A “BLOW-UP.”
All the way to Mrs. Bijur’s—along the well-remembered trail, with its
alder clumps fringing the crystal-clear Sawmill Creek and the big pool
where of yore lurked Jumbo, and into which Tom had taken a header on one
memorable occasion—there was naturally only one topic of conversation,
the coming trip, of course. By the time they reached the former lumber
camp, and the place which had more recently been the headquarters of the
Trulliber gang, the boys had crossed and recrossed the continent at
least half a dozen times, and the geography and animal and vegetable
history of the State of Washington been thoroughly discussed. The trim
buildings, now painted white, with red roofs and green shutters and
doors, presented a violent contrast to the ramshackle collection of
structures in which the Trullibers had squatted.
The barn in which Tom lay a prisoner, while in the next room he had
heard Dan Dark and the others plotting, was now painted a vivid red, and
a neat tin roof glittered above its contents of spicy-smelling hay and
well-fed, sleek cows and horses. Josiah Bijur had left his widow a snug
little fortune and, with true Maine thrift, she had spent it to the best
advantage. Already she had more applications for boarders than her place
would hold. If she could have persuaded the boys she would have liked to
rent their bungalow for the overflow. But the fancy rent she offered had
no allurement for them. Their share of the treasure of the galleon had
made them two very independent lads.
Hamish Boggs, Mrs. Bijur’s hired man, was clambering off a load of hay
as the party from the bungalow came in sight. He had just hauled it in
from the mountain meadow, not far, by the way, from the foot of the
cliff where Tom took that memorable slide after his imprisonment in the
cave, which came near proving his grave.
Going to the rear of the wagon, which was halted on the steep grade in
front of the house, he placed two big stones under each of the rear
wheels.
“Don’t want the wagon to go rolling down the hill, eh, Hamish?” said Mr.
Dacre, as they came up.
“No, sir,” responded Hamish emphatically; “there’s a deep pool in the
creek at the bottom of this grade and if ther old wagin ever started
a-runnin’ daown it—wall, by chowder, she’d take er bath whether she
needed one er not.”
So saying, he proceeded to unhitch the horses and lead them toward the
barn.
“Why don’t you drag the load in under the mow?” asked Tom, not quite
seeing the object of leaving the load stalled in front of the house.
“Wall, yer see,” drawled Hamish, “thet mow’s got quite a sight of grass
inter it naow. By chowder, ef I tried ter put this load in on top, it
might raise the roof ofen it, so I’m gon’ ter shift it back a bit.”
At this juncture Mrs. Bijur appeared—a thin, sharp-featured woman in a
blue calico dress, with a sunbonnet to match.
“Wall, land o’ goodness, ef it ain’t Mister Dacre,” she cried. “Wall,
dear suz, what brings you here? Hamish, yer better ’tend to thet sick
caow afore you put in yer hay. Do it right arter you’ve got them horses
put up.”
“And leave ther hay out thar, mum?” asked Hamish.
“Yes, of course. Nobody ain’t goin’ ter steal it, be they? Go on with
yer. Mr. Dacre, come in. Hev a glass of buttermilk. Dear suz! if I ain’t
run off my mortal leags, an’—oh, you air a sniffin’, too, be yer?”
She broke off her torrent of talk as she noticed Mr. Dacre sniffing with
a critical nose. The atmosphere was, in fact, impregnated with a very
queer odor.
“Guess some senile egg must have gone off and died round here,” said
Tom, with a snicker to Jack.
“It’s that perfusser,” explained Mrs. Bijur. “I tole him that he’d hev
ter stop experimentin’ ef it was goin’ ter smell us out o’ house an’
home this er way. Awful, ain’t it?”
“Well, it is rather strong,” admitted Mr. Dacre, as they took seats in
the stuffy parlor, with its wax fruit under their glass covers, the
imitation lace tidies on the backs of the stiff chairs, and the noisy,
eight-day clock ticking away like a trip-hammer.
“What ever is the professor doing?” he inquired.
“’Sperimentin’,” sniffed Mrs. Bijur, smoothing out her apron.
“Must be experimenting with cold-storage eggs,” put in Tom.
“No,” rejoined Mrs. Bijur gravely, “it’s some sort of a ’splosive. I
tell you, Mister Dacre, I’m terrible skeered. Reely I be. S’pose thet
stuff ’ud go off? We’d all be blown up in our beds.”
“Unless you happened to be awake, ma’am,” answered Mr. Dacre.
“Ah, but he don’t ’speriment only at night,” was the rejoinder. “He’s
off all day huntin’ bugs and nasty crawly things. It’s only at night he
works at it, an’ I tell yer, I’ve got my hands full with them Soopendyke
children. They’re allers a-tryin’ to git inter the perfusser’s
laboratory—he calls it. If they ever did, dear knows what ’ud happen.
The perfusser says that ef any one who didn’t understand that stuff was
to meddle with it, it might blow up.”
“Good gracious!” exclaimed Mr. Dacre, with mock anxiety. “I hope the
young Soopendykes are all safely accounted for.”
“I dunno. There’s no telling whar them young varmints will git ter,” was
the reply. “They’re every place all ter oncet, and no place long
tergither. Tother day I cotched one tryin’ ter git inter the laboratory.
Crawlin’ over ther roof, he was, and goin’ ter drop inter ther window by
a water pipe. Seems ter me thet they are just achin’ ter blow themselves
up, and——Good land! Look at ’em now!”
The widow rushed to the window and shook her fist at four young
Soopendykes who were disporting themselves in the hay wagon, leaping
about among the fragrant stuff, and pitching it at one another, to the
great detriment of Hamish’s neat load.
“Where is Mrs. Soopendyke?” inquired Mr. Dacre, as the widow finished
shooing—or imagined she had done so—the invading youngsters from their
play.
“Lyin’ down with a headache,” was the rejoinder. “Poor woman, them young
’uns be a handful, an’ no mistake.”
As Mrs. Bijur seemed inclined to enlarge on her troubles, Mr. Dacre lost
no time, as soon as he could do so, in explaining his errand.
“Meat!” exclaimed Mrs. Bijur. “Good land, go daown cellar and help
yourself. The boys can give me some of those nice fresh fish in trade
some time. No, you won’t pay me, Mr. Dacre. Dear suz, ain’t we
neighbors, and—— Land o’ Gosh-en!”
The last words came from the good lady in a perfect shriek. And well
they might, for her speech had been interrupted by a heavy sound that
shook the house to its foundations.
Bo-o-o-o-m!
“Good heavens!” cried Mr. Dacre, rushing out of the door, followed by
the boys. “An explosion!”
“That thar dratted explosive soup of the perfusser’s has gone off at
last!” shrieked the widow, following them in most undignified haste. As
they emerged from the house, a shrill cry rang out:
“Ma-ma! Oh, ma-ma!”
“Just as I thought, it’s one of them Soopendykes!” cried Mrs. Bijur.
“Good land! Look at that!”
She indicated the extension of the house, a low one-storied structure,
jutting out from the rear. It was in this that the professor had set up
his “laboratory,” as Mrs. Bijur called it. Her exclamation was
justified.
A large hole, some three feet six inches in diameter, gaped in the once
orderly tin roof. Through the aperture thus disclosed, yellow smoke was
pouring in a malodorous cloud, while, on a refuse pile not far away, the
eldest Soopendyke, Van Peyster, aged twelve, was picking himself up with
an injured expression. His Fauntleroy suit, with clean lace cuffs and
collar—fresh that morning—was in blackened shreds. His long yellow
curls were singed to a dismal resemblance to their former ideal of
mother’s beauty. Master Van Peyster Soopendyke was indeed a melancholy
object, but he seemed unhurt, as he advanced toward them with howls of:
“I didn’t mean ter! I didn’t mean ter!”
“You young catamount!” shrilled the widow. “What in the name of time hev
yer bin a-doin’ of?”
“Boo-hoo! I jes’ was foolin’ with that stuff of the professor’s an’ it
went off!” howled the Soopendyke youngster, while the boys likewise
exploded into shouts of laughter. In the meantime, Mr. Dacre had burst
in the locked door and discovered that, beyond wrecking the laboratory,
the explosion had not done much harm. He had just finished his
examination when Mrs. Soopendyke, her hair falling in disorder and her
ample form hastily dressed, came rushing out.
“My boy! My boy!” she cried, in agonized tones. “Van Peyster, my
darling, where are you hurt; are you——”
The good lady had proceeded as far as this when her eyes fell on the
smoke-blackened, ragged object, which had been blown through the roof by
the force of the explosion. Luckily, his having landed on the rubbish
pile had saved his limbs. But Master Soopendyke, as has been said, was
an alarming object for a fond parent’s eye to light upon.
“Oh, Van Peyster!” screamed his mother. “Great heavens——”
“Aw, keep still, maw. I ain’t hurt,” announced the dutiful son.
“Oh, thank heaven for that! Come to my arms, my darling! My joy!
Come——”
Mrs. Soopendyke was proceeding to hurl herself upon her offspring, who
was about to elude her, when from the front of the house came an
appalling shriek.
“It’s Courtney!” screamed out the unhappy lady. “Oh, merciful heavens!
What is happening now?”