AN EXCURSION
"Grab hold of him--do, that's a good fellow! Stop the beast! Whoa,
Buttercup, whoa! Oh, dear, won't somebody stop him?"
Howard Fenton, seated on Mr. Barton's big black horse, was having a
most uncomfortable time in the field by the house. It was the first of
a series of lessons in the art of horseback riding that Sam Randall had
undertaken to give him.
Sam, Tom Clifton and young Bins, painful to relate, were roaring with
laughter.
"Golly, but dis chile neber seed nuthin' like that. Oh, dese city
fellers! Golly!" and Sam showed his white teeth again.
Buttercup, as if indignant at the awkwardness of his rider, danced
and pawed the ground and bobbed his head up and down, while Howard
struggled desperately to hold his seat.
"I know I shall fall! Oh, oh, for goodness' sake--if I break my neck,
Sam, it's your--oh--oh----"
The sentence, ending in a wail, was too much for Sam. He seized
Buttercup by the bridle, while Bins, nearly convulsed with laughter,
aided the frightened rider to dismount.
"Thanks, old chap," panted Howard. "I know I made an awful spectacle
of myself. Talk about jolts, bumps and aching bones--say, does anybody
really enjoy riding?"
"Oh, listen to him!" cried Sam Bins, with another explosion.
"Of course they do," said Randall, loftily, bestowing a compassionate
look upon the crestfallen Howard. "Let me show you how to do it," and
he vaulted into the saddle.
Fenton gazed after him admiringly, as he rode around in a wide circle,
then skilfully drew his spirited steed alongside.
"You're a crackerjack, Sam," he exclaimed. "But I'll stick to electric
cars and trains."
"Oh, dese city fellers," chuckled Sam Bins.
"Here--I'll take a turn, too," put in Tom Clifton.
The smallest member of the Rambler Club also managed Buttercup with
ease. Proudly, he put the horse through its paces, and, flushed with
triumph, called out, as he rode up, "How's that for riding?"
"You country chaps can beat us out in some things, that's sure,"
laughed Fenton, good-naturedly.
"Come ahead--you can learn to ride," urged Sam.
"Yes, do. It's as easy as rolling off a log," chimed in Tom.
"Nothing easier than falling off a horse, I think," returned Fenton,
with a faint smile. "But not to-day, boys. Oh, no! Guess I've had
enough."
"Oh, dese city fellers," repeated Sam Bins, as he led Buttercup back to
the stable.
"Wonder how Bob and the other fellows are getting along in the
wilderness," said Howard, when the group had turned toward the porch.
"Guess they won't leave any bears or moose for Tom and me," grinned
Sam. "They are crack shots--that is all except Chubby. He never seems
to hit a thing, any more."
"Hope Dick will get some pictures," put in Tom. "Wish I had a camera,
I'd snap some, too."
"I say, Howard," exclaimed Sam, suddenly, "Phil Levins, Tom and I are
going over to Promontory this afternoon. I'm teaching Clifton how to
swim. Want to take a sail in the 'Spray'? It's a bully day for an
outing."
"I may come over later, in the 'Dauntless.' Promised pater I'd do some
writing for him," replied Fenton. "Guess I can make it, though, and
we'll have a little race on the way back."
"Good! But the 'Spray' will run away from the 'Dauntless,' old man."
"It will--like fun," laughed Fenton, as he took his leave.
Phil Levins met the Ramblers at the wharf. Just as they were clambering
aboard the "Spray," "Little Bill" happened to pass. He surveyed them
with a scowl.
"I'm a-goin' ter take out that boat, some day, an' don't you forgit it.
Old Barton says ter me one day--he says, 'Bill'----"
These were the words that greeted the boys, and Sam Randall cut them
off by exclaiming, "Oh, we're not talking about that now, Bill Dugan."
"Ain't you? Well, I'm talking about it, all right. Afear'd I'd hurt the
boat, eh? Think you're sich swell sailors, eh? Jist you wait, fellers."
"All year, if you want," laughed Sam. "Give the boat a shove, boys.
Rattling good breeze, eh? That's it--we're off."
The sail quickly filled out, and the boat drew away from the wharf.
"Jest you wait," repeated "Little Bill," loudly.
"That's what we're doing."
"I ain't forgot what that elephant done."
"Don't let it worry you, grouchy," and the boys waved their hands
toward the disgusted Dugan.
The "Spray" was a fast boat, and with a strong, favorable wind, cut
through the water at a rapid rate.
The dark firs on Hemlock and the crags of Promontory Island, began to
loom up clear and distinct. It was exhilarating sport, and, as the
water foamed and gurgled and occasionally dashed over the gunwale, the
boys began to sing.
"This is great," exclaimed Tom Clifton, at length. "We'll have a dandy
race, if Fenton comes over."
"We ought to give him a handicap."
"Sure thing. The 'Dauntless' isn't a patch on the 'Spray' for speed."
In a short time, the "Spray" dashed into the passageway beneath the
towering crags. Emerging on the other side, they sailed past the site
of the former "Idleman's Club" and continued on until a picturesque
cove appeared in view.
"Ease over the sheet, Phil," said Sam. "That's right. Haul it down when
I say the word."
In a sheltered situation, the "Spray" glided smoothly over the limpid
water and entered the cove. At Sam's command, the sail was lowered and
an anchor heaved overboard. The boat came to a stop within a few feet
of a jutting bank, where the water was so clear that the pebbly bottom
could be plainly seen.
"Done like old salts," laughed Sam. "Off with shoes and stockings,
fellows; we'll have to wade."
In a few minutes they stood on shore. Then all took seats on a
convenient rock.
Clouds of dazzling whiteness glistened against the deep blue sky,
shadows flitted across the surface of the lake and over the rugged
crags above, while now and then a cool, pleasant breeze blew strongly
in their faces.
They were in a delightful cove. A group of willows on the opposite side
mirrored themselves in the clear water; pond-lilies and aquatic growth
bobbed gently on the listless current.
"This is where Dave would enjoy himself," observed Sam. "Listen to
the birds--say, look at that bit of blue sky," and Sam imitated the
"poet's" tones so well that Tom burst out laughing.
"Can he really paint and write poetry?" asked Phil Levins.
"Oh, Chub can do anything," replied Sam, with conviction. "He's a
dandy. But here, Tommy, get off your duds. If you don't look out, you
won't be able to swim any better than Fenton can ride."
"Oh, suffering catfish," said Tom, flippantly.
The boys quickly donned their bathing suits, and walked along the
shelving beach to the end of the cove.
"Oh, but the water's cold. Hold on there, Sam Randall, don't push."
"Don't crowd him," grinned Phil.
"Oh, of course not," snickered Sam, and the next minute, Tom, neatly
tripped, hit the water with a loud splash and a yell.
For the next half hour, they had great sport. The water was shallow and
well suited to their purpose. Tom made a little progress, and by actual
count was able to keep afloat for seventeen seconds. Then he paddled
around, while Sam and Phil, both good swimmers, raced out to the end of
the cove and back, Sam leading by a few feet.
When they were again dressed, the three resumed their place on the rock.
"Most time for Fenton to come," observed Phil Levins.
"I'll bet he won't turn up," grumbled Sam, as he shied a rock into the
water. "I'd give a lot to have that race, too."
"Let's take a walk," suggested Tom.
"Where--up on the cliff?"
"No siree! Around the base as far as we can go."
"All right, son, we'll do it," agreed Sam. "If Fenton comes along,
he'll know how to find us."
Thick vegetation, at times, forced them toward the base of the cliff,
while at others they skirted along the bank. Pretty wild flowers
nodded in the breeze and brilliant-hued butterflies hovered about.
Occasionally, a rustle amidst the underbrush indicated the presence of
some startled creature.
Straight ahead, bright in the sunlight, loomed the towering walls of
Crescent Mountain, its opposite neighbor being partly hidden by the
cliff near at hand.
At length the end of the island was reached, and the boys only stopped
where the cliff, rising straight out of the water, barred further
progress.
"A daisy view," commented Tom. "Look at the current, Sam--pretty strong
even here, eh?"
"That's right, Tommy. I wouldn't care to be more than fifty feet from
shore. Nice fresh breeze, too, though we don't get so much of it on
this side."
Sam seated himself, the others following his example. Now and then a
stick or branch floated slowly by, occasionally caught by some counter
current and swung in to shore, only to again be started on its journey
toward the gorge of Canyon River.
Sam picked up a stout limb and sent it far out, then idly watched the
current carrying it away.
"Wonder, Tom," he said, reflectively, "what kind of a journey the thing
will have. Maybe it will go over that mysterious falls."
"I'm sure I don't care. Let's skip back, and see if Fenton has come."
"You run over and see, Tommy, like a good fellow."
"I will not, you lazy-bones. What are your legs for?"
"Lots of things," laughed Sam, as he made a lunge for Tom. But the
latter jumped nimbly aside.
The boys started to retrace their steps and presently reached a point
from which the "Spray" could be seen. They saw that no one was on the
beach, while the clear expanse of Mountain Lake was unspotted by craft
of any kind.
"I told you so, Tom Clifton."
"Never mind--let's sit down and wait."
Suddenly a shout came from Phil Levins, who had lagged in the rear. It
was so full of terror, that Sam and Tom looked at each other in wonder
and alarm.
"What's up now?" gasped the latter.
Phil was waving his arms wildly.
"Hurry up--hurry up!" he yelled, frantically, and the Ramblers broke
into a run.
Over bushes and rocks they dashed, until they caught sight of something
which seemed to make their blood run cold. Their faces blanched.
A quarter of a mile away, caught in the treacherous current of Canyon
River, was the "Dauntless," her white hull sparkling in the sunshine
and her tapering mast bobbing back and forth against the background of
cliffs.