BAD FOR MIKE MURPHY
When Gerald Buxton's shotgun was fired by him, and the report rang out in
the still night, it awoke several persons, who wondered what it meant. No
one gave the matter further thought, however, until an old lady, facing
the main street, looked through her bedroom window and saw the citizen
chasing his boy, who toted a gun over his shoulder. At the first
streakings of daylight she hurried to the Buxton home for the
explanation. Within the following half hour the majority of the
population of Beartown knew that an attempt had been made to rob the post
office during the night. Then followed a hurrying thither, for no one
could be satisfied until he had viewed the scene and talked with the
postmistress herself.
It was the confusion and hurly-burly below stairs that awoke Mike Murphy
early. He would have left at once to join Alvin and Chester if Nora had
not forced him to eat breakfast before bidding them good-by. It must be
said that the Irish youth did not require much urging to detain him that
long.
He found he was attracting unpleasant attention. It was Nora who took
pains to let it be known that but for him all the money in the safe would
have been stolen. Mr. Jasper, the owner of the large sum, scrambled
through the crowd, snatched up his big envelope and hurried off without
so much as thanking Mike, who cared naught.
"You needn't tell me," said the keeper of the other grocery store to the
husband of the town milliner. "That redheaded Irish chap is one of the
gang."
"How do you account for his preventing the other robber from carrying
away the money in the safe?" asked his neighbor.
"Plain enough; they'd had a quarrel. He wanted it all for himself."
"Why didn't he take it then?"
"The widder and others bounced down on him afore he had the chance."
"I don't see why if the other villain run away this one didn't do
likewise."
"He'll do it quick enough, never you fear."
"Why is he hanging round after they've gone?"
"To git the money. Seems to me, Rufe, you're blamed stupid this morning.
Why, you've only to take one look at that young ruffian's face to see the
wickedness wrote there. He oughter be in prison this very minute, and
he'll soon be there--take my word for it!"
"Where is he?"
"Sneaked off while he had the chance--wal, I'll be gul darned!"
The grinning Mike Murphy was standing at his elbow, where he had heard
every word of the pointed conversation. The gossip was so taken aback
that he began stammering:
"I had--that is, I was thinking of the other robber."
"I was told," said Mike, "that there was a man hereabouts that looked so
much like me he must be my lost brither that was let out of jail in
Boston a fortnight since. I've found him and begs the privilege of
shaking his hand."
And he caught the limp fingers of the gaping fellow and squeezed them
hard, while he continued to gape and say nothing.
Since this unpleasant person bore not the slightest resemblance to the
youth, being pale and effeminate looking, those who stood near broke into
laughter. Mike turned about, and having bidden good-by to mother and
daughter, passed into the street and turned down the road leading to the
landing.
The hour was early and the fog of which I have spoken was beginning to
creep over the village and through the woods. He kept his bearings, and
when near the river plunged in among the trees to find the _Deerfoot_,
remembering where she was moored the night before.
Some hours earlier Alvin Landon and Chester Haynes had boarded the _Water
Witch_, never doubting that it was the _Deerfoot_, and started down the
river. Consequently Mike could not make the same mistake, and came
straight to the launch with which he was familiar. Standing for a brief
period on the bank he looked admiringly at it.
"Where are the byes?" was the first question he asked himself, as a
glance told him he had arrived ahead of them. "I wonder now if they have
strayed off in the woods, where they may wander about like the two lost
babes and be niver heerd of agin."
Not doubting that they would soon show up, he sat down on the velvety
ground to await them. By and by he became drowsy. The previous night had
been so broken that he had not gained half the sleep he needed. It was
natural, therefore, after his generous breakfast, that he should be
inclined to slumber. Rousing up, he reflected:
"If I fall asleep here, the byes may not obsarve me and sail away and
leave me behind. I shouldn't mind that so much wid only a quarter of a
dollar in me pocket, fur I could go back to Nora and her mother and spind
the rest of me days. But the Captain and second mate would graive
themselves to death, and that would make me feel bad."
Throwing off his drowsiness, he rose to his feet, reached out one hand
and sprang lightly aboard the boat. Seats, cushions, flags, everything
was as they had left it the night before. He sat down on one seat, rested
his feet upon another and settled himself for a good nap, indifferent as
to how long it should last.
"When they come they will obsarve that I'm sweetly draaming, and will
respict me enough to refrain from disturbing me, as Bobbie Burns used to
say whin he lay down beside the road late at night on his way home."
His posture was so comfortable that his head soon bowed and he drifted
into the land of dreams. His first essay was not so successful as he
hoped it would be, for by and by the nodding head tipped too far forward,
and he sprawled on his face. His first confused fancy was that he had
been lying in his trundle bed at Tipperary with his cousin Garry Murphy.
"Arrah, now, what do ye maan by kicking me out on the floor, ye spalpeen?
Whin I git me eyes open I'll taich ye better manners," he called,
climbing carefully to his feet. After a brief spell he recalled the
situation. His first fear was that the Captain and second mate had
returned and witnessed his tumble, but looking around, he saw nothing of
them. The mooring line lay looped around the base of the spruce and the
launch was motionless.
Soon after, two persons came stealing their way among the trees, feeling
each step like a couple of Indian scouts entering a hostile camp. They
were Kit Woodford, leader of the post office burglars, and his young
companion Graff Miller. You remember they acted as lookouts, while the
third was busy inside. They had fled like the cowards they were on the
first sign of danger, had managed to find each other and then set out to
flee in their launch. What had become of "Nox" they did not know or care.
He must do as they had done--save himself or go unsaved.
A shock of astonishment came to the miscreants when they reached the
place where the _Water Witch_ was moored the night before, only to
discover that it had vanished. To the alarmed ruffians there was but the
one explanation: the men who had interfered with the work at the post
office had learned of the launch and run off with it.
"This is a rum go!" was the disgusted exclamation of Woodford. "I thought
we should have an easy thing of it, but we've got to turn back inland. We
shouldn't have any trouble, though it looks to me as if we shall have to
part company."
The younger man was not favorably impressed at first, but a moment's
reflection convinced him that this was one of the situations in which the
proverb, "In union there is strength," did not hold good. Two persons
trying together to make their way out of the neighborhood without drawing
suspicion would be in more danger than one. So he said:
"All right; I will go down stream."
He moved away from his companion, who held his place for a brief while,
still reflecting whether his plan was the better one after all. He was
turning over the problem in his mind, when he caught the sound of a
guarded whistle. It was a familiar call from his companion and he did not
hesitate to follow it. Only a little way off he paused with an
exclamation of astonishment.
There was the swift launch _Deerfoot_ moored against the bank so near the
place where the _Water Witch_ had been left that it is no wonder that
Alvin Landon and Chester Haynes failed to notice the difference of
location. Not only that, but one of the youths belonging to the boat was
seated near the stern with head bowed as if asleep.
What could the amazing fact mean? Woodford's first thought was that a
trap had been set for them. More than likely the seeming slumber on the
part of the motionless figure was a pretence, and meant to tempt them to
come out into the open.
"What do you make of it?" whispered Graff Miller.
"Some deviltry you may be sure; the others are near by."
They stealthily withdrew deeper into the wood and watched and listened,
but nothing occurred to cause alarm. Then a sudden resolution came to the
elder.
"So long as there's only one, let's make him prisoner."
"I'm willing," assented the other.
As silently as two shadows, they stole to the edge of the water. Woodford
deftly cast off the bow line and, leaning over, gently laid it on the
deck. Then they stepped aboard and Miller took up the boathook, pressed
it against the bank and the launch began moving away. When the boathook
could be used no longer, it was softly laid down and the younger man took
his place at the wheel. He understood the running of the launch better
than his companions and generally acted as pilot.
"Shall I start?" he asked, in a guarded voice.
The other nodded. Miller slipped the switch plug in place, started the
motor and put on the power, with just enough force to set the screw
slowly revolving. He headed out in the river, where, because of the fog,
he could barely see the flagstaff at the bow, and began a wide sweeping
circle with the intention of descending the stream.
And still Mike Murphy dreamed on.
Now that the boat was under way with the screw revolving faster, Kit
Woodford stepped closer to the sleeping youth and looked at his face.
When he recognized him as the belligerent Irish lad, his feelings
underwent a sudden change. He knew something of the sleeper and decided
on the instant that he was _persona non grata_. While one of the other
boys might have been held with some vague idea of being used as a
hostage, this one would make more trouble aboard than on land.
Without a word as to his purpose to his companion, Kit Woodford stooped
over, and with the great strength he possessed, easily lifted the
sleeping boy clear of the deck. Then he cautiously moved to the taffrail,
and with a single toss flung Mike Murphy clear of the launch. And the
water was fifty feet deep, and Mike had never swum a stroke, and there
was no one to go to his help.