THE ISLAND CAMP
"Havens, Sanders and 'Little Bill' Dugan," added Fenton, quietly, as a
hail came from the shore.
"A jolly good place for a camp," observed Bob.
"But no game around worth shooting at," objected Sam. "Hello, look at
that sign they've got."
On a strip of canvas, stretching from one tree to another, was painted
in rude black letters, "Idleman's Club."
"Hello there, Fenton," came from the shore; "what crowd is that you've
got?"
"Wait and see, Havens," replied Howard, smilingly.
The sail rattled down and the "Dauntless" glided slowly over the
transparent water toward a boat moored close by. Havens caught a rope,
and, in a moment, the boys were scrambling ashore.
Jim Havens was a sturdy-looking boy, with a rather pleasant face and
manner, while Tom Sanders, slimly built, had sharp features and a loud
voice. The Ramblers did not need to be told which was "Little Bill."
That lad had the same aquiline nose, gray eyes and sour expression
which characterized his uncle, the stage-driver.
"Come over to the camp, fellows," invited Havens, pleasantly. "This is
a surprise, all right."
The Idleman's Club had chosen a most inviting situation. Not far away
was a thick grove of trees, while the heights which rose back of them
formed a most pleasing picture.
As the group walked toward the camp-fire, "Little Bill" trailed in the
rear. He did not seem glad to see the visitors, and on learning who Bob
Somers and his friends were, his manner became even less cordial.
Before the tent a brisk fire was burning. Suspended above it several
pots were steaming merrily and sending forth a delicious odor.
The boys examined the camp with interest, peeped into the tent, and
then looked at the game which the Idleman's Club had bagged the day
before.
"Havens," said "Little Bill," suddenly, "I want to go over and see Mr.
Barton this afternoon, an'----"
"Didn't you know he had gone?" asked Bob, in surprise.
"Gone?" echoed Dugan; "yer don't mean ter say so." A blank look came
over his face. "Gone," he repeated, "since when?"
"About five days ago," answered Bob.
"Little Bill" made an angry gesture.
"An' I thought he wasn't a-leavin' till next week."
"Changed his mind," said Bob.
"Wal, wal--an' me here without known' a thing about it. Ain't that
luck?"
Dugan seemed much perturbed.
"An' didn't he say nothin' 'bout me?" he demanded.
"Why, no," replied Bob. "Not in any of his letters."
"Mighty funny, for a fact. I've done odd jobs over at Rickham fur
a long spell, now, an' I was powerful sure he'd give me the job of
lookin' after his horses this summer. Ask Sanders if I wasn't."
"Sure you were," said the thin boy.
"He always called me 'Bill'--old Barton did. He says ter me, 'Bill,
I'll see about it.' Say, why didn't Sam Bins go with him?"
"I don't know," said Bob.
"An' there's another thing. Seein' as how he wouldn't be here this
summer, I wanted ter use the 'Spray.' I spoke to him 'bout that, too."
"Would he agree to that?"
"He didn't say nothin'," admitted Dugan, reluctantly, "but I'm powerful
sure he intended to. Didn't tell me no. Anyway, I suppose it'll be all
right, eh?" and "Little Bill" looked eagerly at Captain Bob.
"I'll write my uncle and find out. I'd like to oblige you, Dugan, but
I'm responsible for things just now. Of course, if he says the word----"
"Guess anybody kin tell what that means," interrupted Dugan, fiercely.
"Talk about the meanest luck yet--lose a job an' all the sport I was
a-goin' ter have this summer--the whole business busted ter bits! Can
you beat it? Mebbe you don't believe what I says, eh?"
Bill raised his voice--his eyes began to snap.
"Certainly I do," laughed Bob.
"Then won't yer let me have the boat like a good feller?"
"Honest, Dugan--I can't, 'til I hear. You can go out with us any time."
"Oh, ain't that partic'lar nice?" sneered "Little Bill." "Eh, Sanders,
did you hear him?"
"Some people's middle name is meanness," was Sanders' diplomatic
response.
Dugan was fast working himself into a passion.
"Old Barton intended to let me use that boat," he cried. "Onct he says
ter me, 'Bill,' he says----"
"Here, here!" interrupted Havens; "you're raising an awful holler over
nothin'."
"I'm standin' up fur me rights'. He says, 'Bill'----"
"Don't get mad, Dugan," said Bob, soothingly. "Come now--be sensible."
"Oh, ho, glorious views around here," broke in Dave. "Going to stay
long, Havens?"
Dugan took a searching look at the poet's smiling fare, sniffed
audibly, and then lapsed into silence.
"Don't know exactly," said Havens, in reply to the question. "There's
plenty of small game, an' fishin' is great. A feller gets sick of the
village."
"Sick of it?" echoed Sanders. "Worse'n that--eh, Dugan?"
The latter nodded.
"I can't git away often enough," he said, sourly.
"Well, fellows," asked Bob, "what do you say to climbing the hill?"
"Count me out of it," said Dave, promptly.
"Oh, you won't find it hard," exclaimed Havens, reassuringly.
"I feel uncommonly sleepy," declared the poet, and he ambled leisurely
toward a mossy bank.
"What will you do when we get to the mountains, Dave?" asked Bob.
"You fellows going there?" asked Havens.
"We certainly are."
The sour expression left Dugan's face. He looked interested and
exchanged glances with Sanders.
"That's where you will find the big game," said Havens, "and I know
how to pilot you around, all right."
"Great!" exclaimed Dick.
"It's pretty risky, though, if you're not good shots."
"We're not so bad at it," laughed Bob; "eh, Chub, over there? But say,
fellows, come on. Let's get our legs in training," and he started off.
Fifteen minutes later, Bob sat down by the side of a huge boulder to
rest. The others were some distance below.
"Little Bill" and Sanders, who had been conversing in low tones, were
the first to approach.
"See here," began Dugan, in a whining voice, "yer ain't riled at the
way I talked, a spell back, are ye? I'm an outspoken feller, I am."
"No, I'm not a bit mad, Dugan," assured Bob.
"Wal," "Little Bill" looked cautiously around, "there ain't nobody
here who knows the mountains better'n Sanders an' me. Don't need ter
go no further fur a guide. Yer couldn't never go there alone. Somebody
out of the crowd would sure git lost, or fall down a precerpice, or
be drownded in one of them mountain streams. It's certain as your name
ain't Willie. Say--is it a go?"
"I'll have to talk to the other chaps, Dugan," answered Bob, evasively.
"But it's only right to take me, after what I've lost," persisted the
other. "Ain't that so?"
"I'll talk to you about it later."
Captain Bob's manner was not encouraging, and Dugan's expression began
to change.
"I suppos'n you'll have Havens," he snapped, "an' is skeered ter say
so."
Bob made no answer, but a faint smile flitted across his face, and
Dugan was quick to notice it. Two lines, rivaling those on his uncle's
forehead, appeared, and he turned away abruptly.
"Wal, I don't keer what yer does," he snapped.
Stalking down the hillside, he rejoined Sanders, who had paused a short
distance away, and the latter was heard to exclaim in a stage whisper,
"Some people's middle name is meanness."
A moment later, the two were lost to view amidst the shrubbery.
When at length the tired boys reached the hilltop, a beautiful view
repaid them. Patches of blue sky appeared between dazzling white clouds
and straight ahead rose the frowning walls of Crescent and Round
Mountains, with the gorge of Canyon River at the base of the former.
Making their way past a small cabin which stood in an open space, the
boys walked out as far as they dared.
Exclamations of wonder and admiration escaped their lips. Far below
them, the water foamed and madly tossed, as it rushed into the narrow
confines of the gorge. For a long distance it stretched ahead, dark
and gloomy, then disappeared behind a jutting crag at a point where
the walls separated, leaving a grassy strip on each side of the river.
To the left, at a great height, the weather-beaten summit of Crescent
Mountain was partially obscured by a slowly-moving cloud.
"I never saw anything finer," declared Bob Somers, at length.
"Think of getting spilled into that current," murmured Dick, whose
thoughts turned in another direction.
"You'd be a goner," said Havens, dryly.
"Suppose, after all, we won't see that waterfall," continued Bob, in a
tone of regret, "eh, Sam?"
"Not much danger of seeing it, but lots trying to," grinned Havens.
"I've climbed most of the mountains around, but I let those two fellows
alone."
As they turned away, a flock of screaming crows circled close overhead.
"Let's take a look at the cabin," suggested Sam. "Seems most as old as
the cliff."
"Nothing left of the door, and window isn't much better," said Tom.
"Wonder who could have lived here."
"Most likely some old crank," put in Dick, as he peeped inside.
The cabin contained a shaky table, a stool with one leg missing and an
empty box, all thickly covered with dust.
"Interesting, but it smells kind of musty," said Sam. "Let's skip."
The descent was made quickly.
"Well, well--what boat is that?" cried Fenton, suddenly.
The group, at that moment, had come in sight of the camp.
"As I live, the 'Dauntless'!" exclaimed Dick. "Doesn't that beat all?"
Sure enough, the graceful sailboat was slowly swinging out from the
shore, and the grinning faces of Sanders and "Little Bill" could be
plainly seen.
"Never heard of such a cheeky pair," put in Bob, indignantly.
"Good-bye, little boys," yelled Sanders. "We've borrowed yer boat fur
a spell." Then, with derisive shouts, they waved their arms, pulled
away at several ropes and the "Dauntless," catching the breeze, rapidly
receded.