"Gollies!" ejaculated Billy. "It's a hog. I thought, first off, it was a bear."
Maurice peered out from behind a tree. "Well, I'll be jiggered!" he exclaimed. "It's our old sow. She's been lost fer nigh onto two weeks, an' Dad's been huntin' fer her everywhere."
"That so? Then we'll drive her home."
"Aw, say, Bill," protested Maurice, "I'm tired an' wet as a water-logged plank. Let her go. I'll tell Dad, an' he kin come after her tomorrow."
"No, we'll drive her home now. I guess I know what's best. Get on t'other side of her. Now then, don't let her turn back!"
Maurice grumblingly did his share of the driving. It was no easy task to pilot that big, rangy sow into the safe harbor of the Keeler barnyard but done it was at last.
"Ma's got the light burnin' an' the strap waitin' fer her little boy," chaffed Billy as they put up the barn-yard bars.
Maurice, who had climbed the fence so as to get a glimpse of the interior of his home through a window, whistled softly as his eyes took in the scene within.
"Say, Billy," he cried, "your Ma an' Pa's there."
"Gee whitticker!" exclaimed Billy. "I wish now I hadn't promised you I'd come in. All right, lead on. Let's get the funeral over with."
Without so much as another word the boys went up the path.
"If I don't see you ag'in alive, Bill, good bye," whispered Maurice as he opened the door.
Mrs. Keeler, who was doing her best to catch what her neighbor was saying, lifted her head as the two wet and tired boys entered the room.
"There they be now," she said grimly. "The two worst boys in Scotia, Mrs. Wilson."
"I believe you, Mrs. Keeler," nodded her friend. "Now then, where have you two drowned rats been tonight, Willium?"
Cobin Keeler, who was playing a game of checkers with Billy's father, cleared his throat and leaned forward like a judge on the bench, waiting for the answer to his neighbor's question.
"We got——" commenced Maurice, but Billy pinched his leg for silence.
"I got track of your lost sow, Mr. Keeler, when I was comin' home from the store tonight," he said. "Least-wise I didn't know it was your sow but Maurice told me about yours bein' lost. So after Mrs. Keeler went to give Mr. Spencer a call down we hired Anse to look after the preservin' an' went out to try an' track her down."
Maurice, who had listened open mouthed to his chum's narration, sighed deeply. "We had an awful time," he put in, only to receive a harder pinch for his pains.
"But you didn't see her, did ye?" Cobin asked eagerly.
Disregarding the question, Billy continued: "The tracks led us a long ways, I kin tell you. We got up into the Scroggie bush at last an' then the rain come."
"But we kept right on trackin—" put in Maurice, eagerly. "After the stars come out again, of course," explained Billy, managing to skin Maurice's shin with his boot-heel, "an' we found her—"
"You found her?" cried Cobin, leaping up.
"Jest half an hour ago," said Billy.
"Good lads!" cried Cobin heartily, "Ma, hear that? They found ol' Junefly. Wasn't that smart of 'em, an' in all that rain, too."
"Who'd you say was agoin' to soon die?" Mrs. Keeler put her hand to her ear and leaned forward.
"I say the boys found the old sow, Ma!" Cobin shouted.
"Theydid?" Mrs. Keeler turned towards Billy and Maurice, her face aglow. "An' was that what they was adoin'? Now I'm right sorry I spoke harsh. I am so. Ain't you, Mrs. Wilson?"
"Oh, I must say that Willium does do somethin' worth while, once in a long while," returned her neighbor, grudgingly. "But Anson, now—"
Mrs. Keeler broke in. "Anson, humph! Why, that boy had the nerve to say that I should give him ten cents fer watchin' the kettle while them two dear boys was out in the storm, huntin' fer Pa's sow. I give him a box on the ear instead an' sent him home on the jump. Maybe I was a bit hasty but I was mad after havin' to give that old Caleb Spencer a piece of my mind fer sendin' me sawdust instead of groceries. I guess he won't try that ag'in."
Billy moved towards the door. "I'd best be gettin' home," he said, "I'm awful wet."
"Stay all night with Maurice," invited Mrs. Keeler. "You an' him kin pile right into bed now and I'll bring you both a bowl of hot bread and milk."
Billy glanced at his mother.
"You kin stay if your want to, Willium," she said, "only see that you are home bright and early in the mornin'. Your Pa'll want you to help hill potaters."
She stood up. "Well, Tom, if you and Cobin are through with the game don't start another. It's late an' time all decent folks was home abed."
Snug in Maurice's corn-husk bed in the attic, the boys lay and listened for the door to open and close. Then Maurice chuckled.
"Gee! Bill, I could'a knocked your head off fer makin' me help drive ol' Junefly home but now I see you knowed what you was doin'. Holy smoke! I wish't I was as smart as you."
"Go to sleep," said Billy drowsily.
Half an hour later when Mrs. Keeler carrying two bowls of steaming bread and milk ascended the stairs Billy alone sat up to reach for it.
"Is Maurice asleep?" whispered the woman.
Billy nodded.
"Well, you might as well have both bowls then. I don't like to see good bread an' milk wasted."
She set the bowls down on the little table beside the bed, placed the lamp beside them, then leaning over tucked the blankets about the boys.
"No use tryin' to wake Maurice," she said as she turned to go. "As well try to wake the dead. Remember, you boys get up when I call you."
Billy and Maurice, taking the short cut to the Wilson farm across the rain-drenched fields next morning, were planning the day's programme.
"Now that we've got ol' Harry's charm along with my rabbit-foot," Billy was saying, "we ought'a be able to snoop 'round in the ha'nted grove an' even hunt through the house any time we take the notion. Maybe we'll get a chance to do it to-day."
"But, darn it all, Bill," Maurice objected, "there won't be no ghost to lead the way to the stuff in the daytime."
"Well, if we take a look over the place in daylight we'll know the lay-out better at night, won't we? Trigger Finger Tim did that most times, an' he always got away clean. Supposin' a ghost is close at your heels, ain't it a good idea to have one or two good runways picked out to skip on? We're goin' through that ha'nted house in daylight, so you might as well make up your mind to that."
Maurice was about to protest further when the rattle of loose spokes and the beat of a horse's hoofs on the hard road fell on their ears.
"That's Deacon Ringold's buck-board," Billy informed his chum, drawing him behind an alder-screened stump. "Say, ain't he drivin'? Somebody must be sick at his place." Then as the complaining vehicle swept into sight from around the curve, "By crackey, Maurice, your Pa's ridin' with him."
Maurice scratched his head in perplexity. "Wonder where he's takin' Dad? It's too late fer sheep-shearin' an' too early fer hog-killin'; an' that's 'bout all Dad's good at doin', 'cept leadin' the singin' at prayer-meetin'. Wonder what's up? Gee! the deacon is sure puttin' his old mare over the road."
"Keep quiet till they get past," cautioned Billy. "Say! we needn't have been so blamed careful about makin' our sneak if we'd knowed your Pa was away from home."
"Oh, look, Bill," said Maurice, "they're stoppin' at your place."
The deacon had pulled up at the Wilson's gate. "He's shoutin' fer Pa," Billy whispered, as a resounding "Hello, Tom!" awoke the forest echoes. "Come on Maurice, let's work our way down along this strip o' bushes, so's we kin hear what's goin' on."
The boys wriggled their way through the thicket of sumach, and reached a clump of golden-rod inside the road fence just as Wilson came out of the lane.
"Mornin', neighbors," he greeted the men in the buckboard, "won't you pull in?"
"No," said the deacon, "we're on our way to Twin Oaks, Thomas. Thieves broke into Spencer's store last night. We're goin' up to see if we can be of any use to Caleb. We'd like you to come along."
Wilson's exclamation of surprise was checked by Cobin Keeler, whose long arm reached out and encircled him. He was lifted bodily into the seat and the buckboard dashed on up the road, the clatter of its loose spokes drowning the loud voices of its occupants.
The boys eat up and stared at each other.
"You heard?" Billy asked in awed tones.
Maurice nodded. "They said thieves at the store." Forgotten, for the moment, was old Scroggie's ghost and the buried treasure in this new something which promised mystery and adventure.
"Hully Gee!" whispered Billy. "Ain't that rippin'."
"Ain't it jest?" agreed Maurice. "Say, Bill, there ain't no law ag'in shootin' robbers is there—store-robbers, I mean?"
"Naw, why should there be? That's what you're supposed to do, if you get the chance—shoot 'em, an' get thereward."
"What's areward?"
"Why, it's money, you ninny! You kill the robbers an' you get the church collection an' lots of other money besides. Then you're rich an' don't ever have to do any work; jest fish an' hunt an' give speeches at tea-meetin's an' things."
"Oh, hokey! ain't that great. How'd you come to know all that, Bill?"
"Why I read it in Anson's book, 'Trigger-Finger Tim er Dead er Alive.' Oh, it's all hunky, I tell you."
"But, Bill, how we goin' to kill them robbers?"
"Ain't goin' to kill 'em," his friend replied. "Trigger-Finger Tim never killed his; he took 'em all alive. All he did was crease their skulls with bullets, an' scrape their spines with 'em, an' when they come to they'd find themselves tied hand an' foot, an' Trigger-Finger smokin' his cigarette an' smilin' down on 'em."
"Gollies!" exulted Maurice. Then uncertainty in his tones, "A feller 'ud have to be a mighty good shot to do that though, Bill."
"Oh shucks! What's the use of thinkin' 'bout that now? We've gotta catch them robbers first, ain't we?"
"Yep, that's so. But how?"
Billy wriggled free of the golden-rod. "Come on over an' help me move my menagerie an' we'll plan out a way."
They climbed the fence and crossed the road to the lane-gate.
"Now, then," said Billy, "you scoot through the trees to the root-house, while I go up to the kitchen an' sneak some doughnuts. Don't let Ma catch a glimpse of you er she'll come lookin' fer me an' set me to churnin' er somethin' right under her eyes. An' see here," he warned, as Maurice made for the trees, "don't you get to foolin' with the snakes er owls, an' you best keep out of ol' Ringdo's reach, 'cause he's a bad ol' swamp coon in some ways. You jest lay close till I come back."
Whistling soundlessly, Billy went up the path to the house. He peered carefully in through the screened door. The room was empty and so was the pantry beyond. Billy entered, tiptoed softly across to the pantry and filled his pockets with doughnuts from the big crock in the cupboard. Then he tip-toed softly out again.
As he rounded the kitchen, preparatory to a leap across the open space between it and the big wood-pile, Mrs. Wilson's voice came to him, high-pitched and freighted with anger.
"You black, thievin' passel of impudence, you!" she was saying. "If I had a stick long enough to reach you, you'd never dirty any more of my new-washed clothes."
On the top-most branch of a tall, dead pine, close beside the wood-pile, sat the tame crow, Croaker, his head cocked demurely on one side, as he listened to the woman's righteous abuse. Croaker could no more help filling his claws with chips and dirt and wobbling the full length of a line filled with snowy, newly-washed clothes than he could help upsetting the pan of water in the chicken-pen, when he saw the opportunity. He hated anything white with all his sinful little heart and he hated the game rooster in the same way. He was always in trouble with Ma Wilson, always in trouble with the rooster. Only when safe in the highest branch of the pine was he secure, and in a position to talk back to his persecutors.
He said something now, low and guttural, to the woman shaking her fist at him in impotent anger. His voice was almost human in tone, his attitude so sinister that she shuddered. "That's right, swear at me, too," she cried, "add insult to injury, you black imp! If it wasn't fer bein' scared of shootin' myself I'd get the gun an' shoot you, I would so!"
Suddenly Croaker stretched himself erect. A soft whistle, so low as to be inaudible to the indignant woman but clear to his acute ears, had sounded from the far side of the wood pile. Pausing only long enough to locate the sound, Croaker spread his wings and volplaned down, emitting a hoarse croak of triumph almost in Mrs. Wilson's face, as he swept close above her.
"Come here, you," spoke a low voice as Croaker settled on the other side of the wood pile, and the crow promptly perched himself on Billy's shoulder with a succession of throaty notes that sounded like crazy laughter, but which were really expressions of unadulterated joy. For this boy who had taken him from the nest in the swaying elm when he was nothing but a half-feathered, wide-mouthed fledgling, and had fed him, cared for him, defended him against cat, dog, rooster and human beings—for this boy alone Croaker felt all the love his selfish heart was capable of giving.
And now as Billy carried him towards the root-house he recited the various adventures which had been his since they had parted, recited them, it is true, in hoarse unintelligible crow-language, but which Billy was careful to indicate he understood right well.
"So you did all that, did you?" he laughed. "Oh, but you're a smart bird. But see here, if you go on the way you're doin', dirtyin' Ma's clean clothes an' abusin' her like I heard you doin', your light's goin' out sudden one of these days. Ma's scared to shoot the ol' gun herself, but she'll get Anse to do it. I guess I better shut you up on wash-mornin's after this."
"What's he been doin' now, Bill?" asked Maurice as Billy and the crow joined him beside the root-house.
"Oh, he's been raisin' high jinks with Ma ag'in," explained Billy. "He will get his claws full o' dirt an' pigeon-toe along her line of clean clothes, as soon as her back's turned."
"Gosh! ain't he a terror?" Maurice exclaimed. "Say, why don't you put him in the menagerie?"
"Maurice, you've got about as much sense as a wood-tick," Billy replied in disgust. "How long d'ye s'pose my snakes an' bats an' lizards 'ud last if I turned Croaker loose in there?"
"Pshaw! Bill, he couldn't hurt Spotba, the womper, could he?"
"Jest couldn't he? I'll take you down to the marsh some day an' show you how quick he kin kill a womper."
"Gollies! Is that so? Well he couldn't hurt the black snake; that's one sure thing."
"No, it ain't, 'cause he kin kill a black snake a sight easier than he kin a womper, an' I'll tell you why. Black-snakes have got teeth. They bite. But their backbone is easy broke. A womper hasn't any teeth. He strikes with his bony nose. You know what one of them snakes kin do? You saw that big one, down in Patterson's swamp lay open Moll's face with one slash. They're thick necked, an' take a lot of killin'. This crow kin kill a black-snake with one slash of his bill. He has to choke the womper to death."
Maurice scratched his head thoughtfully. "Say, you know a lot about snakes an' things, don't you?" he said admiringly.
"Maybe I do, but I ain't tellin' all I know," said Billy. "What's the good? Nobody 'ud believe me."
"What you mean, believe you?"
"Why, if I said I saw a fight between a little brown water-snake no bigger'n a garter snake, an' a fish-hawk, an' the snake licked the hawk, d'ye s'pose anyone 'ud believe that?"
"I dunno. Maybe, an' maybe not."
"Supposin' I said the snakekilled the hawk?"
"Oh, gee whitticker! nobody 'ud believe that, Bill."
"There now. Nobody 'ud believe it. An' yet I saw it."
"You saw it?" Maurice, who could not think of questioning his chum's word, gasped in amazement.
"Yep, I saw it last spring—in the Eau rice beds, it was. I was tryin' to find a blue-winged teal's nest. Saw the drake trail off an' knowed the duck must be settin' somewhere on the high land close beside the pond. As I was standin' still, lookin' about, this little water snake come swimmin' 'cross a mushrat run. Jest then I saw a shadder cross the reeds, an' a fish-hawk swooped down an' made a grab at the snake. The snake dived an' come up close to shore. The hawk wheeled an' swooped ag'in. This time the water was too shallow fer snakie to get clear away. The hawk grabbed him in his claws an' started up with him. 'Goodbye, little snake,' I thought, an' jest then I noticed that the hawk was havin' trouble; fer one thing, he wasn't flyin' straight, an' he was strikin' with his curved beak without findin' anythin'. Pretty soon he started saggin' down to the reeds. I jumped into the punt an' made fer the spot where I thought he'd come down. Jest as I got there he splashed into the shallow water. I stood up in the punt, an' then I saw what had happened. The little water-snake had coiled round the hawk's neck an' had kept its head close under his throat. You know that a water snake has two little saw teeth, one on each side of the upper jaw. I've often wondered what good a pair of teeth like that could be to 'em, but I don't any more, 'cause that little snake had cut that hawk's throat with them snags an' saved himself."
"An' so he got away!" sighed Maurice.
"Well, he should have, but I didn't let him. I thought I'd like to own a snake as plucky as that, so I caught him—didn't have no trouble, he was awful tired—an' brought him up here to the menagerie."
Maurice whistled. "Gee! Bill, you don't mean t' tell me that water-snake you call Hawk-killer is him?"
"Yep, that's him. Now," he cried tossing Croaker into a tree, "I'll tell you what we gotta do. We gotta move these pets down to that old sugar-shanty in our woods. Ma's got so nervous with havin' 'em here that I'm afraid Anse might take it in his head to let 'em out, er kill 'em. I've got 'em all boxed nice an' snug. All I want you to do is help me carry 'em. We can do it in two trips. Ringdo, of course, 'll stay along up here. Ma's not scared of him like she is of the other things. Come along."
He unpropped the root-house door and threw it open. Maurice hesitated on the threshold, peering into the darkness.
"Are you sure you've got 'em boxed safe, Bill?" he asked, fearfully.
"Bet ye I am."
"Then, here's fer it, but I must say I'll be glad when the job's done," shivered Maurice, following his chum into the blackness of the root-house.
Croaker hopped to a lower branch and peered in after his master. Then, catching sight of a doughnut which had spilled from Billy's pocket, he fluttered down to the ground, and with many caressing croaks proceeded to make a meal of it.
The August days were passing swiftly, each fragrant dawn marking another step towards that inevitable something which must be faced—the reopening of the Valley School by a new teacher. Billy's heart saddened as the fields ripened and the woods turned red and gold. For once his world was out of tune. Maurice Keeler was sick with measles and Elgin Scraff lay ill with the same disease. Taking advantage of this fact, the Sand-sharkers had grown bold, some of the more venturesome of them going even so far as to challenge Billy to "knock the chip off their shoulders."
Billy had not only accommodated the trouble-seekers in this regard but had nearly knocked the noses off their freckled faces as well, after which he had proceeded to lick, on sight, each and every Sand-sharker with whom his lonely rambles brought him in contact. But his victories lacked the old time zest. He missed Maurice's "Gee! Bill, that left swing to his eye was a corker"; missed Elgin's offer to bet a thousand dollars that Billy Wilson could lick, with one hand tied behind him, any two Sand-sharkers that ever smelled a smoked herrin'. Victory was indeed empty of glory. And so the glad days were sad days for Billy. It was an empty world. What boy in Billy's place would not have been low-spirited under like conditions? What boy would not have paused, as he was doing now, to itemize his woes?
He was seated on a stump in the new clearing which sloped to Levee Creek, fingers locked about one knee, battered felt hat pulled over his eyes. The green slope at his feet lay half in the sunlight, half in the shadow. Across from a patch of golden-rod, the cock bird of a fox-scattered quail-covey whistled the "All's Well" call to the birds in hiding. Ordinarily Billy would have answered that call, would have drawn the brown, scuttling birds close about him with the low-whistled notes he could produce so well: but today he was oblivious to all save his thoughts.
Two weeks had passed since the robbery of the Twin Oaks store and that which he and Maurice had planned to do towards finding the Scroggie will and capturing the thieves had, through dire necessity, been abandoned. Sickness had claimed Maurice just when he was most needed. For days Billy had lived a sort of trancelike existence; had gone about acting queerly, refusing his meals and paying little attention to anybody or anything.
It had become a regular thing for his father to say each morning, "I guess you ain't feelin' up to much today, Billy; so all you have to do is watch the gap and water the cattle"; which was quite agreeable to Billy, because it gave him an opportunity to be by himself. Men who sit in the shadow of irrevocable fate are always that way; they want to be left alone—murderers on the eve of their execution, captains on wrecked ships, Trigger Finger Tim, who was to be shot at sunrise, but wasn't.
Billy wanted to shadow old Scroggie's ghost and so discover the will; he wanted to seek out the robbers of the Twin Oaks store and earn a reward; he wanted Maurice Keeler with him; he wanted to hear Elgin Scraff's laugh. But all this was denied him. And now a new burden had been thrust upon him, compared with which all his other woes seemed trivial. Old Scroggie's namesake and apparent heir had turned up again. Billy had seen him with his own eyes; with his own ears had heard him declare that he intended to erect a saw-mill in the thousand-acre forest. This meant that the big hardwood wonderland would be wiped away and that Frank Stanhope would never inherit what was rightfully his.
It seemed like an evil dream, but Billy knew it was no dream. Scroggie, astride a big bay horse, had passed him while he was on his way to the store with a basket of eggs for his mother, and he had pulled in at the store just as Deacon Ringold had taken the last available space on the customers' bench outside, and Caleb Spencer had come to the door to peer through the twilight in search of the Clearview stage, which was late. Noticing the stranger on horseback Caleb had hurried forward to ask how best he could serve him.
Hidden safely behind a clump of cedars Billy had watched and listened. He had heard Scroggie tell the storekeeper that he and his family had come to Scotia to stay and that he intended to cut down the timber of the big woods. He had then demanded that Spencer turn over to him a certain document which it seemed old man Scroggie had left in Caleb's charge some months before his death. Billy had seen Spencer draw the man a little apart from the others, who had gathered close through curiosity, and had heard him explain that the paper had been taken from his safe on the night of the robbery of his store. Scroggie had, at first, seemed to doubt Caleb's word; then he had grown abusive and had raised his riding-whip threateningly. Here Billy, having heard and seen quite enough, had acted. Placing his basket gently down on the sward he had picked up an egg and with the accuracy born of long practice in throwing stones, had sent it crashing into Scroggie's face. Gasping and temporarily blinded, Scroggie had wheeled his horse and galloped away.
But today Billy, musing darkly, knew that Scroggie would do what he had said he would do. The big woods was his, according to law; he could do as he wished with it, and he would wipe it out.
With a sigh, Billy slid from the stump and stood looking away toward the east. What would Trigger Finger Tim do in his place? When confronted by insurmountable obstacles Trigger Finger had been wont to seek excitement and danger. That's what he, Billy, would do now. But where was excitement and danger to be found? Ah, he knew—Lost Man's Swamp!
Billy's right hand went into a trouser's pocket; then nervously his left dived into the other pocket. With a sigh of relief he drew out a furry object about the size of a pocket-knife.
"Ol' Rabbit-foot charm," he said, aloud. "I jest might need you bad today." Then he turned and walked quickly across the fallow toward the causeway.
Some three miles east of the imaginary line which divided the Settlement from the outside world, on the Lake Shore road, stood a big frame house in a grove of tall walnut trees. It was the home of a man named Hinter—a man of mystery. Before it the lake flashed blue as a kingfisher's wing through the cedars; behind it swept a tangle of forest which gradually dwarfed into a stretch of swamp-willow and wild hazel-nut bushes, which in turn gave place to marshy bog-lands.
Lost Man's Swamp, so called because it was said that one straying into its depths never was able to extricate himself from its overpowering mists and treacherous quicksands, was lonely and forsaken. It lay like a festering sore on the breast of the world—black, menacing, hungry to gulp, dumb as to those mysteries and tragedies it had witnessed. It was whispered that the devil made his home in its pitchy ponds, which even in the fiercest cold of winter did not freeze.
For Billy, who knew and understood so well the sweeping wilderness of silence and mysteries, this swamp held a dread which, try as he might, he could not analyze. On one other occasion had he striven to penetrate it, but as if the bogland recognized in him a force not easily set aside, it had enwrapped him with its deadly mists which chilled and weakened, torn his flesh with its razor-edged grass and sucked at his feet with its oozy, dragging quicksands. He had turned back in time. For two weeks following his exploit he had lain ill with ague, shivering miserably, silent, but thinking.
And now he was back again; and this time he did not intend to risk his life in those sucking sands. From a couple of dead saplings, with the aid of wild grape-vines, he fashioned a light raft which would serve as a support in the bog, and carry his weight in the putrid mire beyond. Strange sounds came to his ears as he worked his way across the desolate waste toward the first great pond—scurrying, rustling sounds of hidden things aroused from their security. Once a big grey snake stirred from torpor to lift its head and hiss at him. Billy lifted it aside with his pole and went on.
Great mosquitoes whined about his head and stung his neck and ears. Mottled flies bit him and left a burning smart. The saw-like edges of the grass cut his hands and strove to trip him as he pushed his improvised raft forward. Once his foot slipped on the greasy bog, and the quicksands all but claimed him. But he pushed on, reaching at last the black sullen shallows, putrid and ill-smelling with decayed growth, and alive with hideous insects.
Great, black leeches clung to the slimy lily-roots; water lizards lay basking half in and half out of the water, or crept furtively from under-water grotto to grotto. And there were other things which Billy knew were hidden from his sight—things even more loathsome. For the first time in his life he experienced for Nature a feeling akin to dread and loathing. It was like a nightmare to him, menacing, unreal, freighted with strange horrors.
One thing Billy saw which he could not understand. The greasy surface of the shallow pond was never still, but bubbled incessantly as porridge puffs and bubbles when it boils. It was as if the slimy creatures buried in the oozy bottom belched forth their poisonous breath as they stirred in sleep.
So here lay the reason that the swamp-waters never froze even when winter locked all other waters fast in its icy clutch! What caused those air bubbles, if air bubbles they were?
At last, sick and dizzy, he turned from the place and with raft and pole fought his way back to the shore. Never again, he told himself, would he try to fathom further what lay in Lost Man's Swamp. Weary and perspiring, he climbed the wooded upland. He turned and dipped into the willows, intending to take the shortest way home through the hardwoods. On top of the beech knoll he paused for a moment to let his eyes rest on the big house in the walnut grove. In some vague way his mind connected its owner with that dead waste of stinking marsh. Why, he wondered, had Hinter chosen this lonely spot on which to build his home? As he turned to strike across the neck of woods between him and the causeway the man about whom he had just been thinking stepped out from a clump of hazel-nut bushes directly in his path.
"Why, hello, Billy," he said pleasantly. "Out capturing more wild things for the menagerie?"
Hinter possessed a well modulated voice whose accent bespoke refinement and education. He had come into the Settlement about a year ago from no one knew where, apparently possessed of sufficient money to do as he pleased. An aged colored woman kept house for him. He held aloof from his neighbors, was reticent in manner, but nothing could be said against him. He led an exemplary if somewhat secluded life, gave freely to the church which he never attended, and was respected by the people of Scotia. With the children he was a great favorite. He was a tall man, gaunt and strong of frame and well past middle age. His face was grave and his blue eyes steady. He was fond of hunting and usually wore—as he was wearing today—a suit of corduroys. He kept a pair of ferocious dogs, why nobody knew, for they never accompanied him on his hunts.
He smiled now as he noted Billy's quick look of apprehension.
"No, Billy," he assured the boy, "Sphinx and Dexter aren't with me today, so you have nothing to fear from them. I doubt if they would hurt you, anyway," he added. "You can handle most dogs, I am told."
"I'm not afraid of no dog, Mr. Hinter," said Billy, "but I've been told your dogs are half wolf. Is that so?"
Hinter laughed. "Well, hardly," he returned. "They are thoroughbred Great Danes, although Sphinx and Dexter both have wolf natures, I fear."
"Is that why people don't go near your place, 'cause they're scared of the dogs?" Billy asked.
Hinter's face grew grave. "Perhaps," he answered. "I hope it is."
"Then why don't you get rid of 'em?"
Hinter shook his head. "Nobody would have them, they're too savage; and I haven't the heart to make away with them, because they are fond of me. I've had those dogs a long time, Billy."
"I understan'," said Billy, sympathetically.
Hinter put his hand in his coat pocket and drew out an ivory dog-whistle. "Would you like to know them, Billy?" he asked, his keen eyes on the boy's face.
"I wouldn't mind," said Billy.
Hinter put the whistle to his lips and sent a warbling call through the woods. "Stand perfectly still," he said, as he placed the whistle back in his pocket. "I won't let them hurt you. Here they come now."
The next instant two great dogs plunged from the thicket, their heavy jaws open and dripping and their deep eyes searching for their master and the reason for his call.
Standing with feet planted wide Billy felt his heart beat quickly. "Easy, Sphinx!" Hinter cried, as the larger of the two sprang toward the boy. Immediately the dog sank down, the personification of submission; but its bloodshot eyes flashed up at Billy and in them the boy glimpsed a spirit unquelled.
"Be careful, Billy. Don't touch him!" warned Hinter, but he spoke too late. Billy had bent and laid his hand gently on the dog's quivering back. The low growl died in the animal's throat. Slowly his heavy muzzle was lifted until his nose touched Billy's cheek. Then his long flail-like tail began to wag.
"Boy, you're a wonder!" Hinter cried. "But you took a terrible chance. Dexter!" he said to the other dog, "don't you want to be friends with this wild-animal tamer, too?"
Billy, his arm about Sphinx's neck, spoke. "Come, ol' feller; come here," he said.
The great dog rose and came slowly across to him. "Good boy!" Billy slapped him roughly on the shoulder, and he whined.
"Well, it's beyond me," confessed Hinter. "I've heard that you could handle dogs, young fellow, but I didn't think there was anybody in the world besides myself who could bring a whimper of gladness from that pair. Now then, Dexter! Sphinx! away home with you." Obediently the big dogs wheeled back into the thicket.
Billy started to move away. "I must be gettin' home," he said. "The cows'll be waitin' to be watered."
"Well, I'll just walk along with you as far as the Causeway," said Hinter. "My saddle-horse has wandered off somewhere. I have an idea he made for Ringold's slashing."
He fell in beside Billy, adjusting his stride to the shorter one of the boy. In silence they walked until they reached a rise of land which had been cleared of all varieties of trees except maples. Sap-suckers twittered as they hung head downward and red squirrels chattered shrilly. In a cleared spot in the wood, beside a spring-fed creek, stood a sugar-shanty, two great cauldrons, upside down, gleaming like black eyes from its shadowy interior. A pile of wooden sap-troughs stood just outside the shanty door.
Billy's eyes brightened as they swept the big sugar-bush. Many a spicy spring night had he enjoyed here, "sugarin' off"—he and Teacher Stanhope. The brightness faded from his eyes and his lip quivered. Never again would the man who was boy-friend to him point out the frost-cleared stars that swam low down above the maples and describe to him their wonders. Those stars were shut out from him forever, as were the tints of skies and flowers and all glad lights of the world.
Hinter's voice brought him back to himself. "He is blind, they tell me, Billy."
Billy gazed at him wonderingly. "How did you know I was thinkin' ofhim?" he asked.
Hinter smiled. "Never mind," he said gently. "And how is he standing it?"
A spasm of pain crossed the boy's face. "Like a man," he answered shortly.
Hinter's eyes fell away from that steady gaze. Billy turned towards the log-span across the creek, then paused to ask suddenly: "Mr. Hinter, who owns that Lost Man's Swamp? Do you?"
The man started. "No," he answered, "I don't own it exactly, but I hope to soon. It is part of the Scroggie property. I am negotiating now with Scroggie's heir for it. It is useless, of course, but I desire to own it for reasons known only to myself."
"But supposin' ol' Scroggie's lost will comes to light?"
"Then, of course, it will divert to Mr. Stanhope," answered Hinter. "I must confess," he added, "I doubt very strongly if Mr. Scroggie ever made a will."
Billy was silent, busy with his own thoughts. They crossed the bridge, passed through a beech ridge and descended a mossy slope to the Causeway fence. As they sat for a moment's rest on its topmost rail, Hinter spoke abruptly. "I saw you fighting your way across the swamp this afternoon, Billy. Weren't you taking a useless risk?"
Billy made no reply.
"You are either a very brave boy or a very foolish one," said Hinter. "Will you tell me what prompted you to dare what no other person in the Settlement would dare! Was it simply curiosity?"
"I guess maybe it was," Billy confessed. "Anyways I've got all I want of it. It'll be a long time afore you see me there ag'in."
Hinter's sigh of relief was inaudible to the boy. "That's a good resolve," he commended. "Stick to it; that swamp is a treacherous place."
"It's awful," said Billy in awed tones. "I got as far as the first pond. It was far enough for me."
"You got as far as the pond!" Hinter cried in wonder. The eyes turned on Billy's face were searching. "And you found only a long shallow of stagnant, stinking water, I'll be bound," he laughed, uneasily.
"I found—" Billy commenced, his mind flashing back to the bubbling geysers of the pond—then chancing to catch the expression in Hinter's face he finished, "jest what you said, a big pond of stinkin' dead water, crawlin' with all kinds of blood-suckers an' things."
He leaped from the fence. "Good bye," he called back over his shoulder. "I hear old Cherry bawlin' fer her drink."
Hinter was still seated on the fence when Billy turned the curve in the road. "I wonder what he wants of Lost Man's Swamp," mused the boy. "An' I wonder what he's scared somebody'll find there?"
As Billy rounded a curve in the road he met the cattle. Anson was driving them. "You needn't mind turnin' back, Bill," he said. "I don't mind waterin' 'em fer you."
Billy whistled. "Gosh! you're gettin' kind all at once, Anse," he exclaimed.
"I don't mind doin' it," Anse repeated. He kept his face averted. Billy, scenting mystery, walked over to him and swung him about. Anson's lip was swollen and one eye was partly closed and his freckled face bore the marks of recent conflict.
"Gee whitticker!" gasped Billy, "you must been havin' an argument with a mule. Who give you that black eye an' split lip, Anse?"
His brother hung his head. "You needn't go to rubbin' it in," he whined; "I didn't have no chance with him. He piled on me from behind, when I wasn't lookin'."
"Who piled on you from behind?"
"That new boy; his name's Jim Scroggie. His dad's rented the Stanley house on the hill."
"Likely story that about his pilin' on you from behind," scoffed Billy. "You met him on the path an' tried to get gay with him, more like, an' he pasted you a few. You shouldn't hunt trouble, Anse; you can't fight, an' you know it. What's this new boy like?" he asked curiously.
"Oh, you'll find that out soon enough," promised Anson. "He told me to tell you that he would do the same thing to you first chance he got."
"Oh, no, he didn't neither," laughed Billy. "He can't be that foolish."
"You wait till you size him up," said Anson. "He's taller'n you are an' heavier, too. Oh, you'll have your hands full when he tackles you, Mister Scrapper-Bill."
Billy pinched off a fox-tail stock and chewed it thoughtfully. "Maybe," he said, cheerfully. "He certainly tapped you some, but then you're always huntin' trouble, an' it serves you right."
"Listen to me!" Anson cried. "He made all the trouble, I tell you. All I did was tell him not to throw clubs at Ringdo—"
"What! Was he throwin' clubs at my coon?" Billy shouted.
"You bet he was. Had Ringdo up a tree an' was doin' his best to knock him out."
Billy spit out the fox-tail. "Where's this feller Scroggie now?" he asked, in a business-like tone.
"I dunno. I s'pose he's prowlin' 'round the beech grove, up there. He said he intended lickin' every boy in this settlement on sight. You best not go lookin' fer him, Bill. I don't want'a see you get beat up on my account."
"Well you needn't worry; if I get beat up it won't be on your account, I kin tell you that. I don't aim to let anybody throw clubs at my pets, though. You drive the cattle on down; I'm goin' up to the grove."
A gleam of satisfaction lit Anson's shifty eyes. "All right," he said shortly, and went off after the herd.
Billy climbed the rail fence and crossed the basswood swale to the highland. He approached the beech grove cautiously and peered about him. Seated on a log at the lower end of a grassy glade was a boy about his own age, a boy with round, bullet head poised on a thick neck set between square shoulders.
Billy, taking his measure with one fleeting glance, stepped out from the trees. Simultaneously the strange boy rose slowly, head lowered, fists clenched. There was nothing antagonistic in Billy's attitude as he surveyed the new boy with serious grey eyes. That expression had fooled more than one competitor in fistic combat, and it fooled Jim Scroggie now. "He's scared stiff," was the new boy's thought, as he swaggered forward to where Billy stood.
"I've been waitin' for you and now I'm goin' to lick you," he said.
Billy eyed him appraisingly. He did look like a tough proposition, no doubt about that. His face was round, flat, small-featured. "That face'll stand a lot of pummelin'," Billy told himself, and as he noted the heavy chin, thrust antagonistically forward, "no use bruisin' my knuckles on that," he decided.
"You heard what I said, didn't you?" growled the challenger. "I'm goin' to lick you."
Billy grinned. He had caught the gasp at the end of the speaker's words;nowhe knew where lay the stranger's weak spot—his wind!
"But I ain't wantin' to fight," Billy returned gently.
"Why? scared?"
"Nice boys don't fight." Billy shifted his feet uneasily, the movement bringing him a step or two closer to the other.
"Bah! mommie's baby boy won't fight?" taunted the eager one. "But by gollies! I'm goin' to make you," he added, scowling fiercely.
Billy wanted to laugh, but he was too good a ring-general to give way to his feelings. Instead, he shifted his feet again, thereby getting within reaching distance of the one so anxious for battle.
"Now, then," declared Scroggie, tossing his hat on the sward and drying his moist palms on his trouser-legs, "I'm goin' to black your eyes and pummel the nose off your face."
The last word was drowned in a resounding "smack." Billy had delivered one of his lightning, straight-arm punches fair on the sneering lips of the new boy. Scroggie staggered back, recovered his balance, and threw himself on the defensive in time to block Billy's well-aimed right to the neck.
"So that's your game, is it?" he grunted. "Here's a new one for you then." That "new one" was a veritable "hay-maker." Had it landed where it was intended to land the fight must have ended then and there. But it didn't. Billy saw it coming and ducked.
Scroggie rushed, managing to get in a stiff jab to Billy's body and receiving in return one which promptly closed one of his small optics. He struck out wildly, but Billy was prancing six feet away. Scroggie's swollen and bleeding mouth twisted in a grin. "Oh, I'll get you," he promised. "Stall if you want'a, it's all one to me. You won't find me sleepin' again, I promise you."
Billy advanced in a crouching attitude. His eyes were on Scroggie's uninjured eye and Scroggie, now grown wary, read that look as Billy intended he should. Older fighters have made the same mistake that Scroggie made. As Billy leaped in Scroggie raised his guard to his face and Billy's right and left thudded home to the flabby stomach of his adversary.
With a gasp Scroggie went to earth, where he lay writhing. After a time he struggled to a sitting posture.
"Got enough?" asked Billy pleasantly.
The vanquished one nodded. He had not as yet recovered his breath sufficiently to speak. When at last he was able to draw a full breath, he said: "Say, you trimmed me all right, all right."
Billy grinned.
"Who are you, anyway?" asked Scroggie as he got groggily to his feet.
"I'm the feller that owns the coon you tried to club to death," Billy answered.
Scroggie's mouth fell open in surprise. "I didn't try to kill any coon," he denied. "I saw one but it wasn't me that clubbed it; it was a tall, sandy-haired feller with a squint eye. I asked him what he was tryin' to do and he told me to dry up and mind my own business. I had to give him a lickin'. He went off blubberin'; said if I wasn't too scared to stick around he'd send a feller over who would fix me. So I stayed."
"I wish you had licked him harder 'n you did," frowned Billy.
"Know him?"
"Well, I do—an' I don't. He's my half-brother an' a sneak if ever there was one. He lied about you to me—so's I'd fight you."
"And what's your name?"
"Billy Wilson."
Scroggie stared. "I've heard of you," he said, "an' the feller who told me you could lick your weight in wildcats wasn't far wrong. You had me fooled, though," he laughed. "I swallowed what you said about nice boys not fightin', swallowed it whole. Oh, Moses!"
Billy sat down on a stump. "I don't bear no grudge, do you?" he asked.
"No, I'm willin' to shake." Scroggie extended his hand.
"Your name's Scroggie, ain't it?" Billy asked.
"Yep, Jim Scroggie."
"Your Dad's goin' to cut down the Scroggie woods, I hear?"
"Yep, if he can get his price for the timber."
Billy sat looking away. His grey eyes had grown somber. "See here," he said suddenly, "do you know that old man Scroggie left a will?"
"Dad says not," the other boy replied.
"Well, then, he did; an' in that will he left his woods an' money to Mr. Stanhope, my teacher."
"If that's so, Dad has no right to that woods," said Jim.
"But supposin' the will can't be found?" Billy looked the other boy in the face and waited for the answer.
"Why, I can't see that that ought'a make any difference," Scroggie replied. "If you folks down here know that Uncle left his money and place to your teacher, that ought'a be enough for Dad."
"Of course the timber's worth a lot," sparred Billy.
"But Dad don't need it," Jim declared. "He's rich now."
"He is?" Billy respected the new boy for the nonchalance of his tones. Riches hadn't made him stuck up, at any rate.
"Yep," went on Scroggie, "Dad owns some big oil wells in the States. He ain't got any business down here anyways, but he's so pig-headed you can't tell him anythin'; I'll say that much, even if he is my father. It's bad enough for him to lug me away from town, but he made Lou come along, too."
"Lou?"
"She's my sister," Jim explained proudly. "She's a year younger'n me. Dad says she looks just like Mother looked. I guess that's the reason she kin do most anythin' she likes with him. But she couldn't get him to let her stay in Cleveland. He brought her along and Aunt too. Aunt keeps house for us."
"I guess your Dad don't think much of us folks down here, does he?" Billy asked.
Scroggie chuckled. "Dad ain't got any use for anybody, much," he answered. "I never heard him say anythin' about any of the people of the Settlement but once, and that was just t'other night. He come home lookin' as if somebody had pushed his head into a crate of eggs. I was too scared to ask him how it happened and Lou wouldn't. Dad said the people 'round here are a bad lot and it wouldn't surprise him if they tried to kill him."
Billy threw back his head and laughed, the first hearty laugh he had known for days. Scroggie, in spite of the pain his swollen lips caused him, laughed too.
"Say," he remarked, hesitatingly, "you got a great laugh, Billy."
"Oh I don't know," Billy replied. "What makes you think so, Jim?" Scroggie sat down beside him on the log. "I had a chum in the city who laughed just like you do. Gosh, nobody'll know how much I miss him."
"Dead?"
Scroggie nodded. "Drowned through an air-hole in the lake. Say, Billy, do you skate?"
"Some."
"Swim?"
"A little."
"Shoot?"
Billy scratched his head reflectively. "Not much, any more," he said. "Course I like duck-shootin', an' do quite a lot of it in the fall."
"How 'bout quail?"
"I don't shoot quail any more," Billy answered. "I've got to know 'em too well, I guess. You see," in answer to the other boy's look of surprise, "when a feller gets to know what chummy, friendly little beggars they are, he don't feel like shootin' 'em."
"But they're wild, ain't they and they're game birds?"
"They're wild if you make 'em wild, but if they get to know that you like 'em an' won't hurt 'em, they get real tame. I've got one flock I call my own. I fed 'em last winter when the snow was so deep they couldn't pick up a livin'. They used to come right into our barn-yard for the tailin's I throwed out to 'em."
"What's tailin's?"
"It's the chaff and small wheat the fannin' mill blows out from the good grain. Pa lets me have it fer my wild birds. I've got some partridge up on the hickory knoll, too. They're shyer than the quail, but I've got 'em so tame I kin call 'em and make 'em come to me."
"You kin?" Jim exclaimed. "Well, I'll be razzle-dazzled!"
"So, I don't shoot partridge neither," said Billy. "I don't blame anybody else fer shootin' 'em, remember, but somehow, I'd rather leave 'em alive."
"I see," said Scroggie. Of course he didn't, but he wanted to make Billy feel that he did.
"Well you do more than most people, then," said Billy. "The folks 'round here think I'm crazy, I guess, an' Joe Scraff—he's got an English setter dog an' shoots a lot; he told me that if he happened onto my quail an' partridge he'd bag as many of 'em as he could. I told him that if he shot my birds, he'd better watch out fer his white Leghorn chickens but he laughed at me."
"And did he shoot your quail?" asked Scroggie.
Billy nodded. "Once. Flushed 'em at the top of the knoll and winged one bird. The rest of the covey flew into our barn-yard an' 'course he couldn't foller 'em in there."
"Gillies! Did you see him?"
"No, me an' Pa an' Anse was down at the back end of the place. Ma saw him, though, an' she told me all about it. Say, maybe I wasn't mad, but I got even, all right."
"Did you? How?"
Billy looked searchingly at his new friend. "I never told a soul how I did it, 'cept my chum, Maurice Keeler," he said. "But I'll tell you. That same evenin' I was prowlin' through the slashin' lookin' fer white grubs fer bass-bait. I found a big rotten stump, so I pushed it over, an' right down under the roots I found an old weasel an' six half-grown kittens. Afore she could get over her surprise, I had her an' her family in the tin pail I had with me, an' the cover on. By rights I should'a killed the whole caboodle of 'em, I s'pose, 'cause they're mighty hard on the birds; but I had work fer 'em to do.
"That night I took them weasels over to Scraff's an' turned 'em loose under his barn. I knowed mighty well ma weasel would stay where it was dark an' safe and the chicken smell was so strong. Couple of days after that Scraff come over to our place to borrow some rat traps. His face was so long he was fair steppin' on his lower lip. He said weasels had been slaughterin' his Leghorns, right an' left; six first night an' nine the next.
"'I hope they won't get among my quail,' I says, an' Scraff he turned round an' looked at me mighty hard, but he didn't say nuthin'. He went away, grumblin', an' carryin' six of Dad's traps. Course I knowed he couldn't catch a weasel in a trap in twenty years an' he didn't catch any either. Ma weasel killed some more of his Leghorns, an' then Scraff he comes to me. 'Billy,' he says, 'is there any way to get rid of weasels?' 'Sure there's a way,' I says, 'but not everybody knows it.'
"'I'll give you five dollars if you'll catch them weasels that are killin' my chickens,' he says.
"'If you'll promise me you'll stay away from my quail an' partridge I'll catch 'em fer nuthin,' I told him. 'Only,' I says, 'remember, I do what I please with 'em, after I get 'em.' He looked at me as though he'd like to choke me, but he said all right, he'd leave my birds alone.
"That night Maurice Keeler an' me went over to Gamble's an' borrowed his old ferret. He's a big ferret an' he'll tackle anythin', even a skunk. With some keg-hoops an' a canvas sack we had made what we needed to catch the weasels in. Then we put a muzzle on the ferret, so he couldn't fang-cut the weasels, an' we went over to Scraff's. As soon as Joe Scraff saw the ferret he began to see light an' turned into the house to get his shotgun. I told him to remember his promise to let me get the weasels alive, so he set on the fence an' watched while we got busy.
"First off we plugged every hole under that barn but two, an' at each of these two we set a hoop-net. Then we turned ol' Lucifer, the ferret, loose under the barn. Holy Smoke! afore we knowed it there was high jinks goin' on tinder there. Maurice had hold of one hoop an' me the other. It took ma weasel an' her boys an' girls 'bout half a minute to make up their minds that ol' Lucifer wasn't payin' 'em a friendly visit. When the big scramble was over, I had a bagful of weasels an' so did Maurice. We let Lucifer prowl round a little longer to make sure we had all of 'em, then I called him out. I made Scraff give us one of his hens to feed the ferret on. Then Maurice an' me started off.
"'You think you got all of 'em, Bill?" Scraff called.
"'All this time,' I says, an' to save my life I couldn't help laughin' at the look on his face. He knowed right then that I had put up a job on him but he couldn't figure out how."
"Oh Hully Gee!" yelled Jim Scroggie, "Wasn't that corkin'—Oh Mommer! An' what did you an' Maurice do with the weasels?"
Billy grinned sheepishly. "We should'a killed 'em, I s'pose," he said, "but we took 'em down to the marsh an' turned 'em loose there. Maurice said that anythin' that had done the good work them weasels had, deserved life, an' I thought so too."
The twilight shadows were beginning to steal across the glade; the golden-rod of the uplands massed into indistinguishable clumps. The silence of eventide fell soft and sweet and songless—that breathless space between the forest day and darkness.
Billy stood up. "You'll like it here," he said to the other boy who was watching him, a strange wonder in his eyes. "After you know it better," he added.
"I'm afraid I don't fit very well yet," Scroggie answered. "Maybe you'll let me trail along with you sometimes, Bill, and learn things?"
"We'll see," said Billy and without another word turned to the dim pathway among the trees.
Through the dusky twilight, soft with woodland dews and sweet with odor of ferns and wild flowers, Billy walked slowly. For the first time in long days his heart felt at peace. The canker of loneliness that had gnawed at his spirit was there no longer. It was a pretty good old world after all.
A whip-poor-will lilted its low call from a hazel copse and Billy answered it. A feeling that he wanted to visit his wild things in the upland shanty and explain to them his seeming neglect of them during his time of stress took possession of him. So, although he knew supper would be ready and waiting at home, he branched off where the path forked and hurried forward toward the oak ridge.
It was almost dark when he reached the little log sugar-shanty which housed his pets. He had hidden a lantern in a hollow log against such night visits as this and he paused to draw it out and light it before proceeding to the menagerie. As he rounded the shanty, whistling softly, and anticipating how glad Spotba, Moper, the owl, and all the other wild inmates would be to see him, he paused suddenly, and the whistle died on his lips. Somebody had been snooping about his menagerie! The prop had been taken from the door.
His mind traveled at once to Anse. So that meddler had been here and tried to let his pets free, had he? Apparently the chump didn't know they each had a separate cage, or if he did he hadn't the nerve to open it. Well, it meant that Anse had that much more to settle for with him, that was all!
Billy put his hand on the latch of the door, then stood, frozen into inaction. From the interior of the shanty had come a groan—a human groan! Billy almost dropped the lantern. A cold shiver ran down his spine. His mind flashed to Old Scroggie's ghost. The hand that groped into his pocket in search of the rabbit-foot charm trembled so it could scarcely clasp that cherished object.
What would Trigger Finger do if placed in his position? Billy asked himself. There was only one answer to that. He took a long breath and, picking up a heavy club, swung the door open. The feeble rays of the lantern probed the gloom and something animate, between the cages, stirred and sat up.
"Harry!" gasped Billy, "Harry O'Dule!"
"Ha," cried a quavering voice, "and is ut the Prince av Darkness, himself, as spakes t' me? Thin it's no fit av the delirium tremens I've had at all, at all, but dead I am and in purgatory! Oh weary me, oh weary me! Such shnakes and evil eyed burruds have I never seen before. Och! could I be given wan taste av God's blissid air and sunshine ag'in, and never more would whiskey pass me lips."
Spotba, the big mottled marsh snake, sensing Billy's presence, uncoiled himself and raised his head along the screen of his cage; the brown owl hooted a low welcome that died in a hiss as Harry groaned again.
"Merciful hivin! look at the eyes av that awful burrud," he wailed. "And that big shnake hissin' his poison in me very face. Take me along, Divil, take me along," he screamed. "It's no more av this I kin stand at all, at all."
Billy hung the lantern on the door and bent above the grovelling Harry. "Hey you," he said, giving the old man's shoulder a shake, "get up an' come out'a here; I'm not the devil, I'm Billy."
"Billy," Harry held his breath and blinked his red-rimmed eyes in unbelief. "Billy, ye say?" He got up with Billy's help and stood swaying unsteadily.
"You're drunk again!" said the boy, in deep disgust.
Harry wiped his lips on his sleeve and stood gazing fearfully about him. "Do you see the shnakes and the evil-eyed burruds, Billy Bye?" he shuddered. "It's see 'em ye shurely can and hear their divil hisses." His fingers gripped the boy's arm.
Billy shook him off. "Look here, Harry," he said, "You're seein' things. There ain't no snakes in here—no birds neither. You come along outside with me." He grasped the Irishman by the arm and started toward the door.
"Me jug," whispered Harry. "Where is that divil's halter av a jug, Billy?"
"There's your jug on its side," Billy touched the jug with his foot. "You must've drunk it empty, Harry."
"Faith, an' I did not. But ut's all the same, impty or full. Niver ag'in will ut lead me into delirium tremens, I promise ye that, although it's meself that knows where there's a plinty of whisky, so I do."
Billy led him outside and turned the light of the lantern full on his face. "Harry," he said, sternly, "where are you gettin' all this whisky?"
The old man started. "That's me own business," he answered shortly.
"Oh." Billy took hold of his arm, "Then them snakes an' man-eatin' birds you've been seein' are your own business, too; an' since you've been ninny enough to stray into this shanty, I'm goin' to put you back in it an' see that you stay in it."
"And fer God's sake, why?" gasped the frightened O'Dule.
"That's my business," said Billy.
Harry glanced behind him with a shudder. "God love you fer a good lad, Billy," he cried; "but this is no way to trate an ould frind, is ut now?"
"Then you best tell me where you're gettin' the whisky," said Billy.
"But that's shure the ould man's secret, Billy," pleaded Harry. "It's not a foine chap as ye are would be wheedlin' it out av me, now?"
Billy frowned. "I know that Spencer won't give you any more whisky," he said, "an' I know the deacon won't give you any more cider. I know that you've gettin' liquor some place—an' without payin' fer it. Now you kin tell me where, er you kin stay in that shanty an' see snakes an' things all night."
Harry wavered. "And if I be tellin' ye," he compromised, "ye'll be givin' a promise not to pass it along, thin? Wull ye now?"
"Yes I promise not to tell anybody but Maurice?"
"Then I'll be tellin' ye where I do be gettin' the whisky, Billy;where else but in the ha'nted house."
"What?" Billy could scarcely believe his ears.
"May I niver glimpse the blissid blue av Ireland's skies ag'in, if I spake a lie," said Harry, earnestly. "In the ha'nted house I found ut, Billy. Wait now, and I tell ye how ut so happened. Ye'll be rememberin' that night we tried to wait fer ould Scroggie's ghost an' the terrible storm come on and split us asunder wid a flash av blue lightnin'? I was crossin' meself in thankfulness that ut found the big elm instead av me, I was, whin I dropped me fairy charm, d'ye moind? Stay and seek fer ut I would not, wid all the powers av darkness conspirin' wid ould Scroggie ag'in me. Ut's fly I did on the wings av terror to me own cabin, an' covered up me head wid the bed-quilt, I did."
"Well, go on. What's all this got to do with whisky?"
"Jest you wait a bit and you'll find that out. Nixt day I go down there ag'in to look fer me charm, but find ut I did not. Then wid me little jug in me hand and me whistle in me bosom, did I strike across woods to the Twin Oaks store, there to learn av the robbery. A little bit av drink did I get from Spencer, an' takin' ut home was I when an accident I had, an' spilled ut. Well, ut was afther several days av hard toil, wid not so much as a drop left in me little jug, that one mornin' as I was cuttin' through the lower valley fer Thompson's tater-patch, that come to me ut did I'd search a bit fer me lost charm ag'in.
"Ut was while pokin' about I was among the twigs on the ground, whisperin' a bit av witch-talk that belongs to me charm, that I discovered human foot-prints in the earth av the hollow. This I would not have thought strange a'tall a'tall, but the foot prints led right into the ha'nted grove. 'Begobs,' thinks I, 'no ghost iver wore boots the size av them now!' On me hands and knees I crawled forrard an' right in the edge av the grove I glimpsed somethin', I did, beneath the ferns, somethin' that sparkled in the mornin' light like a bit av star-dust on the edge av a cloud. Thinkin' only av me blessid charm, I crawled further in, and phwat do you suppose I picked up, Billy Bye? A bottle ut was, an' almost full av prime liquor.
"Sit I there, wid God's sunlight caressin' me bare head and his burruds trillin' their joy at me good luck—and dhrink I did. It's a mercy ut was but a small bottle, else I might have taken it back to me cabin to be finished at leisure. Instead, whin ut was all dhrunk up, I found widin me the courage to proceed further into the ha'nted grove. So I goes, an' afore I knew ut, right up to the ha'nted house I was, and inside ut."
Harry paused and sat looking away, a reminiscent smile on his face.
"What did you find there?" Billy's tone of impatience brought the old man out of his musing.
"Whisky," he answered solemnly, "two great jugs full avut, Billy Bye."
"And what else?"
"Nothin' else," returned Harry. "Nuthin' else that mattered, Bye. A square box there was that I had no time to open a'tall; but whisky! Oh, Billy Bye—there ut was afore me, enough av ut to coax all the blood-suckin' bats and snakes in hades up to mock the consumer av ut."
Billy reached down and gripped the old man's arm. "You found that stuff and didn't so much as tell Spencer?" he cried indignantly.
"And fer why should I tell Spencer, thin?" Harry asked, his blood-shot eyes wide in wonder. "Nobuddy told me where to find ut, did they?"
"But Harry, don't you see, that stuff belongs to Caleb Spencer. The thieves must have hid it there, in the ha'nted house."
"Course they did," Harry agreed. "Ut's no fool you take me fer, shurely?"
"Then why didn't you tell Spencer? Don't you know them thieves will find out you've been there an' they'll hide that stuff in a new place, Harry?"
The old man laughed softly. "Wull they now? Well I guess they won't neither. It's hide ut in a new place I did, meself. They'll have a lot av trouble afindin' ut, too."
"Then," cried Billy, hotly, "you're as big a thief as they are."
"Hould on now!" Harry swayed up from the log, the grin gone from his face. "Ut's little did I think that Billy Wilson would be misunderstandin' me," he said, reproachfully. "Not wan article that the box contained has been teched by me. A small bit av the whisky have I took, because it was no more than sufficient reward fer me findin' the stuff, but the box is safe and safe ut wull be returned to Spencer whin the proper time comes."
"An' when'll that be, Harry?"
"Listen thin." Harry touched Billy's arm. "Ivery day since I made me discovery an' hid box and jugs in a new spot have I visited that sour-faced ould Spencer, and I've said: 'Supposin' one should discover your stolen goods, Caleb Spencer, would ye be willin' t' let what little whisky there was left go to the finder?"
"An' phwat has he said? 'Some av ut,' said he, when first I broached the question. And the nixt time I axed him he said. 'Half av ut.' Nixt time—only yesterday ut was—he said, 'Harry, I'd be givin' two-thirds av ut to the finder.'"
Harry laughed and again touched Billy's arm. "To-night ut's go back to him I wull an' the question put to him once more, an' this night, plase God, he wull likely say, 'All av ut, Harry, all av ut.'"
Billy, who was thinking hard, looked up at this. "But," he said sternly, "you said, only a few minutes ago, that you were done forever with whisky."
"And begobs I meant ut too," cried Harry. "When Caleb Spencer says, 'All av ut' to me, ut's laugh at him I wull, and tell him it's meself wants none av ut."