide board, which protruded
from the ground at the head of the grave, bore the rude inscription:
[Illustration: BiLL SauNDERS--DEAD]
Under the name was a rough drawing of the fly-wheel of the motor,
evidently made with Sipes’s stubby pencil.
Chiselled epitaphs on granite tombs have said, but told no more.
We stood for some time before the mound. The old sailor wiped a tear
from his single eye as we left Bill’s last resting place in silence and
sorrow.
“Him an’ me was shipmates,” said the old man sadly, as we returned to
the shanty. “I off’n go up there an’ set down an’ think about ’im. Bill
was honest. They’s lots o’ fellers that wouldn’t swipe nothin’ that was
red-hot an’ nailed down, ’spesh’ly ’round ’ere, but Bill never’d touch
nothin’ that didn’t b’long to him er me. It was the gas bug that killed
’im. Fust it made ’im daffy an’ then it finished ’im. She’s over there
now on the stern o’ the boat. I ain’t never had ’er out this year, but
I’m goin’ to try ’er once’t, jest fer Bill’s sake. I think ’e’d like to
have me do it.”
After many condolences, and a general review of the Bug’s disgraceful
career by Sipes, I picked up my sketching outfit and resumed my
journey, depressed, as we all are, by a sense of the transience and
unsolvable mystery of life, when we have stood near one who has gone.
One calm morning, about a month later, I was rowing on the lake several
miles from Sipes’s shanty. A boat appeared in the distance. Its high
sides, broad beam, the labored, intermittent coughing of a motor,
and the doughty little bewhiskered figure on the stern seat were
unmistakable. Sipes altered his course slightly so as to pass within
fifty or sixty yards. I wondered why he did not come nearer. He went on
by with a cheery “Wot Oh!” and a friendly wave of his hand. Evidently
he was on some errand that he did not want to explain, or was afraid
to stop the motor, fearing that it would not start again. In a few
weeks I encountered him again, under almost identical conditions. His
nets were nowhere in the vicinity.
In the early fall I found an old flat-roofed hut, built with faced
logs, about six miles down the coast, in the direction that the old man
had been going when I had last seen him. It was in a hollow near the
top of a high bluff that faced the lake. It was effectually hidden from
the water and shore by a bank of sand and tangled growth along the edge
of the bluff. Built against the outside was a large dilapidated brick
chimney, entirely out of proportion in size to the cabin. No smoke
issued from it and the place seemed deserted. I went down to the beach.
A mile or so further on I found a fisherman repairing a boat on the
sand, and asked him about the cabin.
“That place is witched,” he declared. “Thar’s funny doin’s ’round thar
at night an’ don’t you go near it. Thar’s a white thing that dances
on the roof. It goes up an’ down an’ out o’ sight, an’ then thar’s a
big thunderin’ noise. I don’t want to know no more ’bout it’n I know
now. It don’t look right to me. I seen a wild man ’round ’ere in
the woods once’t, a couple o’ years ago, an’ mebbe he lived thar an’
’e’s dead an’ ’e hants that place. I don’t come ’round ’ere often an’ I
don’t want to.”
[Illustration: THE “BOGIE HOUSE”
(_From the Author’s Etching_)]
My curiosity was aroused and I decided to investigate the mystery
when an opportunity came. About nine o’clock one night I walked up
a little trail in the sand that led toward the cabin from the woods
back of the bluff. There was a dim light inside that was extinguished
when I carelessly stepped on a mass of dead brush that had been piled
across the path. The breaking of the little sticks had made quite a
noise. Immediately a long, wavy, white object appeared over the roof
of the cabin. It vaguely resembled a human shape and looked peculiarly
uncanny. It swayed back and forth a few times and then seemed to
grow taller. The trees beyond were partially visible through it in
the uncertain light. Clearly I was in the presence of a spook. The
apparition vanished as suddenly as it came. Then a dull, hollow sound
came from the cabin, followed by a low, rasping, ringing noise. When it
ceased, the silence was weird and oppressive.
I went on by the structure to the edge of the bluff, where another pile
of dry brush obstructed the path, and purposely walked on it, instead
of over the high sand on the sides of the opening. The breaking sticks
made more noise. I turned and again saw the spectral form over the
roof. The wraith swayed slowly to the right and left, bent backward and
forward a few times, grew longer and shorter, and disappeared as before.
In departing I stumbled over a board which stuck out of the sand, and
in the dim light could distinguish the words “Dinnymite--Keep Out!”
heavily scrawled on it with red paint.
Evidently visitors were not wanted, and the tell-tale brush-piles were
designed to give alarm of the approach of intruders. The functions of
the filmy ghost and the queer sounds were to inspire terror of the
place.
I related my experience to Sipes the next time I saw him. He was deeply
interested.
“Did ye hear any groanin’ after them funny sounds?” he asked, with a
quizzical look in his eye. I replied that I had not.
“I’ll tell ye wot we’ll do,” said he, after a few moments of
reflection, “you an’ me’ll go down to that bogie house some time an’
we’ll butt in an’ see wot’s doin’. I gotta go that way in the boat next
week. We’ll take the gun, an’ mebbe we’ll blow that bogie offen the top
o’ the house. I seen that place last year an’ I know where it is.”
I did not approve of the idea of needlessly invading the privacy of
anybody who did not want to see us, and who had inhospitably stocked
their domain with brush-piles, ghosts, and forbidding placards, but
there was a strange look in Sipes’s eye that convinced me that the trip
might in some way be justified.
On the appointed day we made the start. “I always spend jest an hour
tunin’ up the Bug,” remarked the old man, as he began cranking the
motor, “an’ then if she don’t pop, I cuss ’er out fer jest fifteen
minutes, an’ then I row. Hell, I gotta have some system!”
Fortunately the Bug was in good humor and took us three-quarters of the
distance without a break. It then went to sleep, and half an hour’s
cranking and assiduous doctoring failed to arouse it.
“I got a great scheme,” said Sipes. “W’en she gits like that I fasten
the steerin’ gear solid fer the way I want to go, an’ then w’en I keep
on crankin’, the propeller goes ’round an’ ’round, an’ I keep goin’
some.”
A little later a single turn of the fly-wheel started the treacherous
device, but it was going backward. Sipes promptly seized the oars and
turned the stern of the boat toward our destination.
“We got ’er now! Jest keep quiet an’ touch wood! Sometimes she likes to
do that, an’ if I try to reverse ’er she’ll balk. She thinks it’s time
to go home, but it ain’t. This crawfish navigat’n’s fine w’en ye git
used to it.”
We landed beyond a point on the beach which was opposite to the cabin.
After we had secured the boat to some heavy drift-wood with a long
rope, I followed Sipes up the side of a bluff west of the cabin. We
made a detour through the woods and approached it at dusk. The dry
brush-piles practically surrounded it at a distance of about fifty
yards.
“Don’t step on none o’ them sticks,” cautioned Sipes. He gave a low,
peculiar whistle, which was answered from the cabin. “That there’s the
high sign,” he remarked, as we walked to the door. We were greeted by
Bill Saunders, alive and in the flesh. He seemed surprised that Sipes
had brought a visitor, but was very cordial. Sipes greatly enjoyed the
situation and chuckled over what he considered an immense joke.
“You see it’s like this,” he explained. “Bill got to thinkin’ wot’s the
use o’ gasoline? W’y not have sump’n that ’ud run ferever, an’ not ’ave
to keep buyin’ that stuff all the time? He’d set an’ think about it in
the shanty an’ then somebody’d butt in an’ mess up ’is thinkin’. He’d
go ’way off an’ set on the sand by ’isself, an’ then some geezer’d come
snoopin’ ’long an’ chin ’im, an’ ’e couldn’t git no thinkin’ done.
“That cusséd dog o’ Cal’s come ’long the beach one mornin’. He’s bin
runnin’ wild since Cal lit out. Fer years this whole country’s been
fussed up with ’im an’ ’is doin’s. He died jest as ’e was pass’n the
shanty. We buried ’im up there on that bluff, an’ that gave Bill an’ me
an idea. We fixed up the place so’s people ’ud think Bill ’ad faded.
Then we humped off down to this bogie house so Bill could ’ave some
peace an’ quiet to do ’is thinkin’ in. Bill’s invent’n some kind o’
power that’ll make ev’rythin’ hum w’en ’e gits it finished. It’ll put
all them other kinds o’ machines on the blink. That cusséd motor’ll go
’round an’ ’round, an’ she can’t stop ev’ry time ye bat yer eye at ’er.
“I been bringin’ things down ’ere fer Bill to eat, an’ sometimes little
beasties come ’round the hut wot ’e shoots. We fixed up that dry brush
so’s nobody ’ud come snoopin’ ’round without Bill knowin’ it. Him an’
me’s goin’ to divide wot we make out o’ th’ invention, an’ we’ll ’ave
cash money to burn w’en ’e gits it goin’. We’ll set in a float’n palace
out’n the lake an’ smoke _see_gars, with bands on ’em, an’ let the
other fellers do the fishin’, won’t we, Bill?”
“You bet!” responded Saunders. Just then we heard a sound of breaking
sticks outside. Instantly he seized a long pole that lay along the side
of the wall. It was fitted with a cross-piece and a round top. Over it
was draped various kinds of thin white fabric. He mounted a box and
pushed the contrivance up through a hole in the flat roof, moved it up
and down, waved the upper end back and forth a few times, and withdrew
it. He thumped the empty box heavily with the end of the pole as he
took it in, and picked up about four feet of rusty chain, which he
shook and dragged over the edge of the box several times.
Through a small chink between the logs we saw a dim figure moving
rapidly away in the gloom. We heard the crackling of the brush at the
edge of the bluff, and knew that the intruder had gone.
“That feller’s got the third degree all right,” remarked Saunders, as
he carefully put the ghost back into its place. “’Tain’t often anybody
comes, but w’en they do they gotta be foiled off. Them dinnymite signs
helps in the daytime, but fer night we gotta have sump’n else.
“This dress’n’ on the ghost mast come from Elvirey Smetters. We made
up with ’er after ’er wedd’n with Cal busted up an’ Cal skipped. She
was wearin’ most o’ this tackle fer the wedd’n, an’ she said she didn’t
never want to see it ag’in. There’s a big thin veil fer the top o’ the
pole, an’ some o’ the other stuff she said was long-cherry, er sump’n
like that. We keep that hatch battened down w’en it rains, but she’s
loose most o’ the time. W’en I shove the ghost out it pushes it open.”
Saunders extracted some rye bread, salt pork, and cheese from a
cupboard. We fried the pork in a skillet over some embers in the big
brick fire-place, and toasted the cheese. After our simple meal the old
man piled more wood on the fire, and we smoked and talked until quite
late.
The mechanism, on which Saunders was spending his days of seclusion,
reposed under some tattered canvas near the wall. He was reticent
concerning it, but Sipes volunteered the information that “they was
some little wood’n balls wot went up an’ down in some tubes that was
filled with oil, an’ then they rolled ’round inside of a wheel an’ come
back.”
“Now you shut up!” commanded Saunders. “You leave this thing to me ’til
I git it done, an’ then you c’n talk ’til yer hat’s wore out. They
ain’t no use talkin’ ’til we git somew’eres, an’ then we won’t ’ave to
talk. Wait ’til I git some little springs that’ll spread out quick an’
come back slow, an’ we’ll be through.”
Saunders’s mind was struggling with the eternal and alluring problem of
perpetual motion. He was groping blindly for the priceless jewel that
would revolutionize the world of mechanics.
It was after midnight when we bade him good-by, and departed through
the moonlit woods for the beach.
We left the old man in the company of his fire, and is there greater
companionship? It is in our fires that we find the realm of reverie.
The fecund world of fancy reveals its fair fields and rose-tinted
clouds in the vistas of shimmering light. Memory brings forth pages
that the years have blurred. Fleeting filaments of faces wondrous
fair, that long ago faded into the mists, smile wistfully, in halos of
tremulous hues, and vanish. Slow-moving figures, crowned with wreaths
of gray, sometimes linger, turn with looks of tender mother love, and
dissolve in the curling smoke. The years that have slumbered in the
old logs come forth at the touch of a familiar wand, and a soft light
illumines chambers that time has sealed. The grim realities are lost
in the glow of our hearth. In the dreamland of the fire we may ride
noble steeds and soar on tireless pinions. We see heroes fight and
fall. Cities with gilded walls and bright towers, broad landscapes,
enthralling beauty, leaves of laurel on triumphant brows, majestic
pageants, and acclaiming multitudes, are pictured in the flickering
flames.
On the little stage under the arch of the fireplace the puppets come
and go,--the comedies and the tragedies, the laughter and the sorrow.
The dramas of hopes and fears are enacted in shifting pantomimes that
melt away into the gloom.
Our hearth-stones are the symbols of home. We go forth to battle when
their sanctity is imperilled. It would be a desolate world without our
fires. Winding highways lead through them on which he who travels must
mark the light and not the ruin. He must feel the glow and not the
burning, and be far beyond the ashes when they come.
In the twilight, when our lives become gray, and only the embers lie
before us, we can still dream, if our souls are strong. If we have
learned to live with the ideals we have created, instead of charred
hopes, golden visions may linger in the mellow light. Happy hours, as
transient as the fitful flames, may dance again, and shine among the
smouldering coals.
The grizzled old sailor, who had been fortune’s toy, and had been cast
aside, may have found his solace in the visions before his fire. The
pictures in it may have been of millions of wheels turned with the
new force, myriads of aëroplanes soaring through the skies, dynamos of
inexhaustible power giving heat and light, and countless looms spinning
the fabrics of the world.
He may have seen himself worshipped, not for his achievement, but for
his wealth, in the domain of Vulgaria, where Avarice is king--where
worth is measured by dollars--where utter selfishness rules, and the
cave man still dwells, veneered with a gilded tinsel of what, in
his foolish pride, he thinks is civilization--where vanity parades
in the guise of charity--where cruelty and greed hide under fine
raiment--where human hyenas rend the weak and grovel before the
strong--where the bestiality of the Hun darkens the world--where the
only god is Gold, and where the idealist must fight or perish.