"Frank told Mr. Reddick, the preacher who came to bury old Scroggie, all that had passed between him an' the dead man but although they hunted high an' low fer the will, they never found it. Nor did they find any of the money the ol' miser must have left behind—not a solitary cent. That was over a year ago, an' they haven't found money or will yet. But this goes to show what a real feller Frank Stanhope is. He put a fine grave stone up for ol' Scroggie an' had his name engraved on it. Yes he done that, an' all he ever got from the dead man was his curses.
"Well, soon after they put old Scroggie under the sod, along comes a nephew of the dead man. No doubt in the world he was Scroggie's nephew. He looked like him, an' besides he had the papers to prove his claim that he was the dead man's only livin' relative. An' as Scroggie hadn't left no will, this man was rightful heir to what he had left behin', 'cordin' to law. He spent a week er two prowlin' round, huntin' fer the dead man's buried money. At last he got disgusted huntin' an' findin' nuthin' an' went away."
"And he left no address behind?" questioned Mr. Johnston.
"He surely did not," answered Cobin. "Nobody knows where he went—nor cares. But nobody can do anythin' with that timber without his sayso. It's a year or more since ol' Scroggie died. People do say that his ghost floats about the old cabin, at nights, but of course that can't be, sir."
"Superstitious nonsense," scoffed the teacher. "And so the will was never found?"
"No, er the buried money," sighed Cobin.
Mr. Johnston pushed his chair back from the table. "Thank you exceedingly, Mr. Keeler. I have enjoyed your breakfast and your conversation very much indeed. Madam," he said, rising and turning to Mrs. Keeler, "permit me to extend to you my heartfelt gratitude for your share in the splendid hospitality that has been accorded me. I hope to see you again, some day."
"Certainly," returned Mrs. Keeler, "Cobin! Maurice! kneel down beside your chairs. The teacher wants to pray."
Mr. Johnston frowned, then observing his host and hostess fall to their knees, he too got stiffly down beside his chair. He prayed long and fervently and ended by asking God to help him lead these people from the shadow into enlightenment.
It was during that prayer that Maurice, chancing to glance at the window, saw Billy Wilson's pet crow, Croaker, peering in at him with black eyes. Now, as Croaker often acted as carrier between the boys, his presence meant only one thing—Billy had sent him some message. Cautiously Maurice got down on all fours and crept toward the door.
"Now teacher," said Keeler, the prayer over, "you jest set still, an' I'll send Maurice out after your horse."
He glanced around in search of the boy. "Why, bless my soul, he's gone!" he exclaimed. "There's a youngster you'll need to watch close, teacher," he said grimly.
"Well sir, you jest rest easy an' I'll get your horse myself."
"Missus Wilson, where's Billy?"
Mrs. Wilson turned to the door, wiped her red face on her apron, and finished emptying a pan of hot cookies into the stone crock, before answering, sternly:
"He's down to the far medder, watchin' the gap, Maurice. Don't you go near him."
"No ma'am, I won't. Jest wondered where he was, that's all."
"I 'low you're tryin' to coax him away fishin' er somethin'."
"Oh, no ma'am. I gotta get right back home to Ma. She's not very well, an' she'll be needin' me."
"Fer land sakes! you don't say so, Maurice. Is she very bad?" The tones were sympathetic now. Maurice nodded, and glanced longingly at the fresh batch of brown cookies.
"She was carryin' the big meat-platter on her arm an' she fell with her arm under her—an' broke it."
"Lord love us!" Mrs. Wilson started to undo her apron. "Why didn't you tell me before, you freckle-faced jackass, you! Lord knows what use you boys are anyways! Think of you, hangin' 'round here askin' fer Billy and your poor Ma at home groanin' in pain an' needin' help. Ain't you 'shamed of yourself?"
"Yes ma'am," admitted Maurice cheerfully. "I guess I should'a told you first off but Ma she said if you was busy not to say anythin' 'bout her breakin' it."
"Well, we'll see about that. No neighbor in this here settlement is ever goin' to say that Mary Wilson ever turned her back on a feller-bein's distress. I'll go right over to your place with you now, Maurice. Come along."
Mrs. Wilson was outside, by this time, and tying on her sun-bonnet. Maurice held back. She grasped his arm and hustled him down the walk.
"Is it broke bad, Maurice?" she asked anxiously.
Maurice, peering about among the trees, answered absently.
"Yes ma'am. I guess she'll never be able to use it ag'in."
"Oh pity sake! Let's hurry."
Maurice was compelled to quicken his steps in order to keep up to the long strides of the anxious woman. Suddenly he halted. "Missis Wilson," he said, "you fergot to take that last pan o' cookies out'a the oven."
The woman raised her hands in consternation.
"So I did," she exclaimed. "You stay right here an' I'll go back and take it out now."
"Let me go," said Maurice quickly. "I know jest how to do it an' kin get through in less'n half the time it'll take you."
"Well, run along then. I best keep right on. Your poor Ma'll be needin' me."
Maurice was off like a shot. As he rounded the house on a lope he ran into Billy, coming from the opposite direction. Billy's cotton blouse was bulging. In one hand he carried the smoking bake-pan, in the other a fat cookie deeply scalloped on one side.
"Where you goin' so fast, Maurice?" he accosted, his mouth full.
Maurice glanced fearfully over his shoulder. "Hush, Bill. If your Ma happens to come back here it'll go bad with me."
Billy held out the pan to his chum and waited until Maurice had filled his pockets. Then he asked: "Where's she gone?"
"Over to our place. I told her about Ma fallin' an' breakin' the meat-platter, an' I guess she misunderstood. She tried to take me along with her. I had an awful time to get 'way from her."
Billy laughed. "Gee! Ma's like that. Nobody gets 'way from her very easy. Here, fill your shirt with the rest o' these cookies, an I'll take the pan back; then we'll be goin'."
"Fish ought'a bite fine today," said Maurice as he stowed the cookies away in his bosom.
"You bet. The wind's south. Have you got the worms dug?"
"Yep. They're in a can in my pocket. Did Croaker come back?" he inquired, as the two made their way down the path.
"Sure he came back. He's a wise crow, that Croaker, an', Oh gosh! don't he hate Ma, though! He gets up in a tree out o' reach of her broom, an' jest don't he call her names in crow talk? Ma says she'll kill him if ever she gets close enough to him an' she will, too."
"Well sir, I nigh died when I seen him settin' on our winder-sill," laughed Maurice. "We was havin' mornin' prayer; the new teacher was at our place an' he was prayin'. Croaker strutted up an' down the sill, peerin' in an' openin' an' shuttin' his mouth like he was callin' that old hawk-faced teacher every name he could think of. I saw he had a paper tied 'round his neck so I crawled on my hands an' knees past Ma, an' slipped out. If Ma hadn't been so deef, she'd have heard me an' nabbed me sure."
Billy chuckled. "Then you got my message off of Croaker, Maurice?"
"Yep; but by jinks! I had a awful time guessin' what you meant by them marks you made on the paper. Darn it all, Bill, why can't you write what you want'a say, instead of makin' marks that nobody kin understan'?"
"There you go, ag'in," cried Billy. "How many times have I gotta tell you, Maurice, that Trigger Finger Tim never used writin'. He used symbols—that's what he used. Do you know what a symbol is, you poor blockhead?"
Bill's message
"I should say I do. It's a brass cap what women use to keep the needle from runnin' under their finger-nail."
"Naw, Maurice. A symbol is a mark what means somethin'. Have you got that message I sent you? Well, give it here an' I'll show you. Now then, you see them two marks standin' up 'longside each other?"
"Yep."
"Well, what do you think they stand fer?"
"I thought maybe you meant 'em fer a couple of trees, Bill."
"Well I didn't. Them two marks are symbols, signifyin' a gap."
"A gap? Hully Gee!"
"Yep, an' this here animal settin' in that gap, what you think it is?"
Maurice shook his head. "It's maybe a cow!" he guessed hopefully.
"Nope, it's a dog. Now then, you see these two boys runnin' away from the gap?"
"Gosh, is that what they be, Bill? Yep, I see 'em."
"Well, that's me an' you. Now then, what you s'pose I meant by them symbols? I meant this.I've gotta watch gap. Fetch your dog over an' we'll set him to watch it, an' we'll skin out an' go fishin'."
Maurice whistled. "Well I'll be jiggered!" he exclaimed. "I wish't I'd knowed that. Say, tell you what I'll do. I'll sneak up through the woods an' whistle Joe over here now."
"No, never mind. I bribed Anse to watch that gap fer me."
"What did you have t' give him?"
"Nuthin'. Promised I wouldn't tell him no ghost stories fer a week if he'd help me out."
They had topped a wooded hill and were descending into a wide green valley, studded with clumps of red willows and sloping towards a winding stretch of pale green rushes through which the white face of the creek flashed as though in a smile of welcome. Red winged blackbirds clarioned shrilly from rush and cat-tail. A brown bittern rose solemnly and made across the marsh in ungainly flight. A blue crane, frogging in the shallows, paused in its task with long neck stretched, then got slowly to wing, long pipe-stem legs thrust straight out behind. A pair of nesting black ducks arose with soft quacks and drifted up and out, bayward.
Billy, who stood still to watch them, was recalled suddenly to earth by his companion's voice.
"Bill, our punt's gone!"
With a bound, Billy was beside him, and peering through the rushes into the tiny bay in which they kept their boat.
"Well, Gee whitticker!" he exclaimed. "Who do you s'pose had the nerve to take it?"
Maurice shook his head. "None of our gang 'ud take it," he said. "Likely some of them Sand-sharks."
"That's so," Billy broke off a marsh-flag and champed it in his teeth.
Maurice was climbing a tall poplar standing on the bank of the creek. "I say, Billy," he cried excitedly. "There she is, jest 'round the bend. They've beached her in that piece of woods. It's Joe LaRose an' Art Shipley that took her, I'll bet a cookie. They're always goin' 'cross there to hunt fer turtle's eggs."
"Then come on!" shouted Billy.
"Where to?"
"Down opposite the punt. I'm goin' t' strip an' swim across after her."
Maurice dropped like a squirrel from the poplar. "An' leave them boat thieves stranded?" he panted. "Oh gosh! but won't that serve 'em right!"
"Let's hustle," urged Billy. "They may come back any minute."
They ran quickly up the valley, Billy unfastening his few garments as they ran. By the time Billy had reached the bend he was in readiness for the swim across. Without a thought of the long leeches—"blood-suckers" the boys called them—which lay on the oozy bottom of the creek's shallows ready to fasten on the first bare foot that came their way, he waded out toward the channel.
"Bill, watch out!" warned Maurice. "There's a big womper coiled on that lily-root. You're makin' right fer it."
"I see it," returned Billy. "I guess I ain't scared of no snakes in these parts."
"But this beggar is coiled," cried his friend. "If he strikes you, he'll rip you wide open with his horny nose. Don't go, Bill."
"Bah! he's uncoilin', Maurice; he'll slip off, see if he don't. There, what did I tell you?" as the long mottled snake slid softly into the water. "You can't tell me anythin' 'bout wompers."
"But what if a snappin'-turtle should get hold of your toe?" shuddered Maurice.
"Shut up!" Billy commanded. "Do you want them Sand-sharks to hear you? You keep still now, I'm goin' after our punt."
Billy was out in mid stream now, swimming with swift, noiseless strokes toward the boat. Just as he reached it the willows along shore parted and two boys, both larger than himself, made a leap for the punt. Billy threw himself into the boat and as the taller of the two jumped for it his fist shot out and caught him fairly on the jaw. He toppled back half into the water. Billy seized the paddle and swung it back over his shoulder. The other boy halted in his tracks. Another moment and the punt was floating out in midstream.
LaRose had crawled to shore and sat dripping and sniffling on the bank.
"Now, maybe the next time you boat-thieves find a punt you'll think twice afore you take it," shouted Billy.
"How're we goin' to get back 'cross the crick?" whined the vanquished LaRose.
"Swim it, same's I did," Billy called back.
"But the snakes an' turtles!" wailed the marooned pair.
"You gotta take a chance. I took one." Billy urged the punt forward across the creek to where the grinning and highly delighted Maurice waited.
"Jump in here, an' let's get fishin'."
Maurice lost no time. "Where'll we go, Bill?"
"Up to the mouth. There's green bass up there an' lots of small frogs, if we need 'em, fer bait."
Caleb Spencer, proprietor of the Twin Oaks store, paused at his garden gate to light his corncob pipe. The next three hours would be his busy time. The farmers of Scotia would come driving in for their mail and to make necessary purchases of his wares. His pipe alight to his satisfaction, Caleb crossed the road, then stood still in his tracks to fasten his admiring gaze on the rambling, unpainted building which was his pride and joy. He had built that store himself. With indefatigable pains and patience he had fashioned it to suit his mind. Every evening, just at this after-supper hour, he stood still for a time to admire it, as he was doing now.
Having quaffed his customary draught of delight from the picture before him Caleb resumed his walk to the store, pausing at its door to straighten into place the long bench kept there for the accommodation of visiting customers. As he swung the bench against the wall he bent and peered closely at two sets of newly-carved initials on its smooth surface.
"W.W." he read, and frowned. "By ding! That's that Billy Wilson. Now let's see, 'A.S.' I wonder who them initials stand fer?" With a shake of his grizzled mop he entered the store.
A slim girl in a gingham dress stood in front of the counter placing parcels in a basket. She turned a flushed face, lit with brown roguish eyes, on Caleb, as he came in.
"Had your supper, Pa?" she asked.
"Yep." Caleb bent and scrutinized the basket.
"Whose parcels are them, Ann?" he questioned.
"Mrs. Keeler's," his daughter answered. "Billy Wilson left the order."
"Hump, he did, eh? Well, let's see the slip." He took the piece of paper from the counter and read:
One box fruit-crackers.10 pounds granulated sugar.Two pounds cheese.1 pound raisins.1 pound lemon peel.4 cans salmon.50 sticks hoarhound candy.
There were other items but Caleb read no further. He stood back sucking the stem of his pipe thoughtfully. "Whereabouts did that Billy go, Ann?" he asked at length.
"Why, he didn't go. He's in the liquor-shop settin' a trap for that rat, Pa."
"Oh he is, eh? Well, tell him to come out here; I want to see him."
Caleb waited until his daughter turned to execute his order, then the frown melted from his face and a wide grin took its place. "The young reprobate," he muttered. "What'll that boy be up to next, I wonder? I've got t' teach him a lesson, ding me! if I haven't. It's clear enough t' me that him and that young Keeler are shapin' fer a little excursion, up bush, and this is the way they take to get their fodder."
He turned slowly as his daughter and Billy entered from the rear of the shop and let his eyes rest on the boy's face. "How are you, Billy?" he asked genially.
"I'm well, thanks," and Billy gazed innocently back into Caleb's eyes. "I hope your rheumatiz is better, Mr. Spencer."
"It is," said Caleb shortly, "and my eyes are gettin' sharper every day, Billy."
"That's good," said Billy and bent to pick up the basket.
"Jest a minute, young man." Caleb's voice was stern. "I see you've cut your own and your best gal's initials onto my new bench. Did you have much trouble doin' it, might I ask?"
Billy stood up, a grin on his face. "That pine bench looked so invitin' I jest couldn't help tryin' my new knife on it," he explained. "But I didn't s'pose fer a minute that you'd mind."
"Well, by ding! I don't know but what Idomind. What if you should take a notion, some day, to carve up the side of this buildin', hey?"
Billy grew thoughtful. "I hadn't thought o' that," he said slowly. "It's pine, too, ain't it? It 'ud carve fine."
Caleb turned quickly towards a pile of goods, behind which an audible titter had sounded.
"Ann," he commanded, "you run along and get your supper."
He waited until his daughter had closed the door behind her. "Now Billy," he said, sternly, "understan' me when I say that if you ever so much as lay a knife-blade onto the walls of this here store I'll jest naturally pinch the freckles off'n your nose, one by one. Hear that?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, heed it, and heed it close. I'll overlook the cuttin' of my new bench, but, by ding! I'd ruther you'd carve me than carve this store." He paused abruptly and bent on Billy a quizzical look. "Whose 'nitials are them under yourn?" he asked.
Billy started. "Oh gosh! I dunno, Mr. Spencer; I jest cut the first ones come into my head."
"Umph! I'm not so green as I look. I know whose they be. They're Ann's."
Billy was silent. Should he tell the truth and say that he had carved Ann's initials on the bench and those of Walter Watland beneath them at that young lady's pleading request? No!
"Well?" Caleb asked finally. "What about it?"
Billy drew himself up and lied like a gentleman. "I guess that's all there is about it," he said with dignity. "Ann's my girl, an' she said I could cut my 'nitials under hers if I wanted to take the chance."
"Oh, so she's your gal, is she?" Caleb thrust his hands deep into his pockets, striving hard to keep his face stern. "How long you and Ann been sweetheartin'?" he asked.
"Five er six years; maybe longer."
"Loramighty!" Caleb sank weakly on a pile of horse-blankets, and gasped. "But, Billy, she's only twelve now, and you—you can't be much more'n fourteen at most."
"I'm growin' fifteen," said Billy gravely. "Me an' Ann's been goin' together fer quite a long spell."
Caleb placed his empty pipe in one pocket, fished in another and drew out a plug of Radiant Star chewing tobacco. He took a generous bite from one corner of the plug and champed it meditatively.
"Well, Billy," he said with a twinkle in his eye, "seein's we're to be right close related, some day, I guess it's up to me to give you your supper. You go right along over to the house and eat with Ann."
"But I'm not hungry, Mr. Spencer," said Billy quickly.
"That don't make no difference; you go along. I see Ann's made a mistake in doin' up Mrs. Keeler's parcels. You can't go back for a bit, anyways, so you might as well have your supper."
Billy went out and Spencer watched him cross the road and enter the cottage. "Well, now," he chuckled, "ain't that boy a tartar? But," he added, "he's got to be slicker than he is to fool old Caleb. Now, you jest watch me."
He lifted the basket to the counter and, taking the parcels from it, carefully emptied their contents back into the drawers from which they had been filled. Then from beneath the counter he drew out a box and with exquisite pains filled each of the empty bags and the cracker-box with sawdust. He tied the bags, packed them in the basket, tucked a roll of tea lead in the bottom, to give the basket weight, and placed it on the counter. Then he went outside to sit on the bench and await Billy's return.
Caleb had come to Scotia Settlement when it was little more than a bald spot on the pate of the hardwoods. Gypsy-like he had strayed into the settlement and, to use his own vernacular, had pitched his wigwam to stay. One month later a snug log cabin stood on the wooded hillside overlooking the valley, and the sound of Caleb's axe could be heard all day long, as he cleared a garden spot in the forest. That forest ran almost to the white sands of Lake Erie, pausing a quarter of a mile from its shore as though fearing to advance further. On this narrow strip of land the pines and cedars had taken their stand, as if in defiance of the more rugged trees of the upland. They grew close together in thickets so dense that beneath them, even on the brightest day, blue-white twilight rested always. Running westward, these coniferous trees grew bolder and widened so as to almost cover the broad finger-like point of land which separated Rond Eau Bay from Lake Erie, and thither many of the wild things crept, as civilization advanced to claim their old roaming grounds. The point, known as Point Aux Pines, was ten miles long, affording abundance of food and perfect shelter.
But on the uplands the forests grew sparser as the axes of rugged homesteaders, who had followed in the footsteps of Caleb Spencer, bit home. Gradually farms were cleared, rough stumpy fields the tilling of which tested the hearts of the strongest, but whose rich soil gladdened even the most weary. A saw mill was erected on the banks of a stream known as Levee Creek. Gradually the rough log cabins of the settlers were torn down to be replaced by more modern houses of lumber.
And then Caleb Spencer had built his store and with far-seeing judgment had stocked it with nearly every variety of goods a growing community needs. Drygoods, Groceries, Hardware & Liquors! These comprehensive words, painted on a huge sign, stared out at all who passed along the road and in still more glaring letters beneath was the announcement, "Caleb Spencer, Proprietor."
Everybody liked Caleb. Even old man Scroggie had been fond of him, which is saying a great deal. It was said the old miser even trusted the gaunt storekeeper to a certain degree. At any rate it was commonly known that shortly before he died Scroggie had given into Spencer's keeping, to be locked away in his rusty old store safe, a certain legal-looking document. Deacon Ringold and Cobin Keeler had witnessed the transaction. Accordingly, after Scroggie was buried and a search for the will failed to disclose it, it was perhaps natural that a delegation of neighbors should wait on Caleb and question him concerning the paper which the deceased man had given him. To everybody's surprise Caleb had flared up and told the delegation that the paper in question was the consummation of a private matter between himself and the dead man, and that he didn't have to show it and didn't intend to show it.
Of course that settled it. The delegation apologized, and Caleb tapped a keg of cider and opened a box of choice biscuits just to show that there were no hard feelings. Now this in itself was surely indisputable proof of the confidence his neighbors reposed in Caleb's veracity and honesty, but considering the fact that Caleb had once quarrelled with the elder Stanhope, later refusing all overtures of friendship from the latter, and had even gone so far as to cherish the same feeling of animosity toward the son, Frank, that trust was little short of sublime. For, providing Caleb disliked Frank Stanhope—and he did and made no attempt to hide it—what would be more natural than that he should keep him from his rightful inheritance if he could?
But nobody mistrusted Caleb, Frank Stanhope least of all; and so, for the time being, the incident of the legal document was forgotten.
Tonight, as Caleb sat outside on the bench waiting for the first evening customers to arrive, he reviewed the pleasant years of his life in this restful spot and was satisfied. Suddenly he sat erect. From the edge of a walnut grove on the far side of the road came a low warble, sweet as the song of a wild bird, but with a minor note of sadness in its lilting.
"That's old Harry and his tin whistle," muttered Caleb, "Glory be! but can't he jest make that thing sing?"
Softly the last note died, and then the player emerged from the grove. He was little and bent. He wore a ragged suit of corduroys and a battered felt hat with a red feather stuck jauntily in its band. His face was small, dark, and unshaven. In one grimy hand he carried a small demijohn. Arriving opposite Caleb, he lifted his battered hat and bowed low as a courtier would do.
"Glory be! It's find ye alone I do," he spoke in rich Irish brogue. "It's trill ye a chune I did from the copse, yonder, so's to soften the hard heart of ye, Caleb. It's dhry I am as a last-year's chip, an' me little jug do be pinin' fer a refillin'."
Caleb's face grew stern. "I told you, Harry O'Dule, that I'd give you no more liquor," he replied.
"Faith, maybe ye did. But last night it's the skies thimselves said 'rain,' an' begorry! there's been not a sign av a shower t'day. What matters ut fer the fallin' av an idle wurrud now and thin? It's meself knows you're too tinder hearted t' refuse a small favor to a body that feels only love an' respect fer yourself an' the swate ones who wait ye in the flower-covered cottage, beyont."
"Stop your blarney, Harry. I tell you I'll give you no more whisky, and by ding! that goes!"
"Thin I'll be trudgin' back along the way," said O'Dule, hopelessly. "But afore I go, I'll be liltin' ye a small chune that'll mebee make ye understand somethin' av a sadness yer generosity could lessen. Listen thin!"
He set the jug down, and from his bosom drew forth a tin whistle. For a minute or two he played softly, his eyes on Caleb's. Then, gradually, his eyes closed and a rapt expression settled upon his grimy face as he led his listener down strange by-paths of fancy.
Suddenly, Caleb jumped from the bench. "Stop, Harry O'Dule!" he entreated. "That whistle of yours would soften the heart of old Nick himself. Do you want to set me crazy, man? Come, give me your jug, I'll fill it this time. But remember, never ag'in. I mean that, by ding!"
He snatched up the demijohn and went into the store. Old Harry sat down on the bench and waited until he returned.
"It's a good fri'nd ye've been t' me, Caleb," he said gratefully, as he lifted the jug and held it between his knees. "It's do widout me dhrink I cannot. Ut an' me whistle are me only gleams av sunlight in the gloom. I'll be after takin' a little flash of the light now, if ut's no objection ye have, for ut's long dhry I've been." He lifted the jug and took a long draught of its fiery contents.
"I'll be movin' now," he said, as he wiped his mouth on a tattered sleeve. "God kape you safe, Caleb Spencer, an' may yer whisky-barrel niver run dhry."
And placing his battered hat jauntily on his scanty locks, Harry picked up his jug and was lost amid the shadows.
Presently Billy Wilson emerged from the cottage, received his basket from Caleb, and trotted off toward the Keeler place.
Out behind the wood-shed Maurice Keeler, by the dim light of a smoky lantern, was splitting kindling for the morning's fire when something clammy and twisting dropped across the back of his neck.
"Holy Smoke! Bill, take it away!" he yelled, as his chum's laugh fell on his ears.
"Gosh! you ain't got no nerve a'tall, Maurice! It's only a milk-snake. I picked it up on my way home from the store. I'm goin' to put it in the menagerie."
Maurice sat down weakly on a block and wiped his face on his sleeve.
"Hang it all, Bill!" he complained, "what do you see in snakes to make you want'a handle 'em so? I'm scared to death of 'em; I own it."
"I s'pose this feller an' ol' Spotba'll fight to a finish," said Billy, "but I aim to keep one snake of each kind, so let 'em scrap it out. It won't hurt that old womper to get a good drubbin' anyway."
He held the newly captured snake along his arm, its head resting in the palm of his hand. The dim light was sufficiently strong for Maurice to note the cold gleam in its eyes, and he shuddered. "Some day you'll try your monkey-shines on a puff-adder er a black-snake," he prophesied, "an' then you'll wish you hadn't gone clean crazy."
Billy grinned and dropped the snake into his jacket pocket. "I brought your Ma's groceries," he said. "Is she in the house?"
"Yep; she's cannin' thimble-berries. Jest wait till I get an armful of kindlin', an' I'll go in with you."
Billy put the basket down again. "Say, what did she want with all that hoarhound candy?" he asked curiously.
Maurice chuckled. "Why, Missis Spencer told her what great stuff it was to use in doin' up thimble-berries; sorta takes the flat taste off 'em. So Ma, she's goin' to try it."
Billy whistled. "But fifty sticks, Maurice! It's almost more'n she'll need, don't you think?"
"'Course it's a lot too much. S'pose we try on' get hold of some of it, Bill?"
"Suits me," agreed Billy, "but jest how? That's the question."
Maurice stooped and filled his arms with a load of kindling. "I dunno how," he replied, "but you usually find out a way fer everythin'. What's the matter with you lettin' on you lost part of that candy?"
Billy shook his head. "No good, she'd be onto us bigger'n a barn. Tell you what we might do. We might take bad colds an' sorta work on her sympathies."
"Humph! an' be kept close in the house fer a week er so, an' have to take physic an' stuff. No good, Bill!"
"No, ours won't be them kind of colds," Billy explained. "They'll be the dry-cough, consumption kind, that either cure up quick er slow. All we gotta do is dig up an Injun turnip out o' the bush an' nibble it. It'll pucker our throats up so tight we'll be hoarse enough to sing bass in the choir."
Maurice let his kindling fall. "Gee!" he exclaimed, "I've got a piece of Injun turnip in my pocket right now. Ain't that lucky!"
"How'd you come to have it?"
"Dug it up to fool Fatty Watland with. Was goin' to tell him it was a ground-nut. I've had it in fer him ever since he shoved me off the bridge into the creek."
"Let's have it."
Billy took the Indian turnip from his chum and with his knife scraped off a portion of white, pungent pulp. "Now then, put this on the back of your tongue, an' leave it there," he directed.
Maurice grimaced as he licked the bit of pulp from the knife blade. "'Course we both know this danged thing is pisin," he said, uncertainly. "Maybe we're fools, Bill?"
"There's no maybe about it, far's you're concerned. Do as I tell you; slide it 'way back so's it'll tighten your throat. That's right," as Maurice heroically obeyed. "Now, let's get up to the house."
"But you haven't took yourn!" cried Maurice.
"Don't need to take mine," Billy informed him. "What's the use of me takin' any; ain't one bad cough enough?"
Maurice squirmed in torture. Already the burning wild turnip was getting in its work. His throat felt as though it were filled with porcupine quills. He tried to voice a protest against the injustice Billy had done him but it ended in a wheeze.
"Fine," commended Billy. "A cold like that oughta be good fer half the hoarhound, anyway. Let's go in afore the thing wears off. You take the basket, I'll carry the kindlin' fer you."
He led the way to the house, Maurice following meekly with the market-basket, eyes running tears and throat burning.
Mrs. Keeler was bending over a kettle on the stove, from which the aroma of wild thimble-berries came in fragrant puffs.
"So you're back at last, are you?" she addressed Billy, crossly. "Thought you'd never come. I've been waitin' on that sugar an' stuff fer two hours er more. Now, you go into the pantry and get somethin' to eat, while I unpack this basket. I know you must be nigh starved."
"Had my supper," shouted Billy. He threw the kindling into the wood box and grinned encouragement at Maurice, who had sunk miserably down on a stool.
Mrs. Keeler lifted the basket which Maurice had placed on the floor at his feet. "What's the matter with you?" she asked, giving him a shake.
Maurice looked up at her with tear-filled eyes, and tried to say something. The effort was vain; not a sound issued from his swollen lips. Billy promptly advanced to give first aid.
"Maurice's sick," he shouted in the deaf woman's ear.
"Sick? Where's he sick?" Mrs. Keeler lifted the basket to the table and coming back to Maurice, put a berry-stained finger under his chin. "Stick out your tongue!" she commanded. "Billy, you fetch that lamp over here."
Maurice opened his mouth and protruded his stained and swollen tongue.
"Good gracious!" cried the mother, in alarm. "That good fer nuthin' boy has gone an' caught the foot an' mouth disease from Kearnie's sheep."
"It's jest a bad cold he's caught," Billy reassured her. "He's so hoarse he can't speak."
"Well, it might as well be one thing as another," frowned the woman. "That boy catches everythin' that comes along, anyway. I s'pose I'll have to quit my preservin' to mix him up a dose of allaways."
Maurice shivered and gazed imploringly at Billy.
"If you had somethin' sweet an' soothin' to give him," Billy suggested. "Pine syrup, er hoarhound, er somethin' like that, now—"
"Why, maybe you're right," agreed Mrs. Keeler, "an' I do declare! I've got some hoarhound right here in this basket. Ain't it lucky I sent fer it?"
The boys exchanged glances. The scheme was working! Mrs. Keeler went back to the basket on the table and started to remove the packages, one by one.
Billy addressed his chum in tones so low the deaf woman could not hear. "Now, maybe you'll think I know what I'm doin'," he commenced, then jumped guiltily, as a cry of indignation came from the other side of the room. Mrs. Keeler was untying the parcels, one after another, and emptying their contents in the basket. Billy stared. Each of the parcels contained—sawdust.
She turned slowly, stern eyes looking above her glasses straight into his startled and apprehensive ones.
"Well?" she said ominously, "I s'pose you think you've played a smart trick, you young limb!"
Billy tried to say something. His lips moved dumbly. Moisture gathered between his shoulder blades, condensed as it met cold fear, and trickled in tiny rivulets down his shivering spine.
He glanced at the door. Mrs. Keeler's square form interposed itself staunchly between him and that means of exit. His wild eyes strayed to the face of his chum. Maurice was grinning a glad, if swollen, grin. There was nothing to do but face the music.
Mrs. Keeler was advancing towards him now; advancing slowly like some massed avenging force of doom. "I didn't do that," he finally managed to articulate. "I didn't play no trick on you, Missus Keeler."
His knees knocked together. Unconsciously, his hand felt gropingly back toward the wood-box in search of some kind of support. Mrs. Keeler's deafness was accountable for her misunderstanding of his words. She brought her advance to a halt and stood panting.
"I didn't play no trick on you," Billy repeated.
"I heard you the first time," panted the indignant woman. "You said if I teched you you'dtake a stick to me. So you'd commit murder on a woman who has been a second mother to you, would you! You'd brain me with a stick out of that wood-box! Oh! Oh!" She lifted her apron and covered her face.
In a moment Billy was beside her. "Oh Missus Keeler," he pleaded, miserably. "I didn't say that. Don't think I'd do anythin' to hurt you, 'cause I wouldn't. An' I wouldn't play no dirty trick on you. You've been good to me an' I think a heap o' you, even if you do cuff me sometimes. Mr. Spencer put up that basket himself while I was over to the cottage, gittin' my supper."
Slowly the apron was lowered. Slowly the woman's hands dropped to Billy's shoulders and she gazed into his uplifted eyes. Then she did a thing which was quite characteristic of her. She bent and gave each of the wide grey eyes upraised to hers a resounding kiss. Then, roughly pushing him away, she reached for her shawl and hat hanging on the wall.
"You boys stay right here and keep fire under that kettle," she commanded. "I'm goin' to take that old Caleb Spencer's sawdust back to him an' give him a piece of my mind." And picking up the basket she went out, banging the door behind her.
The boys gazed at each other and Maurice's chuckle echoed Billy's, although it was raspy and hoarse.
"Throat burnin' yet?" inquired Billy.
"You bet," Maurice managed to answer.
"Well, you go along to the milkhouse an' lick the cream off a pan of milk. It'll settle that Injun turnip quick."
Maurice scooted for the back door. He returned in a little while with white patches of cream adhering to chin and nose. "Gosh!" he sighed gratefully, "that was soothin'."
"What dye s'pose made Caleb Spencer put up that job on me?" questioned Billy. "I never fooled him any. I did cut some letters on his new bench, but he needn't feel so sore at that."
"Well, jest you wait till Ma asks him why he did it," laughed Maurice, who now was almost normal again. "Ma's great on gettin' explanations, she is."
Billy went down into his pocket and drew forth a furry object about the size of a pocket knife and held it under his chum's eyes.
"Gollies!" exclaimed Maurice. "It's your rabbit foot charm. Where d'you find it, Bill?"
"Found it this mornin' down by the pine grove near old Scroggie's ha'nted house. Stood on this side of the creek an' sent ol' Moll into the grove. She brought it to me. She's a great little dog, Moll. Now we're ready to hunt ol' Scroggie's buried money an' lost will."
"What! Tonight?"
"Sure. Do you want somebody else to stumble on it first? We've gotta hunt tonight an' every night till we find it, that's all."
"But we can't go now. I dassent leave them preserves. If I do Ma'll skin me. Anyways, ain't we goin' to let Elgin an' Fatty in on it, Bill?"
"Naw, you know what they'd do. They'd let the cat out o' the bag sure. They're all right fer light work sech as swipin' watermelon an' helpin' make a seine-haul but they ain't no good at treasure an' will huntin'."
"Maybe you're right," Maurice said, "but I'm goin' t' tell you I ain't feelin' any too much like prowlin' 'round that ha'nted house this night er any other night."
Billy pushed his friend into a chair and stood before him. "Now look here, Scarecat," he said, "you're goin' to help me find that money an' will, an' I'll tell you why. You know what happened to Mr. Stanhope, the teacher, don't you? He's gone blind an' has had to give up teachin' the school, hasn't he?"
Maurice nodded, his face grave.
"Well, what kind of a feller is he, anyway? Come, answer up."
"He's a mighty fine feller," cried Maurice enthusiastically.
"You're right, he is. Well, what's he goin' to do now? He can't work, kin he?"
"Gollies, no. I never thought—'
"Well, it's time you did think. Now you know that ol' Scroggie left him everythin' he owned, don't you?"
"'Course I do."
"Only he can't prove it, kin he?"
"No! Not without the will."
"Well, then?" Billy sat down on a corner of the table and eyed his friend reproachfully.
Maurice squirmed uneasily, then he said: "'Course, Bill, it's up to you an' me to find that will. But I'll be shot if I'd do what we'll have to do fer anybody else in the world but him."
"Say, here's a piece of news fer you," cried Billy. "We're goin' to get ol' Harry O'Dule to help us. He's the seventh son of a seventh son. We're goin' over to his cabin to see him tonight."
"Gee! Bill, we oughta find it if we get Harry to help, but I can't see how I'm goin' to get away," said Maurice ruefully.
Just here a step sounded on the gravel outside and a knock fell on the door. Maurice opened the door and in stepped Anson.
He glanced suspiciously from one to the other of the boys, then said: "Ma sent me to see what happened to you, Bill. She says come on home to your supper."
"Had my supper," Billy informed him. "You go on back and tell Ma that."
"You've gotta come, too."
"No, Anse, I promised Missus Keeler that me an' Maurice would keep fire under that preservin' kettle till she gits back from the store. I need the ten cents to buy fish hooks with, besides—'
"Gee! Bill, is she goin' to give you ten cents fer helpin' Maurice keep fire on?" asked Anson eagerly.
"Well, she didn't 'zactly promise she would, but—"
"Say, fellers, let me stay with you an' we'll split three ways, eh?" suggested Anson.
"No," said Billy, with finality.
"'Tain't enough fer a three-way split," said Maurice.
"Well, you can't hinder me from stayin', an' I figger I'm in fer a third," said Anson, seating himself doggedly near the stove.
Billy's face cracked into a grin which he was careful to turn from his step-brother. "How'd you like to do all the firin' an' get all the reward, Anse?" he suggested. "I've got a milk-snake here that I want'a get put safe away in the root-house afore Ma takes in the lantern. Maurice'll come along an' help me stow him away."
"All right, I'll stay an' fire," agreed Anson. "But remember," as the other boys reached for their hats, "I ain't agoin' to share up what Missus Keeler gives me with you fellers."
"You're welcome to keep all she gives you fer yourself," said Billy.
"Sure," said Maurice. "She'll likely hold somethin' back fer me, anyway. Don't ferget to keep a good fire on, Anse," he admonished, as he followed Billy outside.
The place which old Harry O'Dule called home was a crumbling log cabin on the shore of Levee Creek, just on the border of the Scroggie bush. Originally it had been built as a shelter for sheep, but with the clearing of the land it had fallen into disuse. O'Dule had found it on one of his pilgrimages and had promptly appropriated it unto himself. Nobody thought of disputing his possession, perhaps because most of the good people of Scotia inwardly feared the old man's uncanny powers of second sight, and the foreshadowing—on those who chose to cross him—of dire evils, some of which had been known to materialize. Old Harry boasted that he was the seventh son of a seventh son.
"It's born under a caul was I," he told them. "An' minny a mystery has been cleared up in ould Ireland be meself, I'm tellin' ye."
At which some laughed and some scoffed. Deacon Ringold had sternly advised the old man to return to the country where black magic was still countenanced, as there was no place for it in an enlightened and Christian community such as Scotia, a suggestion that old Harry took in seeming good humor. But the fact that the deacon lost two milk cows and four hogs, through sickness during the fortnight which followed, had caused considerable discussion throughout the settlement.
O'Dule had cut a window in the cabin, installed an old stove, table and chairs, and succeeded in making the place home-like enough to suit his simple taste. To-night he stood by the stove, frying potatoes and humming an Irish song. On the table lay a loaf of bread and some butter in a saucer, while close beside it a coal oil lamp gave a smoky light to the room. In the center of the table reposed a huge blue-grey cat, its amber eyes on Harry and its forepaws curled contentedly beneath its furry breast. All about the room hung the skins of wild animals—deer, bear, lynx and coon. A pile of skins lay in one corner. This was O'Dule's bed.
"Och! Billy O'Shune can't ye whistle t' me,Av the gurril ye loved on the Isle 'cross the sea—Shure it's weary I am av that drear, sorry songSo stop liltin', through tears, wid a visage so long—Come, it's me ears a glad ditty would hear—Av love 'neath th' skies av ould Ireland, dear—Come, let us be glad—both togither, me lad—There's good fish in the sea as has iver been had——Och, Billy O'Shune—That's not much av a chune."
So hummed old Harry as he stirred the potatoes and wet his vocal chords, occasionally, from the jug at his feet.
Suddenly a knock fell on the door.
"In ye come," invited the Irishman and there entered Billy and Maurice.
"Sit ye down, lads, sit ye down," cried the hospitable Harry. "Begobs, but it's a fine brace av byes ye are, an' no mistake. Wull ye be afther suppin' a bit wid me? The repast is all but spread an' it's full welcome ye are, both."
"We've had our supper," said Billy. "Thought we'd like to see you fer a minute er two, Harry," he added gravely, as he and his chum seated themselves.
"Alone," said Maurice, significantly.
"Faith an' ain't I alone enough to suit ye?" laughed Harry. "Would ye have me put the cat out, thin? Now, phwat is ut?"
The boys glanced at each other. "You tell him," whispered Billy, but Maurice shook his head. "No, you," he whispered back.
Billy braced himself and took a long breath. "We've made up our minds t' find old man Scroggie's will," he said.
"An' money," said Maurice. "We want you to help us, Harry."
"God love us!" ejaculated Harry, dropping the knife with which he was stirring the potatoes and reaching for the demijohn. "An' fer why should ye be out on that wild goose chase, now?"
"'Cause we want Teacher Stanhope to have what belongs to him," said Billy warmly.
"Do ye now? God love him but that was a hard slap in th' face he got fer playin' the man's part, so ut was. Only this night did I say as much to Caleb Spencer. Ut's meself would like t' see him get what was his by rights, byes."
"We knew that," cried Billy, eagerly; "that's why we come to you, Harry. You say you've found buried treasure in Ireland; won't you help us find the lost will an' money?"
O'Dule transferred the potatoes from the frying pan to a cracked plate. He sat down at the table and ate his supper without so much as another word. The boys watched him, fear in their hearts that the eccentric old Irishman would refuse their request.
After a time Harry pushed his stool back from the table. "Byes," he said, producing a short black pipe from his pocket. "It's lend ye a spade and lantern I'll do an' gladly; but it's yerselves would surely not be axin' me t' test me powers ag'in a spirrut. Listen now. Old Scroggie's ghost do be guardin' his money, wheriver it lies. That you know as well as me. It's frank I'll be wid ye, an' tell ye that ag'in spirruts me powers are as nuthin'. An' go widin the unholy circle av the ha'nted grove to do favor t' aither man 'er divil I'll not."
"But think of what it means to him," urged Billy. "Besides, Harry, I've got a charm that'll keep ol' Scroggie's ghost away," he added, eagerly.
"An' phwat is ut?" Old Harry's interest was real. He laid his pipe down on the table and leaned towards Billy.
"It's the left hind foot of a grave-yard rabbit," said Billy, proudly exhibiting the charm.
O'Dule's shaggy brows met in a frown. "Ut's no good a'tall, a'tall," he said, contemptuously. "Ut's not aven a snake-bite that trinket wud save ye from, let alone a ghost."
Billy felt his back-bone stiffen in resentment. Then he noted that the milk snake, which he had thought snugly asleep in his coat pocket, had awakened in the warmth of the little cabin and slipped from the pocket and now lay, soiled and happy, beneath the rusty stove. He saw his opportunity to get back at O'Dule for his scoffing.
"All right, Harry," he said airily, "if that's all you know about charms, I guess you haven't any that 'ud help us much. But let me tell you that rabbit-foot charm kin do wonders. It'll not only keep you from bein' bit by snakes but by sayin' certain words to it you kin bring a snake right in to your feet with it, an' you kin pick it up an' handle it without bein' bit, too."
"Och, it's a brave lad ye are, Billy bye," Harry wheezed, "an' a brave liar, too. Go on wid yer nonsense, now."
"It's a fact, Harry," backed Maurice.
"Fact," cried O'Dule, angrily now. "Don't ye be comin' to me, a siventh son av a siventh son, wid such nonsinse. Faith, if yon worthless rabbit-fut kin do phwat ye claim, why not prove ut t' me now?"
"An' if we do," asked Billy eagerly, "will you agree to use your power to help us find the money an' will?"
"That I'll do," assented Harry, unhesitatingly. "Call up yer snake an' handle ut widout bein' bit, an' I'll help ye."
"All right, I'll do it," said Billy. "Jest turn the lamp down a little, Harry."
"Me hands are a bit unsteady," said Harry, quickly. "We'll l'ave the light be as ut is, Billy."
"It ought'a be dark," protested Billy, "but I'll try it anyway." He lifted the rabbit foot to his face and breathed some words upon it. Then in measured tones he recited:
"Hokey-pokey Bamboo Brake—Go an' gather in a snake—'
Slowly Billy lowered the charm and looked at Harry. The old man sat, puffing his short pipe, a derisive grin on his unshaven lips.
"It's failed ye have, as I knowed ye wud," he chuckled. "Ye best be lavin' now, both av ye, wid yer pranks."
"But," said Billy quickly, "the charm did work. It brought the snake, jest as I said it would."
"Brought ut? Where is ut, thin?" Harry sat up straight, his little eyes flashing in fright.
"It's under the stove. See it?"
Harry bent and peered beneath the stove. "Be the scales av the divil!" he shivered, "is ut a big, mottled snake I see, or have I got what always I feared I might get some day. Is ut the D.T.'s I've got, I wonder? How come the reptile here, anyhow, byes?"
"You told me to bring it in, didn't you?" Billy inquired, mildly.
"Yis, yis, Billy. But hivins! ut's little did I think that cat-paw av a charm had such power," groaned the wretched Irishman. "Ut's yourself said ut would let you handle reptiles widout bein' bit. Thin fer the love ov hivin pluck yon serpent from beneath the stove an' hurl ut outside into the blackness where ut belongs."
Billy arose and moving softly to the stove picked up the harmless milk snake, squirming and protesting, from the warm floor. O'Dule watched him with fascinated eyes. The big cat had risen and with back fur and tail afluff spit vindictively as Billy passed out through the door.
When he returned O'Dule was seated on the edge of the table, his feet on a stool. He was taking a long sup from the demijohn.
"Well, do you believe in my charm now?" Billy asked.
"I do," said Harry unhesitatingly.
"An' you'll help us, as you promised?"
"Did ye iver hear av Harry O'Dule goin' back on a promise?" said the old man, reproachfully. "Help you wull I shurely, an' I'll be tellin' ye how. Go ye over t' the corner, Billy, an' pull up the loose board av the flure. Ye'll be findin' a box there. Yis, that's right. Now fetch ut here. Look ye both, byes."
Harry lifted the little tin box to his knees and opened it. From it he brought forth a conglomeration of articles. There were queer little disks of hammered brass and copper, an egg-shaped object that sparkled like crystal in the lamplight, a crotch-shaped branch of a tree. As he handled those objects tenderly the old man's face was tense and he mumbled something entirely meaningless to the watchers. Finally, with an exclamation of triumph, he brought forth a piece of metal the size and shape of an ordinary lead pencil.
"Look ye," he cried, holding it aloft. "The fairies' magic arrer, ut is, an' ut niver fails t' fall on the spot where the treasure lies hidden. Foind Scroggie's buried money ut would have long ago if ut wasn't fer the ould man's spirrut that roams the grove. As I told ye afore, ut's no charm ag'in the spirruts av the departed, as yon grave-yard rabbit's fut is."
"But with the two of 'em," cried Billy eagerly, "we kin surely find the will, Harry."
"It's right true ye spake," nodded Harry. "An' mebbe sooner than we think. An' ut's the young t'acher wid the blindness that gets it all, ye say?"
"Ol' Scroggie left it all to him," said Billy.
"Begobs, so I've heard before." Harry scratched his head reflectively.
"Well, God love his gentle heart, ut's himself now'll hardly be carin' phwat becomes o' the money, let alone he gets possession av the thousand acre hardwoods, I'm thinkin'," he said, fastening his eyes on Billy's face. "I'd be wishin' the young t'acher to be ginerous, byes."
"He will," cried Billy, "I know he will."
"Thin God bless him," cried Harry. "Now grasp tight t' yer rabbit fut, an' we'll be afther goin' on our way t' tempt Satan, over beyant in the evil cedars."
Five minutes later the trio were out on the forest path, passing in Indian file towards the haunted grove. The wind had risen and now swept through the great trees with ghostly sound. A black cloud, creeping up out of the west, was wiping out the stars. Throughout the forest the notes of the night-prowlers were strangely hushed. No word was spoken between the treasure-seekers until the elm-bridged creek was reached. Then old Harry paused, with labored breath, his head bent as though listening.
"Hist," he whispered and Billy and Maurice felt their flesh creep. "Ut's hear that swishin' av feet above, ye do? Ut's the Black troup houldin' their course 'twixt the seared earth an' the storm. The witches of Ballyclue, ut is, an' whin they be out on their mad run the ghoste av dead min hould wild carnival. Ut'll be needin' that rabbit-fut sure we wull, if the ha'nted grove we enter this night."
Beneath the shadow of the coming storm the forest gloom deepened to velvet blackness. Suddenly a tongue of lightning licked the tree-tops and a crash of thunder shattered the stillness. A few heavy rain-drops spattered on the branches above the heads of the waiting three. Billy and Maurice, a strange terror tugging at their heart-strings, waited for old Harry to give the word forward. But Harry seemed to be in no great hurry to voice such command. Fear had gripped his superstitious soul and the courage loaned him from the squat demijohn was fast oozing away.
Above, the blue-white lightning zig-zagged and the boom of the thunder shook the earth. A huge elm shivered and shrieked as if in agony as a darting tongue of flame enwrapped it like a yellow serpent, splitting its heart in twain.
Billy found himself, face down, on the wet moss. Maurice was tugging at his arm. The stricken tree had burst into flame, beneath the ghostly light of which path, creek and pine-grove stood out clear-limned as a cameo against a velvet background. Billy noted this as he sat dazedly up. He and Maurice were alone; old Harry had vanished.
"He's gone," Maurice answered his chum's look. "Took to his heels when the lightnin' struck that elm. The shock knocked us both down. He was gone when I come to."
Billy grinned a wan grin and pressed his knuckles against his aching eyes. "So's my milk-snake," he said. "Guess I spilled him out o' my pocket when I fell. Gee! that was a close call. Say, Maurice, ain't it queer though? I was feelin' mighty scared an' trembly afore that bolt fell, but now I feel nervy enough to tackle any ghost. How 'bout you?"
"By gosh! that's jest how I feel, Bill. That lightnin' knocked all the scare plumb out o' me. I don't like these no-rain sort of thunderstorms though," he added. "They're always slashin' out when they're least expected."
"Well, the lightnin' part of this un's about past us, Maurice. But the rain's comin'. Guess that ol' elm's done fer. She's dead, though, else she wouldn't burn like that. By hokey!" he broke off, "will you look here?"
He picked up something that glittered in the firelight, and held it up for his chum's inspection.
"Old Harry's fairy arrer," gasped Maurice. "Oh say, Bill, ain't that lucky? He must have lost it in his scramble to get away."
"Likely. Now I move we go right over into that ha'nted grove. What you say?"
Maurice swallowed hard, "I'm blame fool enough fer anythin' since I got knocked silly by that bolt," he answered, "so I'm game if you are."
"Watch out!" warned Billy, grasping him by the arm and jerking him to one side, "that struck elm is goin' to fall." A rainbow of flame flashed close before the boys, as the stricken tree crashed across the path, hurling forth a shower of sparks as it came to earth. Then inky darkness followed and from the black canopy which a moment ago had seemed to touch the tree tops the rain fell in torrents.
"Bill, Oh Bill! where 'bouts are you?" Maurice's voice sounded muffled and far away to his chum's ears.
"I'm right here," he answered.
"Gollies! but ain't it dark? I can't see anythin' of you, Bill."
"Ner me, either. I guess we'll have to give up the hunt fer t'night, Maurice. Anyways, we don't know jest how to work ol' Harry's fairy arrer."
"No, we'll have to find out. Say, Bill, where 'bouts is the path?"
"Gee! how am I to know; it's right here somewheres, though."
"I guess I've found it, Bill. Come over close, so's I kin touch you, then we'll be movin' 'long. Hully gee! but I'm wet. Got both them charms safe?"
"Right here in my two fists, Maurice."
"Well, hang to 'em tight till we get away from this ha'nted grove. Ghosts don't mind rain none—an' he's liable t' be prowlin' out. Say, can't y' whistle a bit, so's it won't be so pesky lonesome?"
Billy puckered up his lips, but his effort was a failure. "You try, Maurice," he said, "I can't jest keep the hole in my mouth steady long enough t' whistle."
"Gosh! ain't I been trying," groaned Maurice. "My teeth won't keep still a'tall. Maybe I won't be one glad kid when we get out 'a here."
For half an hour they groped their way forward, no further words passing between them. The heavy roar of the rain on the tree tops made conversation next to impossible. The darkness was so dense they were forced to proceed slowly and pause for breath after bumping violently against a tree or sapling. They had been striving for what seemed to both to be a long, long time to find the clearing when Billy paused in his tracks and spoke: "It's no use, Maurice. We're lost."
Maurice sank weakly down against a tree trunk, and groaned.
"I guess we've struck into the big woods," Billy informed him. "Anyways, the trees are gettin' thicker the further we go."
"Gee! Bill, there might be wolves an' bears in this woods," said Maurice, fearfully.
"Sure there might but I guess all we kin do is take our chance with 'em."
"Well, I'd rather take a chance with a bear than a ghost, wouldn't you Bill?"
"Betcha, I would. Say Maurice," he broke out excitedly, "there's a light comin' through the trees. See it? It's movin'. Must be somebody with a lantern."
"I see it," Maurice replied in guarded tones. "Bill, that light's comin' this way, sure as shootin'."
"Looks like it. Wonder who it kin be? Maybe somebody lookin' fer us."
The two boys crouched down beside a great beech. The light, which had not been a great distance from them when first sighted, was rapidly approaching. Billy grasped his chum's arm. "Look," he whispered, "there's two of 'em."
"I see 'em," his friend whispered back. "Gosh! looks as though they're goin' to tramp right onto us."
However, the night-roamers of the forest did not walk into them. Instead they came very close to the boys and halted. The man who carried the lantern set it down on the ground and spoke in gruff tobes to his companion, a short, heavy-set man with a fringe of black beard on his face.
"I tell you, Jack, we'll hide the stuff there. It'll be safe as a church."
"I say no, Tom," the other returned, surlily. "It won't be safe there. Somebody'll be sure to find it."
The other man turned on him angrily. "Who'll find it?" he retorted. "Don't be a fool, Jack. You couldn't pull anybody to that place with a loggin' chain. It's the safest spot in the world to hide the stuff, I tell ye. Besides, the boat orter be in in a few days, and we kin slip the stuff to Cap. Jacques without the boss ever knowin' how far we've exceeded his orders."
"All right," gruffly assented his companion, "if you're so cock sure, it suits me all right. Come on; let's get out of this cussed woods. Remember we've got some work before us tonight."
The man named Tom picked up the lantern and moved on, cursing the rain and the saplings that whipped his face at every step. His pal followed without a word.
The boys waited until the lantern's glow grew hazy through the slackening rain, then they sprang up and followed. Three-quarters of an hour later the trees began to thin. Unwittingly the strangers had guided them into the clearing.
As they reached the open the rain ceased altogether. High above a few pale stars were beginning to probe through the tattered clouds. The men with the lantern were rapidly moving across the stumpy fallow, towards the causeway.
"Will we foller 'em, Bill?" asked Maurice eagerly.
Billy shook his head. "I'd sort o' like to," he said, slowly, "jest to find out what game they're up to, but I guess if we know what's good fer us we'll go home an' take off these wet duds. Hard lookin' customers, wasn't they?"
"Hard, I should say so! I'll bet either one of 'em 'ud murder a hull family fer ten cents. Say, Bill, maybe they're pirates; you heard what they said about a boat, didn't you?"
"Yep, I heard, but they ain't pirates, 'cause they didn't have no tattoo marks on 'em, er rings in their ears; but whoever they are they're up to no good. They're aimin' to hide somethin' somewheres, but jest what it is an' where they intend hidin' it there's no way of tellin'; so come on, let's get movin'."
In silence they made their way across the clearing to the road. "Say, Bill," said Maurice, as they paused to rest on the top rail of the fence, "do you 'spose we best tell our dads about seein' them men?"
"Naw, can't you see if we told our dads that, they'd want 'a know what you an' me was doin' out in Scroggie's bush in the rain, at that hour of the night? No siree, we won't say a word 'bout it."
"Then s'posin' we try an' find out something 'bout 'em fer ourselves, eh?"
"Say, you give me a pain," cried Billy. "Don't you 'spose we've got all we kin do ahead of us now?"
"Findin' Scroggie's money an' will, you mean?"
"Sure. Now shut up an' let's get home. I expect Ma'll be waitin' up to give me hail Columbia, an' I guess you won't be gettin' any pettin' from yourn, either."
"I know what I'll be gettin' from mine, all right," said Maurice, moodily. "Say, Bill," he coaxed, "you come along over by our place an' smooth things over fer me, will you? You kin do anythin' with Ma."
"No," said Billy, "I got to be movin' on."
"But I'll get an awful hidin' if you don't. I don't mind an ordinary tannin' but a tannin' in these wet pants is goin' to hurt like fury. They're stickin close to my legs. I might as well be naked an' Ma she certainly does lay it on."
Billy laughed. "All right, I'll come along, but I ain't believin' anythin' I kin say to your Ma'll keep you from gettin' it."
The boys slid from the fence, then leaped back as something long and white rose from behind a fallen tree and, with a startled snort, confronted them.