AT RACCOON ISLAND CAMP.
“There it is!”
Billy gripped the arm of the patrol leader when he said this in a faint
tone. Indeed, all of them must have glimpsed the old mill at about the
same time, for the trees had thinned out somewhat ahead; and that gurgle
of dripping water drew their eyes toward the spot where the forlorn
structure stood.
Having been neglected for many years, it was now only a tumble-down
wreck. The big wheel was covered with green moss over which tiny streams
of water trickled to drop with a splash into the pool beneath.
In the eyes of Billy, it had a haunted look. He admitted to himself that
he would not much fancy paying a visit to the old mill after darkness
had set in. Of course, he did not believe in _ghosts_, for what boy will
admit that weakness? But even the presence of owls and bats, and perhaps
a prowling mink from the stream, would be apt to make a fellow’s flesh
creep if he found himself left alone in such a place.
“Think they’re there, Hugh?” Monkey Stallings murmured in the other’s
ear.
“Somebody is, for a fact,” came the ready response, “because if you look
sharp you can see a little smoke curling up from the chimney.”
Gusty had not thought to glance at that part of the mill before. Now he
saw that this was so. Evidently there must be some sort of a fire
within. And as the mill was said to have been deserted by its owner
years back, the chances seemed to be that this blaze had been made by
the tramps.
“Wait here for me while I take a scout and find out if it’s so,” Hugh
told his companions, “and be sure to keep down, because one of them
might step out suddenly and discover you. That would put the fat in the
fire, and spoil all our fine plans. I depend on you, Billy, and Monkey.”
“Count me in too, Hugh,” urged Gusty, perhaps considerably to his own
surprise, for it was a new role for him to play “second fiddle” to
anybody.
So Hugh crawled away. He went on his hands and knees, and avoiding the
open road, chose rather to creep along where the wild growing bushes
would shelter him from being observed. So cleverly did he advance, Gusty
noticed, that even should one of the tramps be watching, there was
little chance that he might discover anything amiss. Plainly these
scouts had learned their little lesson and knew how to play the game, he
told himself, as he saw Hugh sliding across a more exposed spot on his
stomach, hitching himself along almost as a snake might have done.
Hugh was gone for some little time, and then he reappeared, returning
over the same course he had taken before. Billy immediately read success
upon the other’s face.
“Then they are there, is that it, Hugh?” he queried when he could place
his lips close to the other’s ear.
“Yes, I managed to get a look-in. Both men are lying down, and I think
they must have been cooking something to eat from the smell I got. One
is smoking a pipe, and the other dozing, every now and then taking a nip
from a black bottle that is passed between them. I saw the short one
examining a wicked looking gun. I guess he’s just the kind of a bad man
to use it before he’d think of giving up to a pack of Boy Scouts. We’ve
got to go slow if we hope to win out here.”
“Well, what’s the program, Hugh?” asked Gusty eagerly.
“I’ve figured it out this way,” came the answer. “I’ll leave the rest of
you here on guard while I make my way to the river, and find the island
where some of the scouts are in camp under charge of Don Miller. All you
have to do is to lie low and never do the least thing to let them know
they’re watched.”
“But what if they take a notion to skip out?” suggested Monkey
Stallings.
“Then you must be ready to leave a message for us in a forked stick
right here, while you try and follow after them. If that happens, make
as broad a trail as you can, because it will save the rest of us heaps
of hard work following. And above all things don’t let them capture you,
because from their looks I rather think it would go hard if you fell
into their hands. They’re a tough looking lot all told.”
“I should say they were all of that, Hugh,” admitted Gusty, who had
reason to know.
Before he left them, Hugh again examined his pocket map of the country.
It was fashioned only as a sort of road guide for tourists, but anyone
could judge from the formation of things about how far it was between
the old mill and the river at the place where a bridge spanned the
stream. And not a great way above this particular spot, the island lay
upon which the scouts were in camp.
Five minutes later, and Hugh replaced the map in his pocket.
“Got your bearings all right, have you?” asked Billy, with more or less
solicitude, for everything depended on the leader finding the camp of
their comrades.
“I reckon it’ll be all right,” Hugh assured him. “You see I expect to go
back first of all to where we left our motorcycles. Once in the saddle I
can soon find my way to that bridge across the river. The island is only
half a mile or so above, where the river widens; and I hope to find some
sort of trail along the bank where I can push my machine.”
“Will you come back the same way?” asked Monkey.
“I don’t know about that,” Hugh replied. “The boys must have been
tramping around more or less since they’ve been up the river, and
perhaps they may know of some short-cut over the hills to the mill. But
I’m off. Don’t expect us until late in the afternoon.”
“Gee! I hope you get here before night sets in,” muttered Billy with a
quick glance toward the weird looking mill as seen through the scattered
undergrowth.
Hugh did not have the least difficulty in following the back trail. All
he had to do was to keep to the road until he came to a couple of white
birches which he had noticed hung out in a queer way just about the
place where the trail had formed a junction with the overgrown mill
road. After that he kept his eyes mostly on the ground, where he could
readily pick up the various footprints left by all those who had passed
along.
When he finally arrived at the place where the motorcycles had been
hidden, he hastened to get his own machine in hand. Once he started
along the back road, he made quick time of it. There was small danger
that he would lose his bearings, as Billy might have done under similar
conditions, for Hugh made sure of things as he went along.
In due time he reached the bridge that spanned the river, which was
quite narrow at this point. Looking up the stream, Hugh found that it
made a quick turn some little distance away. He could also see that it
was beginning to widen at this point.
“I guess it can’t be very far to Raccoon Island,” he told himself.
Having jumped from the saddle, he started to push his machine toward the
left side of the road.
As he had hoped might be the case, he found indications there to tell
him that some sort of a trail ran along the river bank heading upstream.
Doubtless, parties going fishing may have made it; and all sorts of
people had used it in coming or going. Cows even followed the beaten
track, for Hugh quickly discovered traces of their presence.
“Not half as bad as I expected,” he told himself as he pushed on, though
it was anything but fun to urge that heavy machine over roots and uneven
ground.
Hugh generally looked at the bright side of things. He kept his spirits
up when the clouds grew dark and forbidding by telling himself that it
might easily be a great deal worse. That is the way with scouts; they
are taught always to look for the silver lining of the cloud and never
to despair.
Twice the boy had to make a short halt in order to wipe his streaming
brow with his red bandana handkerchief, and rest for a minute or so. But
he always started on again with a grim determination to get there.
The third time he stopped it was to listen eagerly. Then he chuckled.
“I ought to know that voice among a hundred,” he remarked. “No one can
sing quite as well as Blake Merton. I must be pretty close to the island
camp right now. One more push will do the business, I expect. There’s a
fellow I know who won’t be sorry, either.”
As he continued to urge the weighty motorcycle onward, Hugh presently
saw something moving ahead of him. It was very like a white flag, only
in its center it had a blood red square. He certainly ought to know a
signal flag, since he had learned to wigwag equal to the best in the
troop, and there were several experts among the scouts at that,
particularly Bud Morgan, who had once worked with a surveying party,
Arthur Cameron, Blake Merton, Walter Osborne, Sam Winter and Cooper
Fennimore.
Two boys clad in the familiar khaki of the scouts were standing on a
little elevation that was hardly more than a mound. They seemed to be in
communication with some one who must be over on the island. No doubt
they were indulging in a little talk, partly for the fun of the thing,
and to improve their knowledge of the Myers code at the same time.
Hugh stood still and gave the slogan of the Wolf patrol:
“_How-oo-ooo!_”
This weird, long-drawn-out cry startled the pair with the flags. When
they craned their necks and looked around, Hugh waved his hand.
“Hello! Sam and Cooper, how d’ye do?” he called out, starting toward
them.
“Why! it’s Hugh!” cried one of the scouts as though rather taken aback
by the sudden discovery. They had hardly been expecting that the
assistant scout master would get up to Raccoon Island while they were in
camp there.
“And say, look what he’s got along with him, will you?” exclaimed the
second boy astonished. “A splendid motorcycle as sure as you live! No
wonder he had to stay home and wait for it to come along. Chances are
that Billy Worth and Monkey Stallings have got the same kind of bully
mount. Are they back of you, Hugh? What news do you bring to camp?”
“Plenty of things doing, boys,” returned the patrol leader. “But you’ll
have to hold your horses until I can see all the rest of the boys.
Time’s too valuable for me to tell the story more than once.”
“Whew! do you hear that, Sam?” cried Cooper Fennimore excitedly. “Hugh
as much as says there’s something going to happen to give us all a
little whirl. Seemed to feel it in my bones this very morning when I
turned out, that this day wouldn’t go by as quietly as the others did.
Tom Sherwood said it must be going to rain, and that was what affected
me; and Jack Dunham asked me how many helps I’d taken of that stew last
night, because it was a case of indigestion I had developed; but you see
after all it was what you might call a premonition of trouble. Coming
events cast their shadows before, they say; and now I know it.”
“How do you get back and forth between the island and the shore?”
demanded the newcomer impatiently, because Cooper Fennimore was known to
be a great talker, and apt to waste considerable precious time.
“Why,” said Sam Winter, “we’ve got a cute little punt that they call a
dinghy, which belongs to the big motorboat. You can push it with a pole
in the shallow water, or use a paddle if it gets too deep for that. Here
it is drawn up on the bank. It will just carry three of us, Hugh.”
“Then let’s be moving across as quick as we can,” remarked Hugh,
“because the afternoon is wearing away, and there’s a lot to be done
before sunset, if we expect to capture the two hoboes who held Gusty
Merrivale up on the road and robbed him of the money he was taking to
pay the men working in his father’s granite quarry.”
“Whee! listen to that, Sam!” gasped Cooper Fennimore, and then he
hastened to push the flat-bottomed little tender into the water and take
his place, ready to use the pole while Sam handled the paddle.
As they approached the island, there were evidences of considerable
excitement ashore and a number of boys clad in the familiar khaki lined
up to give their leader the customary scout salute. This, of course,
pleased Hugh very much, for he was human enough to feel a thrill of
pride in the affection his comrades seemed to entertain for him.