"Are we now?" Landon rubbed his hands and smacked his lips in anticipation. "You're goin' to stay and help clean up on 'em, Billy?"
"Yep, I'll stay. I'm goin' to paint Erie's skiff fer her. I'll slip into the ponds ag'in on my way to the Settlement an' kill enough ducks fer our folks an' the neighbors."
Erie was waving to him from the kitchen door. "Where's Maurice?" she called.
"His Ma wouldn't let him come. Afraid he'd get wet an' go sick ag'in. Gee! that coffee smells good, Erie."
"Go 'long in and tackle it while it's hot," advised Landon. "I'll start in on pluckin' these birds. But first we'll have to let Chick see 'em. Say, Billy, they're nigh as big as tame 'uns!"
Erie clasped her hands in ecstasy at sight of the wild ducks. "Oh, aren't they lovely!" she cried. "Put them in the ice-house, Daddy, until Billy starts for home."
Billy, who had squared away at his breakfast, spoke with his mouth full. "We're goin' to have 'em fer dinner," he informed his hostess.
"But, Billy," she remonstrated, "they'll be expecting you to bring some ducks home, you know."
"Billy says he'll shoot some more this evenin'," spoke up her father, who did not intend to allow anything to interfere with a duck dinner if he could help it.
"These ducks wouldn't keep till I get home," said Billy.
"No," supported Landon, "weather's too warm, you see, Chick. I'll start in on dressin' 'em right now," he chuckled, exchanging winks with Billy.
"You're a pair of plotters," cried Erie, "and being a weak, helpless girl I suppose I'll have to agree with you and submissively roast those birds to suit your taste."
"You'll find onions and savory hangin' to the rafters upstairs," suggested her father as he carried the ducks outside.
Erie sat down opposite to Billy, and watched him while he ate. He smiled across at her. "Your Dad seems a whole lot better," he said.
"Yes, ever so much. He's almost his old self again. He has quit smoking, you see, and he has promised me not to smoke until he is quite well again."
Billy laid down his knife and fork and smiled reminiscently. "I was jest thinkin' of ol' Harry O'Dule," he said, answering the question in her eyes. "He's quit a bad habit, too. He's quit drinkin'; don't touch a drop any more—hasn't fer over a month now."
"Oh isn't that splendid," cried the girl. "He's such a dear old fellow when he's sober. Do you suppose he'll be strong enough to give up drink altogether, Billy?"
"Well, he seems to be in earnest about it. I re'lly don't think he'll drink any more. He says that he's got his tin whistle an' his cat an' don't need whisky. He's changed wonderful, there's no mistake about that. Ma saw him yesterday. He was dressed in his Prince Albert an' plug hat, an' Ma says he was that changed she didn't know him at first."
Erie laughed softly, "I know very well you've had a hand in his reform, Billy," she said.
"Nope," denied Billy, "but I ain't sayin' but that my owls an' snakes might have played a part in it." And he proceeded to relate the deception he had practiced on Harry while the old man was in his cups.
The girl clapped her hands in joy at the story. "And you let him think he had the delirium tremens! Oh, Billy, is there anything you wouldn't do, I wonder?"
Billy shook his head. "I dunno," he replied. "That's a hard question to answer."
Silence fell between them. He knew that she was thinking that last year on the opening morning of the duck season Frank Stanhope had sat at this table with him. She was gazing from the window, far down to where the Point was lost in the Settlement forests. He saw her bosom rise and fall, saw a tear grow up in her eyes and roll unheeded down her cheek.
In boyish sympathy his hand reached out to clasp the slender brown one clenched upon the white cloth. He longed to ask her if what the Settlement was saying—that she was going to marry Hinter—was true. And then as quickly as the thought itself came shame of it. His hand clasped her hand more tightly.
"He went with me to the foot of the Causeway last night, ag'in," he said softly.
She turned and the blood mounted swiftly to her white cheeks. "And did he feel the light again, Billy?" she whispered eagerly.
"He felt the light," said the boy, "an' he sang all the way back home."
"Oh!" she cried and hid her face on her arms.
Billy arose hastily, saying something about helping her father with the ducks and went outside. He found Landon seated on a soap-box behind the boat house, industriously stripping the ducks of their feathers.
"Say," said the man as Billy came up, "you know when ducks put on an extra coverin' of feathers a hard winter is in sight? Well, by gosh, these birds have all put on an extra undershirt. Look," holding the duck in his hands up for inspection. "How's that for a coat o' down?"
"It sure is heavy," agreed Billy. "I saw another sure sign over there in the ponds that says it's goin' to be a hard winter, one I've never knowed to fail. It was the mushrat houses. The rats are throwin' 'em up mighty big an' thick."
"And warm, I'll bet."
"Yep, an' warm. We're sure to have a rough fall an' a humdinger of a winter."
"And I s'pose a rough fall means good duckin'?" laughed Landon. "Oh, by the way, Billy, before I forget. Would you mind runnin' in to old Swanson's landin' on your way home and tellin' him that a couple of fellers from Cleveland are comin' to his place early next month to shoot. They were here last night. One of em's a lawyer named Maddoc an' he give me this money to pass on to Swanson, so's the old codger would be sure and hold a room for 'em."
He felt in his vest pocket and fished out a ten dollar note, which he handed to Billy. "Maddoc and a party of other men were cruisin' in a yacht. They docked here last night," he explained. "Left at sunup for Cleveland."
"I saw the yacht leave the pier," said Billy. "She sure was a dandy, wasn't she?"
"Never saw finer lines than her's," agreed Landon. "You're sure you don't mind gettin' that word to Swanson now, Billy?"
"Not a bit. I'll run in to his dock tonight, an' tell him."
"Good. There, thank goodness this job of pluckin's done at last.". Landon rose, rubbed his cramped legs and gathered the stripped ducks up by the necks. "We'll leave the rest to Erie," he chuckled. "This is about as far as she ever lets me go. Comin' in?"
Billy shook his head. "I've got a skiff to paint 'fore three o'clock this afternoon," he said, "so I best get busy. Tell Erie not to ferget to blow the fog-horn when the ducks are done."
Landon went on slowly to the kitchen. With his hand on the door-latch he paused and a smile lit his seamed face. Above the clatter of dishes came a girl's sweet soprano:
"Her voice was low and sweet,And she's all the world to me,And for bonnie Annie LaurieI'd lay me down and dee."
"I knowed it," whispered the man, softly. "I knowed the old songs would come back ag'in. Billy must have had somethin' to do with it; I'll bet a cookie he had!" He opened the door gently and entered. He placed the ducks on the table and softly withdrew again.
* * * * *
It was late afternoon when Billy stepped into his punt and with swift, strong strokes sent it skimming toward the duck-ponds. At the point where the shore curved abruptly he lifted his hat and waved to the man and girl watching him from the pier.
Moll looked up into his face and whined. "Don't worry, girlie," Billy told her, "we're goin' on, but we're comin' back ag'in soon an' have another o' Erie's duck dinners, an' Teacher Stanhope's goin to be with us, don't you ferget that."
As he spoke, he saw another boat round the distant grass-point and put into Jerunda cut, the entrance to the main pond. The smile left his face. "Beat us to it, Moll," he sighed to the spaniel whose brown eyes had also glimpsed the skiff. "They'll be set by the time we get in an' they've got the pick of the ponds, no use denyin' that. We'll have to portage 'cross to a back slough an' all the ducks we'll get a chance at are them they miss. Well, cheer up," as the dog, sensing the disgust in his voice, growled deep in her throat.
Reaching the cut Billy found the other shooters having some difficulty in getting their heavy skiff through the shallow and deceptive water, a feat which only one who was used to navigating could hope to accomplish successfully. At the same time he noted, with a start, that the men in the skiff were the mysterious drillers, Tom and Jack.
"Hello, you!" he shouted. "You'll have to back up an' take the run to your left."
The larger of the two men grunted a surly response and with much pushing and swearing they began to laboriously back out of the blind channel. Billy and Moll watched them, the dog growling her antagonism of the interlopers. As the skiff passed his bow Billy noted that the guns lying across the seat were both of the new breech-loading pattern.
The occupants of the skiff cast a contemptuous look at his old muzzle-loader, as they passed, and one of them laughed and said something in an aside to his companion.
"Do you expect to kill any ducks with that old iron?" he sneered, looking hard at Billy.
Billy felt his cheeks turn hot. "I might," he returned, "an' ag'in, I mightn't."
"That's one on you, Tom," laughed the man named Jack. "Quit roasting the kid. We'd have been mired yet if it hadn't been for him."
Tom allowed a shade of amiability to creep into his tones as he said: "First time we ever shot these grounds, and we're kinder green on the ins and outs of 'em. We're drillin' fer water down in the Settlement. Lost our drill this mornin' and had to send across the lake fer a fishin' outfit, so thought we'd put in the time shootin' a bit."
Billy made no reply.
"Neeborly, ain't he?" growled Tom to his companion. "Nice, friendly sorter youngsters they raise on this God forsaken spot, I say."
"He thinks you're guyin' him," said the other man. "How's he to know what you mean by 'fishin'-outfit?' He likely thinks you mean a rod and reel. Better push along and mind your own business. Next thing you're goin' to say is somethin' about 'shootin' a well,' and if Jacobs gets to hear of that kinder talk—"
They were moving off, and Billy did not hear the rest of the sentence. As they entered the main run, the smaller man called: "Hey, sonny, whereabouts is the best point in yonder?"
Billy gritted his teeth. He resented these strangers coming into his shooting grounds and acting as though they owned them. For them to expect him to show them just where the best point was to be found seemed to him to be going a whole lot too far. He disliked and distrusted them. From what he had seen and heard of them he believed they were the men who robbed the Twin Oaks store. He wanted to tell them so now, but something told him to curb his temper and act the part of a sport who could afford to make certain allowances.
"The best point's straight ahead of you," he answered. "You'll find a rush blind already built on it."
He picked up his paddle and followed in the wake of the other boat. The men were putting out their decoys as Billy passed the point.
"Say, you," called Tom, "if this is such an all-fired good spot it's a wonder you didn't take it yourself; you had lots of time to beat us to it, didn't you?"
"You was in the run first, wasn't you?" said Billy, coldly.
"Why, sure we was, but we were stuck tight. You might have passed us, easy enough."
"Well, we don't play the game that way in these parts," said Billy and passed on, unheedful of the uncomplimentary names the chagrined driller threw after him.
Half way down the long pond he drew into shore and, pulling the punt after him through the tall rushes, made the portage across to the inner slough. It was a long, hard pull, but the track he laid would make the return portage much easier.
"Looks like a good feedin' place, Moll," he addressed the spaniel as he paddled slowly across to the far shore of the slough. "Good grass here fer hidin', too; but not much chance of findin' a down bird without a good dog, an' I've got her—eh girlie?"
Moll wagged her short tail gleefully.
"Now then, girlie, it's comin' on to flight-time, so well jest set out decoys right here." Billy picked up the wooden ducks and placed them as naturally as he knew how some twenty yards out from shore. As he drew the punt well up among the tall rushes he saw the first line of ducks drift in from the bay.
"Down, Moll!" he whispered, as he cocked the old muzzle-loader. "They're headin' straight in. Them driller fellers are goin' to get a chance to make a clean-up on that bunch, sure!"
Straight across the marsh, following the cut, the ducks came on, half a dozen big "blacks," with long necks outstretched and quick eyes seeking for feeding ones of their own kind. Then, suddenly, the leader gave a soft quack and Billy saw the flock swoop low.
"Oh, gollies! Right into their decoys," he groaned. "Now they'll give it to 'em, jest as they're settlin'."
A long, harrowing moment passed. Then quickly and close together four shots rang out. Moll whined dolefully and Billy, peering through the rushes, gave a low whistle of surprise. "Didn't down a single bird," he muttered, "an' by gollies, they've sent 'em right across to us."
Almost simultaneously with his words the whistle of strong wings grew up and the six big blacks swept in, low over his decoys.
It was a sure hand that raised the old gun, a sure eye that glanced along its brown barrels. At the first loud report of the black powder the leader of the flock crumpled up and the second in command drifted sidewise from the flock. The left barrel spoke and a third duck twisted from the remainder of the flock, to fall with a splash into the water.
Moll, whose eyes had never left the second bird down, had slipped quietly away through the rushes. Billy, having launched the punt and retrieved the two birds on the water, found her waiting for him on shore, the dead duck in her mouth. He patted her brown side and spoke a word of commendation to her; then quickly he reloaded.
The sun was almost on the western horizon now and the ducks were beginning to come in fast, most of them from off the bay; consequently the shooters in the front pond had always first chance. But Billy knew they were having little or no success. Every duck that offered itself as a target to them he saw almost as soon as they did and although the report of their guns sounded at quick intervals the ducks seemed to keep on, straight across to where he crouched with the excited dog by his side.
By the time the sun had fallen behind the far rim of forest he was quite content with his evening's bag, which consisted of five blacks, a pair of greys, two blue winged teal, a pintail and a pair of green headed mallards.
Quickly he made the portage and crossed the pond into Jerunda. He could hear the other shooters ahead of him, speaking in profane tones of disgust at their luck. He found them waiting for him on the edge of the bay, but he kept right on paddling.
"What luck, sonny?" called the man, Tom, as he passed.
Billy told him of his bag.
The man swore and said something to his companion. "Hey, hold up! Want to sell part of them ducks?" he asked.
"Nope." Billy shipped his paddle and picked up his oars. Somehow he felt safer then. He believed that men like those behind were capable of almost any crime. What if they should make up their minds to have his ducks anyway? Well, they couldn't catch him now. There were two of them in a heavy skiff and he was alone in his light punt, so let them try it if they wanted to. But whatever might have been their thought, it was clear they knew better than pursue that swiftly moving boat. Quickly they fell behind him and were swallowed up in the deepening shadows.
September passed laden with summer perfumes and song and, beneath a blanket of hoar frost, October awoke to send her hazy heralds far across wooded upland and open. Slowly those wreathing mists kissed leaf and fern, as though whispering: "Rest sweetly, until spring brings you back once again."
So it seemed to the boy, as from the brow of a hill he watched the dawn-haze drift toward the newly-open sun-gates of the eastern sky; for autumn always brought a feeling of sadness to Billy. He missed the twitter of the birds, the thousand and one notes of the wild things he loved and which always passed out and away from his world with the summer. The first hoar frost had come; soon the leaves would turn golden and crimson, the fern-clumps crumple and wither into sere, dead, scentless things. Then with shortening days and darkening skies those leaves and plants would sag to earth and the gaunt arms of the bare trees would lift empty nests toward snow-spitting skies.
No more would the fire-flies weave a gauze of golden stars above the marshlands at the foot of the Causeway. The season of green and blue had lived and died and in its place had been born a season of drab and brown. Summer was gone. The song-birds had migrated. Soon the green rush fields would sway, grey and dead and the bronze woodcocks would whistle away from the bog-lands, for seldom did they tarry after the first frost. Along the creek the red-winged black-birds would be sounding their up-and-away notes. No happy carol to welcome the first glow of dawn! No wonder Billy sighed. Then he lifted his head quickly as, high above him, sounded the whistle of wings. Up from the north a wedgeshaped flock of wild ducks came speeding, white backs flashing as they pitched downward in unbroken formation towards the calling bay-waters.
Billy caught his breath quickly and a glad smile drove the shadow from his face. "Canvasbacks!" he murmured, "They've come early. I bet anythin' the flocks I heard comin' in through the night was canvasbacks, too—an' redhead! I must go right over after breakfast an' tell Teacher Stanhope; he'll be sure to say 'Let's go get 'em.' Oh, gee!"
He turned back toward the house, then paused as the mellow "whirt-o-whirt" of a quail sounded from the sumach which bordered the meadow across the road. "Old Cock quail," he cautioned softly, "I wouldn't give that covey-call too often if I was you. Joe Scraff jest might hear you. Only note safe fer you to whistle is 'Bob White'—but you won't be whistlin' that till spring comes ag'in."
It may be that the white-throated leader of the brown covey in the stubble sensed the murmured warning of his friend, for he did not whistle again. The smile still on his lips, Billy vaulted the rail fence and sought the path to the house.
He found his father, mother and Anson seated at the breakfast table and as he took his place he was conscious of a foreboding of impending storm. The conviction was strengthened when his father's foot, reaching sympathetically underneath the table, touched his ever so gently. With perfect sangfroid he speared a strip of bacon with his fork and held his breath as he waited for the worst. Two taps of that foot meant "On your guard," three taps "Watch out for dodging."
He received two taps and sighed relievedly; then as his mother arose to bring the coffee-pot from the stove he felt three quick and distinct pressures and ducked his head just in time to miss a swinging, open-handed slap from Mrs. Wilson's heavy hand.
Anson, sitting slit-eyed and gleeful close beside him, received the slap with a force that knocked his face into his porridge bowl.
As Mrs. Wilson recovered her balance and squared away for a surer stroke, Croaker swooped in through the open door and, with many muffled croaks, alighted in the center of the table. In his black beak he held another glittering gold piece, which he dropped in front of Mrs. Wilson's plate. Then picking up a fat doughnut from the platter he hopped to the mottoGod Bless Our Homeand perching himself on its gilt frame proceeded to appease his morning's hunger.
Silence fell upon the family after the first gasp of surprise at sight of the gold piece. Even Anson checked his wailing to sit with his pale eyes wider open than ever they had been before and it was he who broke the silence which had fallen—broke it with a husky, fear-ridden voice as he cried:
"Fer goodness sake, Ma, don't touch that gold! It's bewitched, I tell you!"
His mother glared at him. "Humph!" she snorted, "you're bewitched yourself, you poor coward you! Now then, another word out o' you—and you get the strap. Ain't I told you, Anson, time and ag'in, that this dear crow has found old Scroggie's pile? You git up from this table to once; go out and stay within callin' distance; I'll want you back here presently."
She picked up the gold piece and, fondling it lovingly, waited until Anson had passed outside. Then with characteristic deliberation she placed it safely away beneath her saucer, thereby signifying that the incident was closed for the time being.
It was not until Billy had finished his breakfast and was about to slip quietly out that his mother spoke again. Then fixing him with cold, accusing eyes, she said: "I want 'a know what you had to do with scarin' the new teacher so he won't never come back to the Valley School ag'in, Willium."
Billy, who had anticipated what was coming, gave a well-feigned start.
"Why, Ma," he cried, in amazement, "you don't mean to say he's gone?"
"Yes, he's gone an' I s'pose you're satisfied, you and your outlaw companions in crime. Cobin Keeler stopped by this mornin' and he told us the teacher left his writ' resign in his hands. He declares he won't risk his life among a lot of young savages."
"I think that Mr. Johnston went a little too far there," Wilson ventured.
"You shet right up, Tom!" commanded his wife. "Ain't it nuthin' to you that your son grows up wild and uneddicated?"
"But he had no right to call us savages, Ma," protested Billy.
"Oh, hadn't he then! Well, who up and deliberately stole his horse, I'd like to know?" Mrs. Wilson held her breath waiting for the answer.
"Nobody stole his horse," replied Billy. "The poor thing was so lean an' hungry that it weaved when it walked; all we did was sneak it out o' the school-yard an' hide it where there was good pasture."
"Well, maybe that ain't stealin' it, but if it ain't what would you call it, Willium?"
"I'd call it bein' kind to dumb animals," spoke up Wilson, his eyes meeting the angry ones of his wife.
"Listen, Ma," said Billy gently. "That old Johnston was awful mean to us kids, there's no mistake about that. He whipped us fer nothin', an' what's worse, he was always sneerin' at us fer being low-born an' ignorant, an' that meant sayin' things ag'in our folks. But we was willin' to stand all that, cause we'd promised Teacher Stanhope that we'd do our best to put up with the teacher in his place. But, Ma, if you could'a seen that poor ol' horse, so starved that every rib showed like the ridges in your wash-board, lookin' over that school-yard fence at the long grass an' beggin' with his hungry eyes fer jest a bite—"
Billy paused and rolled a bread crumb. When he looked up his eyes were dark. "Anse has told you that it was me who sneaked him out o' the yard, an' led him away where he could feed an' rest an' get the sores made by the hard saddle an' hickory healed, an' Anse didn't lie fer once. I did do it, an' I'd do it ag'in.
"What's more, Ma, that ol' horse is goin' to stay right where he is, belly-deep in clover, till it gets so cold we'll have to stable him. Then he's goin' to have all the good hay an' oats he wants."
Mrs. Wilson could scarcely believe her ears. "You don't mean that havin' took him you had any thoughts of keepin' him, Willium?" she managed to say.
"Yes, Ma'am; I mean jest that. You see, Ma, that ol' horse don't belong to Teacher Johnston any more. We bought him."
"Bought him!" exclaimed man and woman in a breath.
Billy nodded. "Me an' Jim Scroggie bought him from Mr. Johnston, an' we got a receipt provin' our ownership, too, you bet. This is how we did it. 'Long 'bout the second er third day after ol' Thomas disappeared me an' Jim met up with Johnston walkin' home from school to Fairfield where he boards. Jim had fifty dollars, all his own, an' we'd planned jest what we'd say to the teacher.
"First off when he sees us, he asks us if we'd happened to find any tracks of his horse. It was funny to see his snakey eyes callin' us liars at every polite word we said to him. Finally he comes right out flat-footed an' tells us that he knows we had somethin' to do with ol' Thomas wanderin' off, an' he says he's goin' to make our fathers pay fer his loss."
"Course we got real scared then—leastwise Johnston thought we was—an' Jim he ups an' tells him that we fergot to latch the gate an' let the horse out. Then Johnston got real mean—meaner than I ever see him get, an' that's sayin' quite a lot. He said he would turn back with us an' interview—that's the word he used, whatever it means—interview our fathers.
"Then Jim he begged him not to do that. 'We'll pay you whatever's right fer your horse, sir,' he says, but Johnston jest snorted. 'Where would you get fifty dollars!' he says, but Jim, he nudged me to keep quiet, an' said: 'I've got fifty dollars of my very own, right here, sir. We'll buy your horse an' take chances on findin' him, if you'll sell him to us.'
"'Gimme the money,' says Johnston.
"So we give him the money but we made him give us what Jim calls a regular bill o' sale receipt fer it. An' so, you see, Ma, we've got Mr. Johnston there, an' he won't ever lay the rod on poor ol' Thomas no more."
Mrs. Wilson, arms folded on the white table-cloth, was gazing out of the window now. Perhaps she saw a poor old horse, belly deep in luscious grass, making up for the fasts of hard and stern days, mercifully behind it forever now and enjoying life to the full—the new life which Billy had helped to purchase.
At any rate, her voice had lost much of its harshness as she asked: "But what about the wild animal that broke into the school an' tore the teacher's clothes fair off his back an' chased him up the road? That's the thing that scared him so he quit the school ferever. Now, Willium, what did you have to do with that?"
Billy sat silent, striving to keep back the grin that would come in spite of him. Wilson, on pretext of getting his pipe, got up and left the room.
"I'm waitin', Willium."
"Well, Ma, you see ol' Ringdo got out of his cage yesterday mornin'. I've kept him shut up a lot an' what with feedin' on meat an' rich stuff that old swamp coon was playfuller than usual, I guess. It seems Teacher Johnston had took a notion to get down to the school at eight o'clock instead of nine as he usually does. When Teacher Stanhope taught school Ringdo used t' often go there an' get apples an' stuff that the teacher saved for him. Yesterday when he got loose he must've been lonesome fer Mr. Stanhope, an' he went to the school. He got in an' found Johnston alone, I guess, an' maybe tried to get friendly. Mr. Johnston must have kicked him er hit him. All I know about it is what I seen fer myself.
"I was goin' down the path to the road, Anse with me, when the teacher went past, runnin' fer all he was worth. Come to think of it his coat had been clawed some, an' I remember now his face was bleedin' from a scratch er two. He didn't see us an' he didn't stop. He kept right on goin'. Anse an' me went on to the school, an' there we found Ringdo jest finishin' the teacher's lunch. I brought him back an' put him in his cage. That's all, Ma, an' it's every blessed word true."
Mrs. Wilson remained thoughtful. Billy, watching her with furtive speculation, hoped from the relaxing lines in her brow that all was well with the world once more. Hope became an assurance with her next words.
"You kin have that Jim Scroggie over to supper tonight, Willium, if you want to."
Billy's heart jumped with joy. He wanted to hug his mother, but restrained the desire and sat gazing pensively at his plate.
"What's the matter, don't you want him?" asked his mother. "I thought maybe you'd like to have him, seein's you're such cronies an' there must be some good in him in spite of his looks. I could have them partridges that Joe Scraff sent over roasted with bacon strips across 'em, an' baked potatoes, an' maybe I might boil an apple dumplin'."
Billy sighed. "That's awful good of you, Ma, an' I sure would like to have Jim over to supper, but he's so fond of his sister he won't go anywheres without her, you see."
"Well," flared his mother, "can't he fetch her along with him, if he wants to? What's to hinder him from fetchin' her? She's a sweet little thing an' I'd be proud to have her."
Billy closed his eyes and took tight hold of his chair seat. He knew that if he did not summon all his self restraint he would surely spoil all he had accomplished through strategy. He longed to swoop down on his mother and hug her, slap her on the back and yell in her ear that she was a brick. But experience had taught him caution. And besides, Billy reasoned, there was still something more to be accomplished.
"I say we kin have Louie over, too, Willium," Mrs. Wilson suggested once again.
"Yep, we could do that, I s'pose," said Billy, "only—" He frowned and shook his head. "I guess we best not ask either of 'em, Ma. Maurice might hear of it, an' wonder why he wa'n't asked too. He's awful funny that way, you know."
"Why, sakes alive!" cried his mother, "I never give Maurice a thought. O' course we'll have him, too. An' if there happens to be anybody else you'd like, you best say so now, Willium."
"I'd awful like to have Harry O'Dule, too."
Mrs. Wilson caught her breath, but whatever objections her mind raised against the last named remained unuttered. All she said was. "This is your party, Willium. Anybody else, now?"
"Elgin Scraff," spoke up Billy, promptly.
Mrs. Wilson looked out of the window and considered. "Let's see. That leaves little Louie the only girl among all of you boys, so we'll jest have to have another girl er two. How'd you like to have Ann Spencer and Phoebe Scraff?"
Billy agreed with delight.
Mrs. Wilson pushed back her chair and arose from the table. "Now, then, Willium, you get along out. I've got a whole lot to do afore supper-time, and I guess maybe you best run across and ask Mrs. Keeler to come over and help me. You kin go 'round and give the invites to your friends."
She picked up the saucer and stood looking down at the gold piece which Croaker had brought in. "I don't s'pose there's a particle of use keepin' an eye on that crow?" she asked.
"Haven't I been keepin' an eye on him?" cried Billy, "an' you see what he does. Jest as soon as I turn my back he plays sharp. I've done my best to get him to show me where he finds that gold, but he won't do it. But I'll catch him yet. I'll jest run along an' see what he's at now; he's so quiet I know he's into some mischief."
He picked up his hat and bounded outside. He found Croaker seated on the chicken yard fence, gravely surveying his ancient and mortal enemy, the old game cock, and whispering guttural insults that fairly made the rooster bristle with anger.
Billy shook his fist at the crow. "You old beggar," he said fondly, "if that rooster was wise he'd go out with the rest of the chickens an' scratch his breakfast, 'stead o' quarrelin' with you. He don't know that you're doin' your best to starve him to death."
Billy knew that Croaker would hang close to his enemy all morning and feeling reasonably sure that no further trips to the hidden treasure would be made during his absence on his mother's errand he started for Keeler's. At the road gate he met Cobin coming in, a pitchfork on his shoulder. Keeler and Billy's father "changed works" during wheat and corn harvest, and the former was coming over to help haul in fodder.
"Ho, Billy!" he boomed, gripping the lad's arm in his huge hand, "you won't steal Maurice away from the work I've set him to do this mornin', I'll be bound. Back to the house you come with me, young man. I want Maurice to finish his job."
"I don't want Maurice," Billy hastened to explain. "Ma wants Missus Keeler to come over an' give her a hand, so I'm on my way to tell her. Honest, Mr. Keeler, that's right."
"By Jimminy, you've fooled me so many times, Billy, I have an idea you might jest do it ag'in." Mr. Keeler's grip tightened, and his smile broadened. "Cross your heart, it's right?"
"Yep, cross my heart, an' spit on my thumb," grinned Billy.
Keeler's roaring laugh might have been heard half a mile away. "Well, along you go," he shouted, lifting Billy bodily over the gate. "You'll find Ma deefer than usual on account of a cold in the head, so talk real close and loud to her."
Billy found Mrs. Keeler peeling onions in the cook-house and after some trouble made her understand what was wanted. While she was shedding her apron and hunting for her hat he went outside. Maurice's school-books and slate lay on the bench beneath the hop vine. Billy grinned as his eyes fell on them. He climbed to the top of the gate-post and searched the surrounding fields for his chum, locating him finally down near the ditch, a lonely and pathetic figure seated on a little knoll, methodically topping mangles with a sickle. His back was toward Billy and it took all the latter's self restraint to refrain from giving the rally call, but he remembered what he had promised Maurice's father. So he slid down from the post and picking up the slate, produced a stub of slate-pencil from a pocket and wrote a message in symbols. Then on the other side of the slate he duplicated the message, adding the necessary key to the code. This was the message that Billy wrote:
Billy's message
When Mrs. Keeler came out, laden with bake-pans and other kitchen utensils, Billy led her carefully across the stubble by a new route, nor did she dream his motive in so doing was to keep the house between them and the lonesome mangle-topper in the valley.
October's second morning dawned sullen and grey, with a chill wind banking slate-hued clouds in the sky. Deacon Ringold, taking the short cut across the stubble-fields to Wilson's, shivered as he glanced back at the black lines his feet had cut through the crisp white frost, and decided to put on his woolen underclothes right away. The deacon had important and disturbing news to convey to his neighbor and had started out early to seek his counsel.
As he climbed the rail fence his eyes swept the Settlement below, resting at length on the jail-like wall in the edge of the Scroggie timber, above which the tall derrick protruded like a white, scarred face. "Humph!" he mused, "Scroggie and Hinter must either have struck water, or give up. Their rig's quiet after chuggin' away day and night for weeks."
He glanced in the opposite direction to the blue smoke rising above the Wilson cedars. Then, as he prepared to climb down, he apparently changed his mind, for instead of taking the path to Tom Wilson's he walked briskly down toward the walled in derrick. Reaching it he paused and an exclamation of surprise escaped him. On the door of the wall an iron padlock had been fastened. There was no sign of human life about the place but within the walls could be heard the fierce growling of dogs. Ringold backed away and eyed the tall derrick. There was mystery here and he didn't relish mysteries. And there was a pungent, salty smell about the place—the smell that oily machinery gives off when put under intense heat.
The deacon was curious to learn what caused that smell. He approached a little closer to the walls and scrutinized the ground carefully. It was stained with black patches of something and he saw that the planks of the wall and the portion of the derrick showing above it also were stained a greenish-black. He ran a finger over a greasy splash and sniffed. Then he backed away slowly, now nodding his head. He knew what had happened, just as well as though he had seen it. The careless drillers had exploded a barrel of coal-oil, and perhaps wrecked the drill. Yes, nothing surer. That had been the explosion which shook the windows of his home and awoke him several nights ago. Keeler and Wilson had heard it too. Well, it was too bad after all the trouble and expense Scroggie had gone to to find water for the Settlement.
So the deacon went thoughtfully on his way to Wilson's. He found Tom Wilson breakfasting alone. To the deacon's look of surprise his neighbor vouchsafed the information that a glad and glorious band of young people had been "cuttin' up" nearly all night there, and the boys and Ma were sleepin' in, like.
Ringold hung his hat on the stovepoker and got down to business at once. "Say, Tom, I've had an offer for my back hundred. Don' know whether to sell or not. Thought I'd like to hear what you'd advise."
Wilson drained his cup and set it down in the saucer, methodically. The news did not seem to surprise him. "Who made the offer, Hinter?" he asked.
The deacon started. "Yes, did he tell you about it?"
"No," Wilson pushed back his chair and felt for his pipe, "but he seems to want to own the whole Settlement. He made me an offer for my place and he tried to buy Cobin Keeler's farm, too, so Cobin says."
"When, Tom, when?" asked Ringold, eagerly.
"Last night. At least that's when he made me my offer an' he must have gone across to Cobin's after he left me. Cobin jest left here not ten minutes ago. He come over to tell me all about it."
The deacon sat silent, thinking. "What's their game, Tom?" he asked suddenly.
"His game you mean."
"No, I don't either, I mean his and Scroggie's game; of course Scroggie's behind him."
"Yes," agreed Wilson, "I guess maybe he is. But, Deacon, I don't know what their game is; wish I did."
"Did you talk sell, Tom?" asked Ringold, anxiously.
"No sir," his neighbor answered promptly, "I should say not."
"And Cobin—he ain't any head at all, poor Cobin—did he talk sell?"
Wilson laughed. "Not Cobin. He's quite satisfied with his little farm, I guess. No, Hinter didn't get much satisfaction from either of us."
The deacon jumped up and reached for his hat. "Tom, I'm goin' to saddle your roan and go ask a few questions of the other farmers, if you don't mind."
"Good idea," agreed his neighbor. "Here, you best set down and have a cup of coffee and I'll saddle him, myself."
"No coffee, thanks; had breakfast; I'll go 'long with you. Oh, by the way, Tom, I know now what caused that explosion t'other night," and the deacon proceeded to relate his investigation of the walled-in well.
Wilson listened interestedly, until Ringold was through. "Well, they've been careful enough about hidin' their good work, at any rate," he said. "You'd think they had somethin' mighty precious inside them walls the way they've guarded it; but I'm sorry if they've met with an accident," he added. "Hinter did really seem anxious to get water."
They went out to the stable and Wilson saddled the roan. "I'll be back in an hour or so," called the deacon as he rode away.
He was as good as his word. Wilson was just finishing the morning's milking, when the deacon returned. "No other offers, Tom," he said. "Looks as though they were after this particular strip of territory. Anyhow it's agreed that none of us will sell or rent without consultin' the others, so I guess we can wait on Hinter's game all right."
"Didn't see Scraff, did you?" asked Wilson.
"No, I didn't. Joe had left for Bridgetown to bring in a couple of duck-hunters to old man Swanson's. Clevelanders, they are, so I didn't see him."
"I'm afraid Joe'll sell, if he gets a good offer," reflected Wilson.
"No, he'll stick with the rest of us," cried Ringold, emphatically, "and I'll tell you why. It's just like his contrariness to do the very thing the others won't do, but let me tell you somethin'. The very minute he makes a move I put the screws on him tight. Let him so much as whisper 'sell' an' he'll pay me every cent he owes me, with interest. No, Tom, we needn't feel scarey about Joe Scraff."
"Well," laughed Wilson, "if anybody kin make Joe toe the scratch it's you, Deacon. Didn't see anythin' of Hinter on your rounds, did you?"
"No, but I met Scroggie. That feller improves on acquaintance, Tom, he does so! He ain't half bad after you get to know him. He seems to want to be neighborly, and while I think he's backing Hinter in some way I've an idea he's watching him pretty close."
"Say anythin' to him about Hinter's offer to buy?"
"Nary a word but I asked him what he intended to do with the Scroggie hardwoods. He told me that he had sold it to a lumber company. He says there'll be a big camp of cutters and sawyers down here this winter. I said I supposed he'd be goin' back to the States jest as soon as he got things cleared up here, an' you ought to see the queer look he gave me.
"'I'm not sure that I'll go back to the States,' he said, 'it all depends; besides,' says he, 'my boy and girl like this place and the people and I reckon I've got enough money to live wherever I like.'
"Well, I'll put the roan in the stable, Tom; then I'll mosey 'cross home and get my men at the cider-makin'. A few frosts like last night's, an' all the apples will be soured. See you tonight at prayer-meetin'."
Wilson picked up his pails and carried them to the fence. Seeing Billy emerge from the house he placed them on the top step of the stile and waited.
"Have a good time last night?" he asked.
Billy grinned, "You bet! I tell you Ma kin certainly roast partridge fine, an' say, can't old Harry play the dandiest tune you ever heard? Lou says he puts all the songs of the wood-birds into one sweet warble."
"I guess whatever Lou says is jest about right, eh?"
Billy blushed to the roots of his hair but his grey eyes met his father's steadily. "Yep," he answered, "jest about right."
Billy lifted the pails and turned up the path.
"Where have you put that man-eatin' swamp coon?" asked his father as he followed. "I believe he's gettin' cross. You'll have to watch him."
"Oh, Ringdo ain't cross," laughed Billy, "he's only playful. He's over to Teacher Stanhope's. He's so fond of the teacher he won't stay away from him."
Billy set the pails down on the block outside the milk-house and rubbed his cheek against Croaker, who had just alighted on his shoulder. "Are you goin' to show me where you found the gold-pieces, Croaker?" he asked, stroking the ruffled plumage smooth.
Croaker shooked his head and hopped to the ground. He had grown tired of having Billy put that question to him. With many throaty and indignant mutterings he pigeontoed across the yard, not even deigning to glance back at the laughing man and boy.
"Pa," said Billy, "would you mind comin' to the woodshed an' lookin' over my open water decoys. I've been restringin' 'em, an' weightin' the canvasbacks an' redheads, an' givin' the bluebills a fresh coat o' paint. I'd like to know what you think of my job."
"I heard you and Frank Stanhope arrangin' to go after bay ducks t'other day," said Wilson as he followed Billy into the shed.
"Yep, we're goin' tomorrow if this weather holds. I'll go over this afternoon to fix up a hide on Mud point."
"You seem to have managed the stringin' all right," said the father, examining the wooden ducks on the work bench. "A little too much white on the bluebills, I'd say."
"That's jest what I thought," said Billy. "I'll darken it some."
Wilson leaned against the bench and waited. He knew that Billy had brought him into the shed to speak of other things than decoys.
"Pa," said the boy, in guarded tones, "you best watch that man Hinter, an' watch him close."
"Why?" said Wilson.
"Cause he's up to some game, an' I know it."
"But what makes you suspicious of Hinter?" asked his father gravely. "Hasn't he always minded his own business and been a law-abidin', quiet livin man?"
"Yep," Billy admitted, slowly, "that's it. He's all right in lots of ways, but in other ways——"
He paused. "See here, Pa," he cried, "I happen to know one er two things about Hinter that I don't like. He's the boss of at least two bad men, an' I guess maybe there's more in the gang, too."
"And who are these two men? What have they done?"
"They're the two who've been workin' his drillin' rig; an' they're the men that robbed the Twin Oaks store."
"How do you know this?" Wilson asked sharply.
"I know it 'cause Maurice an' me saw 'em on the very night the store was robbed, out in Scroggie's woods. They had a lantern. We heard 'em speak about hidin' somethin' in the ha'nted house."
"And that's where Harry found the stolen stuff," mused Wilson. "What else, Billy?"
"It was them two who brought Hinter's drillin'-rig 'cross the lake in a schooner. I saw 'em the day they teamed it in. I knowed 'em both an' Pa, I overheard 'em talkin' 'bout hidin' the stolen stuff in the ha'nted house."
"Have you told anybody else about this besides me, Billy?"
"No," answered Billy, promptly, "not even Teacher Stanhope."
Wilson looked relieved. "I can't make head er tail of it," he said, frowning. "I can't think that Hinter is behind the men in any deviltry."
"His name ain't Hinter," said Billy. "It's Jacobs."
"What?"
"It's Jacobs. Listen, Pa, I'll tell you how I know. Anse, you remember, was sort of helper with them drillers till he got askin' too many questions an' they fired him. Well, all he asked 'em,I put him up to ask. Anse was always a mighty good listener an' he often heard these two, Jack and Tom, speak of Jacobs an' call him boss. An' one day when Hinter comes over, Anse heard one of 'em call him Jacobs, an' Hinter was awful mad about it."
"Well!" was all Wilson could say, and he repeated it to himself several times, dazedly.
Billy was watching him closely. "Pa," he said earnestly, "there's something else I might as well let you know while I'm about it. This man Hinter owns a schooner, er leastways is boss of one, an' it was her brought them drillin' rigs 'cross the lake. The boat's been layin' along the Point, a mile out from shore fer more'n a month now, an' Hinter has been keepin' in touch with her right along."
"But how do you know this?" asked Wilson in amazement. Billy hesitated before answering. "I know it," he said, "'cause every night that he rides to the lighthouse Maurice an' me sail up there an' sort o' hide up till he leaves."
"But why, Billy?"
"'Cause he—he wants Erie," said the boy, miserably, "an she won't marry him. We've wondered why he's been holdin' the schooner close in. So we been watchin' Hinter. An' one night we follered him down the bar to the pines, an' we seen him signal the schooner. He built a little fire on the shore.
"After a little we saw a light 'way out on the lake. It stayed where it was an by an' by we heard oars. A boat landed an' a man Hinter called Cap'n, came across to where he sat by the fire."
"And did you hear anythin' of what passed between 'em, Billy?"
"Yep, we heard Hinter say Scroggie was a headstrong fool, an' he wished he'd never had anythin' to do with him; but that he'd have to handle him with gloves till he got Lost Man's Swamp away from him."
Wilson whistled. "What in the world does he want with that swamp, I wonder?" he cried.
He stood considering. "We'll just keep what we know to ourselves till we're quite sure," he said at length. "What d'ye say?"
Billy nodded. "That's what Trigger Finger 'ud do," he said, "an' Trigger Finger, he was always right, Pa."
Nature had crooked a wooded arm about Rond Eau Bay so that her tranquillity seldom was disturbed by the fall gales which piled the waters of Lake Erie high and made her a veritable death-trap for late-sailing ships. To the thunder of heavy waves upon the pine-clad beach the little bay slept sweetly, while half a league beyond the bar a tempest-torn, dismasted schooner might be battered to pieces, or a heavy freighter, her back broken by the twisting seas, might sink to final rest. But there were times when Rond Eau awoke from her dreaming to gnash her white teeth and throw her hissing challenge to man to dare ride her banked-up seas in open boat. At such times only the foolish or venturesome listened. When the gale swept in from the East it transformed the upper waters into a seething cauldron, while, plunging in the nine-mile sweep from the West, it swept water at the foot, frothing and turbulent, across the rushlands.
At such times expert indeed must be the hand that guides the frail skiff through those treacherous seas. But the slim punt which rounded Mud Point betwixt the darkness and the dawn, in the teeth of an all night gale, was propelled by one who knew every whimsical mood of Rond Eau. Now high on frothy comber, now lost to view between the waves, the little craft beat onward, a speck of driftwood on the angry waves. Sullen daylight was revealing a world of wind-whipped, spray-drenched desolation when the punt at last rounded the point and swept into the comparative calm of the lee shore. Then the rower shipped his oars and glanced at his companion who sat huddled low in the bow of the boat, the collar of his shooting coat turned high about his ears.
"Phew! teacher, some pull, that! Must'a been half an hour beatin' up from Levee."
"It seemed longer than that to me, Billy," laughed Stanhope. "Once or twice I thought we were goners, but you pulled the old girl through nobly."
"I don't know as I ever put her through a rougher sea," said Billy as he began placing the decoys. "We'll get set, then we'll push into the rushes, hide our boat, an' settle down comfortable in our blind. You'll find it warm, an' snug, an' wind-proof as a rat house, soon's I get a fire started in the little stove. Hello!" as a brown shaggy head poked itself from beneath the seat and a cold nose touched his wrist, "did you think I didn't know you was there, Moll?"
Moll whined and wagged her stub of a tail, undoubtedly sensing from her master's words and manner that her offense, in "sneakin' in," had been pardoned. Five minutes later they were seated snugly inside four walls of tightly woven rushes, the blind man's face alive and glowing with the joy of once more feeling the moist kiss of open water, his ears atuned for the first whistle of incoming wings. Billy crouched by his side, gun in hand, eyes sweeping the lighting bay.
Suddenly the spaniel's tail commenced beating a soft tattoo on the rush floor and Billy's grip tightened on the walnut stock.
"How many?" whispered Stanhope.
"Five, bluebill. Comin' right to us."
A moment later the "swowee" of the cutting wings sounded, close in, and the old gun spoke twice.
"Two down," cried Stanhope. "Good work, Billy!"
Billy took his eyes from the pair of dead ducks, floating shoreward and turned wonderingly to his companion.
"Teacher," he said in awed tones, "sometimes I'm sure you kin see. If you can't see how do you find out things like you do? How did you know I killed jest two ducks?"
"Listened for the splash," Stanhope answered. "Are you loaded, Billy? There's another flock coming."
"All ready but cappin'. Now, where's the flock?"
"Coming up from behind, so Moll says."
"Gosh!" whispered Billy. "I should say so; they're right onto us," and almost with the words the old gun roared again and again.
"Good!" exulted Stanhope. "Three down, Billy!"
"Yep, but one dived an' is gettin' away. After him, Moll." The spaniel, with a joyful whine, cleared the rush wall and splashed into the water. "Fine!" cried Billy, as he reloaded, "Moll's goin' to bring him in."
"Wounded whistlers aren't as hard to retrieve as redhead or bluebill," said Stanhope.
"How did you know they was whistlers?" cried Billy.
"By the sound of their wings, of course," laughed the man. "There," as a small duck flashed past the blind, "that's a green-winged teal, and he's flying at the rate of about ninety miles an hour."
Eastward the leaden clouds opened to let an arrow of orange light pierce the damp mists of dawn; then the fissure closed again and tardy daylight disclosed only a dun-colored waste of cowering rushes and tossing water. Far out in the bay a great flock of ducks arose, the beat of their wings growing up above the boom of the wind, stood black against the lowering skies an instant, then swept like a gigantic shadow close down above the curling water. Here and there detached fragments of the flock grew up and drifted shoreward. A flock of widgeon, gleaming snow-white against the clouds as they swerved in toward the decoys, were joined by a pair of kingly canvasbacks. Swiftly they approached, twisted aside just out of range, and then turned and came in with wings set against the wind.
Stanhope heard the splash of their bodies, as they lit among the decoys. He wondered why Billy did not shoot. A tense moment passed and still the old gun gave no voice. Moll was whining low and eagerly. Then, suddenly, there arose the sound of webbed feet slapping water, strong wings lifted to the wind, and Stanhope knew that the ducks had gone.
"Billy!" he cried, "why didn't you shoot?"
"I guess I didn't think about it," said the boy. "There's a boat out yonder, an' she's havin' trouble. I was watchin' her."
"A boat in trouble? Where is she?"
"Out in the middle of the bay. There's two men in her; she must be shippin' water, 'cause she's low down. She's one of Swanson's boats. He ought'a know better than let a couple of greenies out on that sea."
Billy had thrown off his shooting-coat and was climbing out of the blind.
"What are you going to do?" asked Stanhope.
"Goin' out to give a hand," shouted Billy. "No, teacher, you best stay right here; you can't help me any an' I may have to bring them two shooters ashore in the punt."
His last words were drowned in the wind. Already he was dragging the punt from the reeds. A moment later Stanhope heard the dip of his oars as he rounded the point and put the tiny craft into the seas and his cheerful hail, "I'll be back soon, teacher."
With broadening day the gale had strengthened. Stanhope felt a few stinging snow-pellets on his face, as he gazed, unseeing, outward and waited with tense nerves for the hail of his young friend. Half an hour passed—it seemed like hours to the man waiting, hoping, fearing—and still Billy did not come. He replenished the fire and, his hand coming in contact with the coat which Billy had discarded, he held it on his knees, close to the little stove. Slowly the minutes dragged past and a cold dread of what might have happened grew in the blind man's heart. Billy had likely reached the boat only in time to see it founder and in striving to save its exhausted occupants——.
Unable to endure the thought Stanhope sprang to his feet and lifting his arms high shouted with all his strength, "Billy, Billy boy!"
"Ho, teacher!" came an answering voice. "We're comin' straight in with the wind. I've got 'em both."
Stanhope sank back on his box, his relaxed nerves throbbing and his lips forming the words: "Thank God!"
A few minutes later Billy tumbled into the blind. "Quick," he cried, as he drew on his coat. "They're nigh done fer. We've gotta keep 'em movin'. Good! I see you've heated the tea; I'll jest take it along. We'll leave gun an' decoys right here with Moll to watch 'em, 'cause we're likely to have our hands full. Are you ready, teacher?"
"All set," cried Stanhope. "Leave your belt loose so I can hang to it and I'm with you. That's right. Who were they, Billy?"
"Couple of shooters from Cleveland. One of 'em's a big, strong feller, an' he ain't as near done up as the other. I started 'em to shore along the rush-track. They'll be all hunky so long as they keep goin'. We best get 'em to the nearest house."
"Well, that's my place," answered Stanhope. "How am I navigating, Billy?"
"Fine; keepin' up as well as though you saw right where you're goin'. They're only a little ahead now."
As the wooded shore was reached they came up with the rescued men. Billy passed the chilled and wretched two the hot tea and after they had drunk he and Stanhope took the lead through the stumpy fields.
Half an hour later, seated about the roaring fire in Stanhope's cottage, huge cups of hot coffee on their knees, the venturesome strangers seemed none the worse for their trying experience. The larger of the two, a powerfully-built man with pleasant clean shaven face and keen blue eyes, turned now to Stanhope.
"Where did the boy go?" he asked. "He must have been wet to the skin."
"He went back to take up the decoys and bring in the boats," answered Stanhope. "Oh, Billy's used to roughing it. He'll be back directly."
"By George!" cried the big man, slapping his friend's knee. "There's a boy for you, Doctor. Why, sir," addressing Stanhope, "not one youngster in a thousand could have done what he did. When he came to us our boat was all but swamped. We had given up. My friend here was utterly helpless with the cold and I was little better. And then he came riding close in like a mere straw on the waves and something flashed past me and fell with a bump against our boat-seat. 'Bale,' he screeched, and I picked up the can he had thrown us and bale I did for all I was worth. Then he came shooting back. 'You got to get out of that trough,' he shouted. 'Throw your painter loose, so's I can grab it as I pass, and I'll straighten your bow to take the seas.'"
The speaker paused, his face aglow. "I managed to cast that painter loose and the boy caught it as he shot past us. Then I felt the skiff straighten and I heard him shout again, 'Bale! bale like fury!' So I baled and baled and by and by we shipped less water than I managed to throw out. All this time that youngster was hauling us in to safety. I don't know who the boy is, but let me tell you this, my friend, if I was his daddy I'd be the proudest man on the face of the earth."
His companion, a slight, stooped man, the sallowness of whose face was accentuated by a short black moustache, who had remained almost silent from the time he had entered the house, looked up at these words and smiled. "We owe that boy and this gentleman our lives," he said briefly.
The big man laid a hand on Stanhope's arm. "My good friend," he said, "will you allow me to introduce you to the grateful chaps you have helped save. This gentleman with me is the famous specialist, Doctor Cavinalt of Cleveland; and yours truly is plain Bill Maddoc of the same city, lawyer by profession."
"My friend has forgotten to mention that he is state's attorney and a noted bugbear to all evil-doers," smiled the doctor. "In other words he's known as Trail Down Maddoc and—if he will permit of my so stating—is far more famous in his own particular line than am I in mine."
"Tut, tut," cried Maddoc, "what matter such trifles as these at this time? And now," turning to their host, "if you will honor us?"
"My name is Stanhope; Frank Stanhope."
"What?" The lawyer was on his feet and had his hands on Frank's shoulders.
"You say Stanhope? Why, man alive! I've been looking high and low for you. What do you think of that, Doctor, I've found him at last!"
"Young man," said Maddoc, turning again to Frank, "will you please answer a few questions? Did you ever know a queer old man by the name of Scroggie?"
"Why, yes," Frank answered, somewhat puzzled. "He lived next farm to me."
"And," Maddoc resumed, "do you happen to know that he made a will, leaving all he possessed to you?"
"Yes, sir, so he said; but the will was never found."
"And for a very good reason, by George," cried Maddoc. "How could it be found when it lay safely locked in a deposit box in my vault?"
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand—" commenced the amazed Stanhope.
"Of course not, how could you?" cried the lawyer. "But there now, I'll explain.
"One morning something over a year ago a queer little man came to my office. He told me his name, Scroggie, but refused to give me any address. He said he wished to make his will and insisted that I draw it up. It was a simple will, as I remember it, merely stating that 'I something-or-other, Scroggie, hereby bequeath all my belongings, including land and money, to Frank Stanhope.' I made it out exactly as he worded it, had it sealed and witnessed and handed it to him. But the old fellow refused to take it. I asked him why, and he said: 'You keep it safe until I send for it. I'm willin' to pay for your trouble.'
"'But listen, old man,' I said, 'supposing you should die suddenly. Life is very uncertain, you know. This will should be left where it can be easily found, don't you see?"
"'That's just where I don't want it left,' he says. 'I want it kept safe. I'll take a chance on dying suddenly.' And by George! the old fellow got up and shambled out, leaving a twenty-dollar gold piece on the table."
"Then," said Frank, moistening his dry lips, "you have the will, Mr. Maddoc?"
"I have!" cried the delighted lawyer, "and whether he left you much or little nobody can dispute your claim. Young man, shake hands again!"
But Stanhope had sunk on a chair, his face in his hands. Doctor Cavinalt went softly over and stood beside him. "My friend," he said gently, "good news often bowls us over, but perhaps there's even better news in store for you. Fortune is a good thing, but with fortune and your eye-sight restored——"
Frank lifted a wan face. "You mean——?" his dry lips formed the words.
The slender sensitive fingers of the specialist lifted the lids of the unseeing eyes. Intently he examined them, then with a quick smile that transformed his grave face to almost boyish gladness, he spoke.
"It is as I thought, Mr. Stanhope. Your sight is quite unimpaired and can be restored to you by a simple operation. Your blindness was caused either from a blow or a fall, was it not?"
Frank nodded. "A beam struck me," he whispered, "I thought—I thought—"
"Tomorrow," said the doctor, retiring once more into his professional shell, "I shall remove the pressure that obstructs your vision. The operation, which will be most simple, can be performed here. We have but to remove all pressure on the nerve centres that refuse their function now—and you will see."
He motioned to his friend, and the two went over to the window and talked together in low tones.
Stanhope, hands clasped together, sat staring into a vista of shadows that were all but dissolved. Above them lifted a face that smiled—and down across sleeping, darkening waters a long ray of light swept to touch his unseeing eyes and whisper her message of hope.
* * * * *
It was nearly noon when Billy, bending beneath a load of wild ducks, came up the path to the cottage. Stanhope, reading his step, groped his way out to meet him. "Ho, Billy Boy," he cried, holding out his hands.
Billy placed his wet, cold ones in Stanhope's. "I simply had to stay an' shoot," he explained. "The ducks were fair poundin' into the decoys. How are the Cleveland fellers?"
"Good as ever, Billy, dried out—and gone. Come into the house. I've got great news."
Billy turned puzzled eyes on his friend, reading a wonderful happiness in the glowing face. He dropped his ducks and followed Stanhope inside. The table was set for dinner and Billy sniffed hungrily.
"Now teacher," he said, dropping into a seat by the fire, "give us the news."
But Stanhope shook his head. "Not yet, Billy. Wait until you've eaten. You're hungry—as all hunters are bound to be. There now," as his housekeeper brought in the meat and potatoes, "sit down and eat—and eat fast, because I can't keep my good news back much longer."
Billy sat down at the table and without a word fell to. Stanhope stood beside the window, humming a tune, a smile on his face. He roused himself from his musing, as Billy scraped back his chair. "Full up?" he asked.
"Full up, teacher. Now let's have the good news."
Stanhope told him, his voice not always steady, and Billy sat silent, his grey eyes growing bigger and bigger. And at the conclusion he did a very boyish thing. He lowered his head to the table and cried.
Stanhope groped his way to him, placed his hands gently on the heaving shoulders, and there they remained until Billy, with a long sigh, raised his swimming eyes.
"Teacher," he said. "She'sgotta be told about this. You know how she always hoped——"
"Yes."
Billy stood up and reached for his cap. "If Anse comes over, you kin tell him where I've gone. I'll be back long afore dark."
"But, Billy, the wind! You'd better not go."
"The wind's gone down," said the boy. "Jest a fair sailin' breeze now."
"She'll come, you think?"
"She'll come," said Billy, and went out, closing the door softly behind him.