THE MASTER-CARPENTER DISPOSES OF HIS PRISONER.
Oscar Chester had been on Garden Island over two hours, and had had
time enough to cool off. It was plain that he did not like the looks
of Mr. Brookbine, who was a stalwart Vermonter, over six feet in
height. He had gone on shore with one of the men from the estate, who
acted as a deck-hand, to bring off the rebel.
Oscar said nothing when he went on board of the steamer, and the other
boys were not inclined to make any talk with him. He walked from one
end of the Sylph to the other, taking a hasty survey of the
steam-yacht. He did not appear to be looking for any thing in
particular.
When he was on the forward deck he discovered Dory in the pilot-house.
He did not even bestow a second glance upon him, and went aft in a few
minutes. He looked sullen and obstinate, and it was clear that he was
disgusted with his experience on the lake.
“No use, Oscar,” said Williston Orwell, as the rebel approached him at
the stern of the boat. “You haven’t made out any thing, and I don’t
believe you will.”
“The end of the world hasn’t come yet,” replied Oscar with a heavy
sneer. “There is time enough yet, and you know I never back down.”
“But you might as well. You began too soon,” added Will Orwell.
“I didn’t begin at all: I was civil enough to Dory till he began to
put on airs. He talked to me just as though I were a little child, and
he were the Grand Mogul. I told him I wanted to steer the boat, and he
told me to sit down. He insulted me.”
“I don’t think he did, Oscar. None of us were ever in a sailboat
before; and I think he did just right in not letting you steer, for it
wouldn’t have taken much to upset that boat with so many in her.”
“Then you think I am a spring chicken, do you, Will?” demanded Oscar
with a curl of the lip.
“You know I don’t think any such thing; but you don’t know how to
steer a sailboat any more than I do. You were a little too fast to
think of doing it so soon,” reasoned Orwell with proper deference,
though he ventured to speak the truth as he understood it.
“If the fellow hadn’t put on airs, and ordered me about as though I
had been his servant, I wouldn’t say a word,” continued Oscar. “As it
is, he insulted me, and pitched me into the lake.”
“He didn’t pitch you into the lake, Oscar. You are not used to a boat
tossed about by the waves, and you fell overboard.”
“Didn’t he make the boat tip more when I stood up on purpose to pitch
me into the lake?” demanded Oscar angrily.
“I don’t know whether he did or not. I don’t understand a boat.”
“I know he did! And then he tumbled me into the water at the island.”
“But you pitched into him then; and, as he could stand up better than
you could in the boat, he threw you overboard.”
“I shall get even with him; and if I don’t throw him into the lake, it
will be because I can’t do it,” blustered the rebel. “I see you are on
his side.”
“I am not on his side; but I don’t expect a fellow to stand still,
and let you thrash him. I advise you to let him alone for a while, and
your time will come before many days have gone by. Don’t touch him
while he is handling the boat,” added the politic companion.
“I shall go for him the first moment I can get at him, and I know
where he is now,” said the intemperate rebel.
“Don’t do it: Dory is the pilot of the steamer, and the engineer just
told me that they can do nothing without him. Didn’t you hear Captain
Gildrock read the telegraph-message, that Dory was away, and for that
reason he could not go down to Burlington to convey us to Beech Hill?”
reasoned Will very earnestly.
“I don’t care what he is: I shall not feel easy for a moment until I
get even with him. I will pull him out of that cubby-house where he
is, and pitch him into the lake, before I am half an hour older,”
persisted the rebel.
“Don’t do it! You will only make trouble for yourself. Captain
Gildrock will come on board as soon as we get to Burlington, and if I
mistake not you will find a Tartar in him.”
“I’m not afraid of him. But I don’t think I shall wait for him,”
replied Oscar. “I have not been to Beech Hill yet, but I have had
about enough already to satisfy me what it is going to be. If I am to
be ordered about by a boy younger than I am, and insulted by him,
because I happen to be in a boat with him, I don’t want any more of
it. My uncle gave me money enough to pay my fare to New York, and you
have more than I have, Will. What do you say: will you go with me?”
“What shall we do when we get there? I don’t believe in jumping out of
the frying-pan into the fire,” replied Will.
“Both of us want to go to sea, and all we have to do is to find places
in a ship going to some foreign country. We can take care of
ourselves,” said Oscar confidently.
“I am not ready to go anywhere yet: I want to see what this Industrial
School is. We are to learn how to handle an engine, and how to manage
ships and boats. I think we had better wait a while before we go to
New York. We haven’t money enough to pay our way till we find a place
in a ship.”
“You can do as you like, Will, but I have had enough of this thing;
and when you miss me you will know where I have gone. If you blow on
me”--
“You know very well I won’t do that,” protested Will.
Oscar did not wait to hear any more. He went forward, and then
ascended to the hurricane deck. He and Will Orwell had been cronies,
so far as the character of Oscar would permit such a relation.
The rebel reached the hurricane deck, and went forward to the
pilot-house. He surveyed the situation carefully. Dory stood before an
open window, with the spokes of the wheel in his hands. The doors of
the apartment, one on each side, were open. The young helmsman had no
more thought of being assaulted than he had of jumping overboard.
Dory was delighted with his occupation, for he had not steered the
Sylph enough to make it an old story to him. From Garden Island he had
run out into the lake until the steamer was in range between Split
Rock and Juniper Island lights, when he headed for the latter. This
course would carry him clear of Quaker Smith Reef.
Most of the boys, after looking over the Sylph with wonder and
astonishment at the elegance of her appointments, had gathered on the
main deck forward, where they could see the lake and the course of the
steamer. But a few of them were on the hurricane-deck, and three of
them were in the pilot-house with Dory. The pilot kept his eye on
Juniper Island lighthouse, the top of which could be seen seventeen
miles. The flag-pole in the bow was kept in range with the object for
which he was steering. He had just explained to the boys in the room
how he kept off the rocks and shoals, and found his way to any part of
the lake.
He had hardly finished this explanation before Oscar Chester rushed
into the pilot-house. He rudely knocked aside a couple of the pilot’s
auditors, and laid violent hands upon Dory. The helmsman was
unconscious of the presence of an enemy until the rebel had seized him
by the collar of his coat. He pulled him over on his back upon the
floor.
“Your time has come now, Dory Dornwood!” said Oscar fiercely, as he
began to drag Dory out of the pilot-house.
“So has yours!” added Mr. Brookbine, as he stepped forward from behind
the pilot-house, where he had been reading the morning paper brought
up by the Goldwing.
The master-carpenter took the rebel by the nape of the neck, and
snapped him off his feet before he could wink twice. He pitched him
half-way across the hurricane deck. Oscar was nothing but a “spring
chicken” in the hands of the burly mechanic.
“It’s a pity I took you off that island!” exclaimed Mr. Brookbine, as
he bestowed a glance of contempt upon the rebel. “Did he hurt you,
Dory?”
“Not at all. He came up behind me when I was not thinking of any thing
of that kind, or I should have taken care of myself,” replied the
young pilot, as he rushed back to the wheel.
The pilot got his range again, and the Sylph went ahead as though
nothing had happened. The master-carpenter walked up to the fallen
rebel, who appeared to have been hurt when he struck the deck, though
he was in the act of getting up. Mr. Brookbine did not wait for him to
finish the act, but seized him by the nape of the neck again, and bore
him to the pilot-house.
“It is a pity we took this fellow from the island, Dory, for we can’t
trust him loose about the steamer,” said the stout Vermonter. “Is
there any place on board where I can lock him up?”
“Put him in the ice-house,” replied Dory, who was entirely willing to
have his assailant placed where he could do no more mischief.
“Let me alone!” growled Oscar, attempting to break away from the grip
of the master-carpenter.
“I will let you alone when I have locked you in the ice-house,” added
Mr. Brookbine, giving his patient several sharp twists and shakes,
which certainly did not improve his temper.
“He sneaked up behind me, or I should not have needed any help,” said
Dory, who felt that he had suffered a partial defeat in being taken by
surprise. “I am sorry I did not see him, for I think I should have
made it hot for him.”
“I shall make it hot for you before you have seen the end of this
affair. I will teach you what it is to insult your betters,” replied
Oscar. “If I don’t pitch you into the lake before I have done with
you, it will be because I can’t.”
“Any time when you are ready, let the fun begin,” added Dory, when he
had better have held his tongue.
“You will cool off in the ice-house; and we will see what you can do
in there,” continued Mr. Brookbine, as he dragged the rebel out of the
pilot-house.
“Let me alone! I don’t let anybody put his hands upon me,” yelled
Oscar, struggling to escape from the grasp of the carpenter.
“But you will be a good boy, and let me put my hands upon you, won’t
you?” added the big mechanic.
“No, I won’t! I will be the death of you if you don’t let go!”
“Steady, my boy: you are getting excited. You are wasting a great deal
of bad breath on nothing.”
The carpenter slapped his victim over a few times on the deck before
he reached the stairs to the main deck. Oscar could not stand this: he
said it hurt, and he became comparatively quiet. His tyrant walked him
down the steps. The boys on both decks gathered to witness the
exciting scene; but no one offered to interfere, and no one spoke a
word of comfort for the rebel.
“Will Orwell!” called the victim, when he saw his crony among the
spectators to his humiliation. “Come here, and help me!”
“No, I thank you! I don’t believe in butting your head against a
stonewall, and I told you not to do it beforehand.”
The carpenter opened the door of the ice-house, and thrust his
prisoner into the dark hole, as it was when the door was closed.