WHERE FEATHERWEIGHT WAS.
Fred Craven was a famous rifle-shot, and although he was a “towny,” he
was superior in all manner of backwoods accomplishments to any boy of
his age in the settlement—even to Walter and Eugene, who lived in the
woods, and who had handled shot-guns and rifles all their lives. He was
an enthusiastic and persevering sportsman, and boasted that he never came
back from a hunt empty-handed. When the Club went out on their shooting
excursions, Featherweight always strayed off by himself; and when he
met his companions again at night, he had more game to show than any of
them, sometimes beating all the rest of the Club put together. He thought
almost as much of his pony as he did of any of his friends, and took
great delight in training Flyaway, his favorite hound.
Flyaway was a remarkable dog in the estimation of his young master,
although he did not stand very high in the opinion of the rest of the
Club. He would hunt a covey of quails with as much skill as any old
setter, would bring ducks out of the water as well as a spaniel, and
fight a bear as bravely as any dog in Mr. Gaylord’s pack; but he had
never hunted wild hogs, and Featherweight was anxious to see what work
he would make at it. While the line was being formed that morning, and
the boys and the negroes were about to advance toward the old bee-tree
to attack the hogs which made their harboring-place there, Walter, who
was a very prudent and cautious fellow, and seldom got into trouble, and
who knew that Featherweight was sometimes disposed to be a little too
reckless for his own good, thought it best to give him a word of advice.
“Now, Fred,” said he, “wild hogs are things not to be fooled with, and if
I were in your place I wouldn’t put too much dependence on that animal
there,” pointing rather contemptuously at Flyaway. “He is a very good
turkey and deer dog, but when he presumes to hunt such game as this we
are after now, he is getting above his business. A full grown wild hog is
a terrible fighter.”
“Having hunted them a few times in my life, I am not ignorant of that
fact,” replied Featherweight, assuming an air of importance that always
made the Club laugh, and speaking with as much dignity as so jolly a
little fellow could command. “While I entertain the very highest respect
for your opinions in general, and acknowledge that you are a good judge
of horses, and a passable hand at hunting small game, such as squirrels
and quails, I must be allowed to remark that I think you know nothing
whatever about dogs. ‘That animal,’ as you are pleased to call Flyaway,
has no superior in this parish.”
“Well,” returned Walter, with a laugh, “keep close to us, and if you get
into a scrape we can lend you a hand.”
But Featherweight, being plucky and independent, did not see fit to
follow this advice. He kept his hound close at his side while the line
was moving toward the old bee-tree, and when the hogs were started he
picked out the one that he thought was the largest and ordered Flyaway to
catch it. The hound sprang forward at the word, and in an instant both
he and the hog were out of sight in the cane.
Featherweight’s pony had so often shown his heels to the other horses
owned by the Club, that his master had become vain of his speed, and
boasted that he could not be beaten by anything; but distancing a horse
on a smooth road, or over a level field, where there were no greater
obstructions than logs and low fences to be encountered, was one thing,
and running a race with a wild hog through a thick woods, the hog
having nearly a hundred yards the start, was another. The animal made
astonishing headway, and for a long time the boy could not come within
sight of him. The noise he occasioned in running through the cane, and
the angry yelps now and then uttered by the hound, guided the young
hunter in the pursuit; but although he urged his pony forward by voice,
whip and spur, he could not lessen the distance between them.
“I never knew before that a hog could run so,” soliloquized
Featherweight; “and I never thought either that Flyaway was a coward. He
is keeping within sight of that hog all the time, but he won’t catch him.
Rex would have had him by the ear long ago. Hi! hi! Why don’t you take
hold of him there?”
The hound replied with a short, quick bark, and a commotion in the bushes
told the young hunter that he was doing his best to obey the command.
Featherweight yelled encouragingly and urged on his horse, which with a
few more jumps brought his rider to the scene of the conflict—or, rather,
to the spot where it had taken place; for when Featherweight reached it
the struggle was over. Flyaway was a badly-whipped dog, and the wild hog
was out of sight.
“Now just look at that!” exclaimed the boy, indignantly, gazing after
his hound which was retreating precipitately through the cane, with his
sides bleeding from several ugly-looking wounds made by the long teeth
of the wild hog. “That puts an end to your hunting for a month or two,
my fine fellow; perhaps for ever. I’ll capture that hog now if I have to
follow him for a week. I’ll try to tire him out and ride him down; and
if I can’t do that, I’ll head him off and turn him back toward the old
bee-tree, so that some of the other dogs can have a chance at him.”
Featherweight, knowing that his wounded favorite would make the best of
his way to Mr. Gaylord’s house, and that when he arrived there he would
receive every attention from Uncle Jim, the old negro who had charge of
the hounds, once more put spurs to his pony and dashed through the cane
in hot pursuit of the hog. He did not follow directly after him, but
gradually turned off to the left of the trail, hoping to pass him and
compel him to turn back in the direction from which he had come.
How long the chase continued Featherweight could not have told. The rapid
pace soon began to tell upon the pony, which showed a desire to settle
down into a slow gallop; but the hog went ahead as swiftly as ever. As
the boy had eyes and ears for nothing except the game he was pursuing,
he did not know in what direction he was going or where he was, until
he discovered an opening through the trees in front of him, and came
suddenly upon the bank of the cove where the smugglers’ schooner was
hidden. He thought he must be close upon the hog now, for, just as he
drew rein, he heard a rustling among the bushes a little distance off;
but had he investigated the manner, he would have found that the noise
was not occasioned by the wild hog, but by Bayard Bell and his cousins,
who were concealed behind a log, watching his movements.
The sight of a schooner hidden away among the bushes in that lonely place
was a most unexpected one to the eyes of the young hunter, and speedily
drove all thought of the game out of his mind. He could not account for
her presence there, and the longer he looked at her the more he wondered,
and the more surprised he became. He ran his eye all over the vessel,
noting the fine points about her that had so deeply interested Bayard
Bell, but he could not discover anything that looked familiar, and he was
finally obliged to conclude that he never had seen her before.
“I’ve lost the hog,” said Featherweight to himself, gazing all around
him to see if there were any of the crew of the vessel in sight, “but
I’ve found a schooner. Who owns her? Who brought her here? Where are the
men who belong to her, and why is she hidden away in this cove? I can’t
see any one about her,” he added, seizing a branch above his head and
standing erect in his saddle to obtain a view of her deck. “Yes, sir;
she’s deserted, and here’s her yawl lying on the shore. Now, that’s
lucky. I’ll just step aboard and examine into things a little.”
As Featherweight said this he hitched his pony to a limb of the tree,
sprang to the ground, and in a few seconds more was pushing the yawl
through the bushes toward the schooner. Had he gone around the stern and
looked in at one of the windows—the curtains were raised now—he would
have seen that the vessel was not deserted, and that there were four men
there engaged in consultation: but he pulled straight toward the bow, and
after making the yawl’s painter fast to the bobstay, sprang over the rail
and looked about him. He could see no one. He listened, but could hear
nothing, for the door leading into the cabin was closed, thus shutting
out the sound of the conversation carried on by the captain and his men.
Stepping to the forehatch he looked down into the hold, and the first,
object that caught his eye was a lighted lantern, standing at the foot
of the ladder—the same one Bayard had used during his interview with the
prisoner.
“That’s the very thing I need,” said Featherweight, as he descended into
the hold. “I will look all over this craft now, and see if I can find
something to tell me what she is and where she belongs. Suppose she
should prove to be a private yacht, whose owner has come up here with a
party of friends to go deer-hunting? If they should return suddenly and
find me prowling about, they might not like it. Perhaps it would teach
them that it is a good plan to leave a watch on board a vessel.”
The first thing Featherweight noticed when he reached the bottom of the
ladder was, that for a vessel the size of the schooner, her hold was
very shallow. He could scarcely stand erect in it. He was surprised at
this, and he would have been still more surprised if he had known that
the floor of the hold was provided with a fore, main and after hatchway,
like the deck above, and that they led down into a second hold—the real
hold of the vessel, in fact—which was nearly as large as the one in which
he was then standing. He learned all about that, however, and about a
good many other things, before he got through with the schooner. If he
had known all that was to happen to him before he put his foot on shore
again, he would have got out of that vessel without the loss of a single
instant.
The hold was empty, and Featherweight did not see anything to attract
his attention until he crawled through a narrow passage-way that led
around the forecastle to the extreme forward part of the vessel. There
he discovered a locker, and the key was in the door. Little dreaming
what was on the other side of that door, he turned the key, and holding
his lantern above his head looked into the room. He was not easily
frightened, but he saw something that made the cold chills creep all
over him, and caused him to utter a cry of alarm and stagger back into
the hold as if some one had struck him a blow. It was a pale, haggard
face which looked at him over the top of a coil of rope. He did not see
anything familiar in it, but he recognised the voice which asked in
indignant tones:
“Are you ready to answer my question now?”
The sound of the voice quieted Featherweight’s nerves, and after a
moment’s hesitation he stepped into the locker and lowered his lantern
so that he could obtain a fair view of the face. “It can’t be possible
that this—Chase, what in the name of wonder are you doing in this hole?”
he asked, as soon as he had satisfied himself as to the identity of the
occupant of the locker.
“Fred Craven!” cried the prisoner, in great amazement. “Well, I am
beaten, now. I am taken all aback.”
“So am I,” replied Featherweight. “What are you doing here?”
“I didn’t know that you were one of these fellows.”
“What fellows?”
“I should be glad if you would bring me a mouthful to eat, for I am
almost famished,” continued Chase, without answering Featherweight’s
question. “But first I want to know why you brought me here, and what you
intend to do with me?”
“I!” Featherweight almost shouted; “what did I have to do with bringing
you here?”
“Well, you know something about it, don’t you?”
“_I!_” repeated Featherweight, growing more and more bewildered. “Boy,
you’re crazy. Why don’t you get up and come out from behind that coil of
rope?”
“Look here!” exclaimed the prisoner, who did not seem to understand the
matter at all; “are you not one of them?”
“One of whom?”
“Don’t you belong to the band?”
“What band?”
“Why, the smugglers.”
“Eh! Chase, you’re dreaming.”
“Do I dream that I am a prisoner?”
“A prisoner!”
“Yes; and that I have been shut up here ever since last night? If you are
not one of them, what made you come here? How did you get aboard?”
“I came off in the yawl. I found it on shore.”
“Did you?” exclaimed Chase, eagerly. “That accounts for it. I understand
the matter, now.”
“I don’t,” replied Featherweight. “I am all in the dark.”
“If you will release me I will soon enlighten you. You will have to use
your knife, for my hands are tied behind my back, and one end of the rope
is made fast to a ring-bolt in the deck, so that I can’t get up.”
Featherweight was more amazed than ever when he found that Chase was a
prisoner, but he refrained from asking any questions, knowing that in
due time he would hear all about it. He forgot now that Chase was his
sworn enemy, and that only the day before he had been standing face to
face with him in a hostile attitude, and that when Bayard and his men
approached to attack the Sportsman’s Club, Chase had singled him out
as his own special object of vengeance, and made at him as though he
meant to tear him in pieces. Featherweight did not care to remember
this against him now; but Chase must have thought of it, for when his
visitor placed his lantern on the floor, and, clambering over the coil of
rope, bent down to untie the prisoner’s arms, the latter said, with some
embarrassment—
“Fred, I little thought yesterday that I should ever have to ask a favor
of you.”
“Never mind it now,” replied Featherweight. “I didn’t bear you any
ill-will, and I hope that from this time forward we will be fast friends.”
“You may safely bet on me,” said Chase, earnestly, as Featherweight
helped him to his feet. “You have rendered me a great service, and I’ll
never forget it. Now, let’s leave here at once. I have passed a most
miserable night in this locker, and I want to get out of sight of it as
soon as I can. I will explain everything presently.”
Featherweight knew from his companion’s manner that he had some exciting
revelation to make. Wondering what it could be, and impatient to hear
it, he picked up his lantern and started back through the passage-way,
closely followed by Chase, who kept looking back over his shoulder, as
if he were afraid that there might be some one pursuing him. When they
reached the ladder, and Featherweight was about to ascend to the deck,
Chase caught him by his sleeve and held him back. “Be very careful,” said
he, in a suppressed whisper, “there may be some of them still on board,
and if they see us we are done for.”
“They? Who?”
“Why, Coulte and his sons. Yes, they are members of the band,” added
Chase, in response to an inquiring look from his companion, “and they are
the ones who got me into this scrape.”
“What have you done to them?”
“Nothing. They were acting under instructions from Bayard and his
cousins. They attacked Wilson and me last night while we were in Mr.
Gaylord’s yard, and pulled me off my horse.”
“Who did—Bayard and his cousins?”
“No, Coulte’s boys.”
While this conversation was going on the door of the cabin opened, and
the four men who had been holding their consultation there came out
and ascended to the deck. The moment Mr. Bell reached the top of the
companion-ladder he heard the sound of voices coming from the forehatch,
and his suspicions were aroused at once.
“Who’s that?” he asked, turning to Coulte, who was close at his heels.
The old Frenchman, who also heard the voices, was so astonished and
alarmed that he could not answer the question. He stepped cautiously to
the side of the vessel and saw the yawl made fast to the bobstays. Could
it be possible, he asked himself, that Bayard, instead of going ashore
with the boat, as he ought to have done, had pulled around the schooner,
and gone down into the hold to have another talk with the prisoner? If
such was the case, his discovery by his father was certain. Mr. Bell saw
from the expression of Coulte’s face that there was something wrong, and
ordering him and his sons in a low but stern voice, to remain perfectly
quiet, he walked forward on tip-toe. Arriving at the hatchway, he looked
down into the hold and saw the two boys there—Chase sitting on the lower
step of the ladder, gazing at his wrists, which were red and swollen from
having been so long confined, and Featherweight standing in front of him
with one hand in his pocket, and the other holding a lighted lantern. Mr.
Bell was about to call out to them and demand what they were doing there,
when something one of them said attracted his attention; and drawing back
from the hatchway so that he could not be seen if either of the boys
should chance to look toward the deck, he listened with all his ears.
The first word he heard brought an expression of amazement to his face,
which gradually changed to a look of intense alarm as the conversation
proceeded.
“Chase,” said Featherweight, “I can’t make head or tail of what you are
trying to tell me. Now begin at the beginning and let me know how you
came here, who brought you, why you were bound and confined in that
locker, and all about it.”
“Do you know that there is a gang of smugglers around here, and that
we see and talk to some of its members nearly every day?” asked Chase,
abruptly.
“No,” replied Featherweight. “I knew there was such a band somewhere on
the coast, for Walter was reading about it this morning in the paper;
but I didn’t know that they were so near us.”
Featherweight remembered that Perk had given it as his decided opinion
that, if the Sportsman’s Club and Bayard and his men had come to blows
on the preceding day, the Club would have whipped three of the relations
of the ringleader of the band; but he did not allude to it, for he was
not in the habit of repeating what was said to him by his friends. It was
this quality—the ability to hold his tongue, and a very rare one it is,
too—that had made Featherweight so many friends. If any of the students
at the Academy wanted a trustworthy confidant, they always selected him,
for he was never known to tell a secret. More than that, they could say
what they pleased before him about anything or anybody, so long as they
did not abuse any of his friends, and there was no danger that it would
ever be repeated.
“Well, they do live near us—right here in our very midst,” continued
Chase; “and you are at this moment standing on board their vessel!”
“No!” exclaimed Featherweight.
“But I say, yes; you are. And now I will tell you how I came to find out
about them.”
Chase settled himself into an easy position on the ladder, and proceeded
to give his companion a history of everything that had happened to him
since he had last seen the members of the Sportsman’s Club. He told how
Bayard and his cousins had excited the suspicions of himself and Wilson
by leaving them and going off together; how they had crept through the
bushes and overheard their conversation about the smugglers, and the
plans they had laid against Walter Gaylord; how Bayard, in order to get
him and Wilson out of the way, had raised a quarrel with them and told
them to go home; how they had waited until dark and then started for Mr.
Gaylord’s house, intending to see Walter and put him on his guard against
Coulte and his sons; how they had been waylaid at the gate by a couple
of sailors, who proved to be Pierre and Edmund; and wound up giving an
account of Bayard’s visit to the schooner that morning.
“From some things Bayard said when he was here,” added Chase, “I have
come to the conclusion that they did not intend to capture me, but
mistook me for Walter. You know I ride a white horse and dress something
like him, and it is very easy for one to make a mistake in the dark.
Bayard was astonished and very angry when he found me in the locker, and
I heard him say to Coulte that it was none of his affair (alluding, I
suppose, to my capture), and that he washed his hands of it.”
“Then why didn’t Coulte set you at liberty?” asked Featherweight.
“I suppose he was afraid that I would go to the village and make trouble
for him,” replied Chase; “and I can assure him that his fears were well
founded. I am not going to be bound hand and foot and shut up in a dark
hole like that for nothing; now I tell you. If I don’t raise a breeze
in this settlement as soon as I put my foot on shore again, it will be
because I don’t know how. He didn’t help the matter much by keeping me a
prisoner, for Wilson is at liberty, and I know he won’t eat or sleep till
he tells my father everything.”
“And so they intended to lose Walter in the West Indies? That’s a queer
idea.”
“I call it absurd. That boy couldn’t be lost in any part of the world. He
would find his way home from the North Pole. But there’s another thing I
want to tell you,” added Chase, sinking his voice almost to a whisper,
and assuming a very mysterious air which made his companion impatient to
hear what he was about to say, “and that is, that Bayard’s father is the
leader of this gang.”
“No!” cried Featherweight again.
“It’s a fact. While Bayard was talking with Coulte just outside the
locker—I heard every word he said—some one whistled from the shore,
and the old Frenchman declared that it was the captain. I heard a boat
put off from the vessel and come back with Mr. Bell. I know it was he,
because I recognised his step and also his voice. I have heard him speak
a good many times during the three weeks I have been visiting at his
house, and it is impossible that I should be mistaken.”
“Where do you suppose he is now?” asked Featherweight, who told himself
over and over again that Chase had certainly taken leave of his senses,
and didn’t know what he was talking about.
“He may be on board the vessel, for all I know; or he may have gone
ashore with the yawl and left it where you found it. We’d better be
going, too.”
“I should say we had,” replied Featherweight, making his way cautiously
up the ladder. Although he did not believe a word of the story he had
heard—he told himself it was utterly unreasonable—he thought it best to
be on the safe side, and to reconnoitre the deck before he went up there.
“I am glad I have been able to do you a service, Chase,” he added; “but
if I had known that this craft was a smuggler, you wouldn’t have caught
me——”
Featherweight suddenly paused, his face grew as pale as death, and he
backed down from the ladder with much greater haste than he had ascended
it. While he was speaking he happened to look upward, and saw Mr. Bell
leaning over the combings of the hatchway, glaring down at him like a
caged hyena. He began to put a little more faith in Chase’s story, now.