HOWARD FENTON
His general appearance indicated at once that he was not a native of
that region. His neat blue suit, of the latest cut, set off a slight,
boyish figure to advantage, and seemed more appropriate to Fifth Avenue
than to a small mountain village. A shock of chestnut hair, in defiance
of comb and brush, swept across a white forehead, and his frank blue
eyes were pleasant to look upon. Below them, a coat of tan told of his
outdoor life.
Bob Somers held out his hand.
"I'll bet you're Howard Fenton," he said, warmly.
"You've struck it," laughed the other, accepting the proffered hand
and giving it a hearty shake. "And mighty glad I am, too, that you
chaps have arrived," he went on, totally ignoring the presence of many
interested listeners.
"My uncle spoke to me about you," said Bob. "Fellows, this is Howard
Fenton."
"Feels good to meet some one," laughed Dave. "Takes off some of the
strangeness of landing in a strange place. How do you like it out here?"
"For a while, not at all," replied Fenton, lowering his voice. "You
see," he added, confidentially, "I was always used to the city, and
the strangeness you speak of--well"--he drew a long breath--"it hit me
pretty hard, at first. Silly, I know, but the pater--he's out here with
me--thought he knew what kind of a vacation I'd enjoy."
"And he wasn't mistaken, after all," interrupted Bob; "I can see that
by your face."
"I should say not. A few days, and I began to like it immensely."
"See here," broke in Dugan's rough voice, as its owner stepped out of
the post-office, "I'm going to take your truck over to the house. If
you're goin', jump in;" and, without waiting for a reply, he mounted to
his seat.
"Coming along, Fenton, aren't you?" inquired Bob, cordially.
The New York boy nodded.
"Sure," he answered. "We'll get better acquainted on the way. Maybe I
can help you to get things started."
As the coach whirled along, Fenton told them that he intended taking
a scientific course in Columbia University and had brought a few
text-books along to study between times.
"And I haven't opened one of them yet," he added, with a laugh.
"Best plan for vacation," said Dave Brandon, lazily.
"Mr. Barton told me that you fellows have formed a club."
"That's right--and we've seen some great times, too," responded Somers.
"Go in for parliamentary procedure and all that, do you--whereas, etc.,
etc., be it therefore resolved that----"
"Not much," grinned Sam Randall. "Hunting, fishing, and having a good
time generally is what we're after. That stout boy opposite is our
poet laureate and artist in chief; Dick, here, is photographer; Bob's
captain, and Tom Clifton and I are just ordinaries."
Fenton laughed.
"Do you really paint?" he asked, with interest, turning toward Dave.
"Oh, yes--a little," admitted the latter. "Just took it up last winter,
though."
"Are you going to make any sketches out here?"
"It would take an awful lot to keep me from it. I have a stack of
canvas that has to be daubed up. And talk about fine views, never saw
anything to beat 'em."
"I met Mr. Barton several times," went on Fenton. "He sort of took to
me because I came from New York."
"Yes, that's where he used to live," said Bob. "Uncle Isaac came out
here a good many years ago. He has some big orchards a few miles
away--grows all sorts of fruits, you know. He bought this house because
it's right near the lake."
"Mighty good of him to invite us out here, wasn't it?" put in Sam
Randall.
"Uncle got the idea of going to Europe," added Bob, by way of
explanation, "so he suggested that the whole crowd come over. And he
left a colored boy to do the cooking, too."
Fenton nodded, and Bob went on, "The Rambler Club rendered father a
big service not long ago. We took a trip for him, and on the way some
fellows blew up our motor boat."
"Blew it up?" gasped Fenton.
"Yes--into a thousand bits. I'll tell you about it some time. Well,
dad insisted upon making up the loss in some way, and when Uncle Isaac
proposed this jaunt, I didn't have any trouble in fixing it up. Uncle
Isaac and his wife left a bit sooner than they expected, and hustled us
out here."
"Nothing could have suited me better," declared Fenton, warmly. "I
guess you won't mind my mixing in with you once in a while. Most of
the visitors in town are elderly people, and the boys," he lowered his
voice, "well, they're good enough chaps in their way, but not just the
sort I like. Jim Havens and Tom Sanders are the two I know best."
"Why do they call Dugan 'Big Bill'?" asked Tom Clifton. "He isn't big."
Fenton grinned.
"Has a nephew of the same name," he explained. "He's smaller, so it's
'Big Bill' and 'Little Bill.' Fine pair they are, too. Hello--here we
are."
This announcement interested the boys immensely. The coach was turning
into a private road, which led toward a substantial two-story building.
Standing some distance back of the main thoroughfare, its graceful
white outlines could be seen, surrounded by beautiful trees and
shrubbery. To its left was a stable.
"Not a bad looking place, eh, fellows?" observed Bob, with satisfaction.
"It's dandy," put in Dick Travers, enthusiastically. "And so close to
the lake."
"Yum--yum, I can't see anything, I'm so hungry," sighed Dave. "Thank
goodness--no more traveling to-day."
As Dugan brought up his horses before the entrance, a smiling colored
lad rushed out.
"I 'clar' to goodness, the boys has come at last, eh? Mistah Dugan!" he
exclaimed. "I certainly is glad, for suah."
"Show it then, Sam Bins, by helpin' to git this here truck off the
rattleboard," growled the driver.
"So you is Mistah Somers, an' party," went on the lad. "I've been
a-lookin' for yo' every day. Yo' sho must be hungry, gemmen. All right,
Mistah Dugan, I'll help yo'. Step inside, Mistah Somers an' fren's, an'
I'll git a meal that'll do yo' a power of good."
"Glorious words," murmured Dave, "to be followed by glorious action."
Ten minutes later, the "rattleboard" had disappeared, and the boys were
busily engaged in removing the dust and stains of travel.
The rooms of Rickham House were large and furnished more for
comfort than appearance. As the boys collected in the large, square
dining-hall, they examined with interest the old-fashioned fireplace,
substantial oak furniture and numerous engravings of hunting scenes
which hung upon the walls.
Sam Bins had disappeared, but occasionally sounds from the open door
indicated that something was happening in the kitchen.
"Did you ever think how much we owe to cooks?" said Dave, as he settled
down in a comfortable chair. "Why----"
"Huh, cut it out, Chubby," admonished Dick Travers. "Let's talk about
something worth while."
"Won't do it now, after being sat on like that," sighed the poet. "Wake
me up, fellows, when dinner is ready," and he closed his eyes.
Sam Bins was a good cook and had a proper appreciation of the size of a
hungry boy's appetite. The meal was therefore a bountiful one.
Between talking over their plans, relating stories and listening to
Fenton's description of New York, the Ramblers passed a very pleasant
time.
The meal at length having been concluded, Sam Bins took them to the
stable and exhibited a pair of fine saddle-horses.
"Yo' fellahs know how to ride, ob course," he said, with a huge grin.
"Not I," responded Fenton, decidedly, as the others nodded. "Never was
on a horse in my life."
Sam Bins was profoundly astonished.
"Then I wouldn't advise yo' to try either of dese," he said, rather
scornfully. "Dey's got a lot ob spirit--dey has."
Fenton laughingly assured him that he wouldn't.
The rest of the day was spent in arranging their rooms. Dave and Sam
took one, Tom and Dick another, while Bob Somers used a smaller one at
the western end.
Since leaving their homes in Wisconsin, they had been almost constantly
traveling, and the whole of the previous night was spent on the cars.
This, with the journey on the stage-coach, had fatigued them greatly.
But in spite of eyes that persisted in blinking, they bravely kept at
work until their belongings were arranged to suit them.
Fenton, the city boy, had a wholesome respect for firearms, and the
Ramblers, as they exhibited their brightly polished shotguns and
rifles, filled him with apprehension.
"I'd be afraid of my life to handle one of those things," he admitted,
candidly. "You see," he grinned, "I never had any occasion to use 'em
in New York. But there are two things I've learned pretty well out
here--sailing a boat and handling a canoe--what's the matter with
taking a sail day after to-morrow?" he rattled on. "The pater has a
good boat, the 'Dauntless,' and, if you like, we'll explore Promontory
and Hemlock Islands. They camp out there once in a while. Tom Sanders
and Jim Havens, the fellows I spoke about, are over there now."
"You can just bet we'd like it," declared Bob, enthusiastically.
"The lake is perfectly safe as far as the passage between the islands,"
went on Fenton. "I won't take you into any danger."
"You are not going to find us a scary crowd," laughed Bob; and the
matter was arranged then and there. Fenton soon after took his
departure.
"A nice chap, that," observed Dave, as his slight figure grew small in
the distance.
"Awful glad we got acquainted so soon," said Tom. "Somehow or other, he
doesn't seem like a stranger. A smart fellow, too."
"He's in good company, then, Tom," was Dick Travers' rejoinder.
That evening, the Ramblers sat on the wide veranda, enjoying the
pleasant air.
The moon was mirrored in shining streaks on the breeze-swept waters
of the lake, and its light played hide-and-seek on the mountain crags
beyond. Several peaks gleamed ghostly white against a greenish sky,
while the valley appeared gray and mysterious.
"Some of those mountains look like volcanoes," observed Tom.
"When did you ever see a volcano?" laughed Dick.
"In books, smarty."
"Some of them were volcanoes at one time," declared Dave Brandon, "and
there must have been terrible eruptions. I've read that there's lots of
lava and basaltic rock to be seen, and----"
"Basaltic rock? Excuse me, Chubby, but don't spring anything like that
so suddenly. Basaltic--wow!" and Dick's companions joined in the laugh
that followed.
"Oregon is a great state," went on Dave, with a twinkle in his eye.
"There's a lake--Crater Lake they call it--an awful big sheet of water,
right in the crater of an extinct volcano, away up in the air, with
high walls all around."
"Nice place to drop in," commented Sam.
"Canyon River interests me a whole lot," observed Bob. "Of course most
of the rivers here are swift-flowing, and there are many canyons--but
that waterfall--great to get a look at it, eh?"
"Yes, if we could soar above it in a flying machine," drawled Dave.
"Even the thought of climbing a mountain makes me tired. Fellows, I'm
going to turn right in."
And the others decided to follow his example.