CHAPTER XIVON DIBBLE MOUNTAIN
The belated quest of the needle in the haystack now went forward in real earnest. In the cool of that same afternoon they stood on the brow of Dibble Mountain. Gordon’s hands were dyed purple from the berries he had picked and eaten along the way, and a goodly smootch ornamented his cheek. Sometimes the ascent was so steep that they found the easiest way was to “shinny” up the slender trees along the mountain side, and step off on to the jutting cliffs. It was slow work. From a great bowlder they finally looked down upon the surrounding country, which now, for the first time, as Gordon said, actually did look like a map.
To the east, and almost under them, as it seemed, was the lake, and beyond it the green hills of western Vermont. On its northern side the mountain sloped gradually, including Breed’s Hill and Sugar Hill in its easy descent, and beyond these lay the little village of Crown Point. Close on the west rose the great bulk of Buck Mountain, towering above them and closing out their view. Five miles southward lay Ticonderoga, and looking to the west of the village the boys followed an imaginary course northward, trying to pick out in the dense woods the location of the Albany camp. The several roads which they had traversed looked like gray pencilings.
Between them and the lofty Buck Mountain ran a high, walled valley, almost a cañon indeed, known as Burgoyne’s Pass, for it was through this valley that the British general led his army for the surprise of Ticonderoga,—the army which, hungry and forlorn, was destined to surrender to the Americans at Saratoga. Far in the north, but near enough to see its outline clearly, rose Bald Knob, a veritable monarch amid its great neighbors. Here and there thin columns of smoke rose, suggesting pleasant habitations and reminding the hungry boys that it was supper time.
“Well, what do you think of our seats up in the family circle, Kid? Pretty good view up here, hey?”
“It’s A-No. 1! But I don’t see the troop, do you?”
“Certainly, right over there.”
“Not! That’s a church! Let’s take a squint through that field glass, will you? Placing the telescope to his eye,” Gordon continued, suiting the action to the word, “our young hero now proceeded to gaze round the landscape, when suddenly—”
“The bully, who was standing near,” interrupted Harry, also suiting his action to the word, “gently took it from him.”
“Ha! I will be even with you yet!” said Gordon, dramatically.
“Kid, I think the best thing for us to do is to camp here for the night. If the moon comes out, we can see pretty nearly the whole section of country that I marked on the map—I mean we could see any smoke that rose. This is the very nearest mountain to the shore. We can overlook the low land immediately north and south. As for the west, that big chunk of earth is in the way, but they wouldn’t be to the west. If we have to go up Buck Mountain, we will. But to-night I think we’d better perch here, and when these folks about the country get through supper they’ll let their fires go out, and any smoke we see after that will be from a camp-fire. There’s no use going west of that ridge, is there?”
“What ridge?”
“Why, we’re in the Champlain Valley; this mountain happens to be standing almost alone, commanding north and south.”
“Is it standing in the bottom of the valley, Harry?”
“Yes.”
“How about old shaggy-headed Buck, next door, here?”
“That’s part of the ridge.”
“I believe you’re honest, Harry, so I’ll take your word for all that.”
“All right, we’ll stay here, then.”
“But answer me one question, Harry, before I trust my fate to thee. Where is the other side of the valley?”
“Over in Vermont. The Green Mountains.”
Gordon looked about. “Over there?”
“Yes, but I’m not considering that side. I’m only considering this side of the lake.”
“You are splitting the valley down the middle like a piece of kindling wood?”
“Correct.”
“Harry, you would not deceive me?”
“I’llgagyou in a minute.”
“And this mountain is a kind of knot in the wood, Harry? Do all the splitting you like, but for goodness sake, be careful—”
Harry placed his hand over Gordon’s mouth, and by a dexterous movement tumbled him on to the ground. “Get up now, and help pitch camp, and I’ll make you a rice pudding with figs in it. How does that strike you?”
“I can stand it if you can.”
“No sooner said than stung,” observed Harry.
Their first business was to find water, and this they soon discovered—a crystal spring, ice cold, that bubbled temptingly up between the rocks. While Gordon kindled a fire, Henry felled a small sapling and binding it horizontally between two other saplings, in a sheltered spot, threw his balloon silk shelter over it, drawing it diagonally toward the earth on either side. Gordon kept up a running accompaniment as he busied himself with the fireplace.
“‘Oh, we are merry mountaineers,And have no carking cares or fears.’
“‘Oh, we are merry mountaineers,And have no carking cares or fears.’
“‘Oh, we are merry mountaineers,
And have no carking cares or fears.’
“What kind of a care is a carking care, Harry?”
“Don’t know.”
“One that’s made out of khaki, I guess—don’t you throw that! Roll that green log this way, will you, Harold? Many thanks. Placing the green log in a parallel position to the other one, our young hero now knelt stealthily—”
“Our young hero will never see home again if he isn’t careful,” said Harry, as he tugged at the cover of a can.
“When suddenly,” continued Gordon, “the bully—”
But actions spoke louder than words. The bully let fly both camp cushions, one after the other, and under this rapid fusillade “our young hero” sank to the ground.
“Coward! Coward!” he called.
“Look here, Kid,” said Harry, standing over him and brandishing the can opener, “I’ve got you on the top of this lonely mountain. My contract provides that I shall accompany you in searching for camp. It doesnotinclude your old friend Alger, nor Harry Castleman, either. In just a minute—”
Gordon rose contritely. “What next—Harold?”
“Put some water to boil.”
They sat with their backs against the trunk of a large tree, and Gordon admitted that fried bacon never tasted so good, and that nothing went so well with it as pilot biscuit. “I don’t see what they have bread and butter for, anyway,” said he. But his inventive genius would not long remain satisfied with the fare which Harry provided, and presently he was announcing luscious combinations. “I say, try this, Harry—it’s simply great!” He handed Harry two slices of bacon with a fig between them. When the rice pudding was served, words failed him. He ate it with silent and serene delight. They topped off with squares of chocolate, on one of which Gordon was on the point of pouring a little “fly-dope” by way of experiment.
When they had finished the meal, Gordon suggested “going back the way they had come,” beginning with chocolate, thence to rice pudding, thence to bacon; but Harry vetoed this novel plan.
It was with considerable suspense that they awaited the rising of the moon. As the twilight faded, the smoke which rose here and there in the distance disappeared till no stir was visible on the horizon. The boys knew that a cooking fire in the open, unless it were very close at hand, would hardly be discernible, but they set their faith in the campfire of huge logs, such as Red Deer had never tired of describing. About nine o’clock Gordon, who had gone to the spring for water, came rushing back, wildly pointing to a circling line of smoke in the southwest which was thrown into clear relief against the moonlit sky.
“Look, Harry, there they are!” he cried.
“Yes, I saw that,” said Harry. “You see that little silvery streak just beyond? That’s the stream. It’s the Albany camp. I’d like first rate to be there with them, too.”
“We’ll see them again,” said Gordon, somewhat crestfallen.
“You bet,” Harry answered, “when we surprise them in the old fort.”
“We’ll give them a jocular demonstration, all right, hey, Harry?”
“Ocular!” said Harry.
They played mumbly-peg in the moonlight, and discussed the proposed attack upon the “British stronghold.” Gordon was for doing everything, even to the smallest detail, with historical fidelity. “You must be sure to call ‘What, ho!’ Harry, when Mr. Wade asks who it is, because that’s in the book, and you must roll your r’s the way they do up in Vermont. I wish we had an old rusty sword!”
“What’ll we do with them when we’ve made them prisoners, Harry?”
“That’ll be our chance to return their hospitality,” Harry answered. “They’ll be the guests of the Green Mountain Boys, and Mr. Wade will have to go away back and sit quietly down.”
“Oh, it’ll be great!” said Gordon, with a positive groan of delight. “I wish it was the last two weeks of August now!”
“If we do it.”
“Ifwe do it? Of course, we’ll do it!”
It was ten o’clock or after when Gordon’s roaming vision was arrested by a thin, gray line rising out of the black woods far to the north. Harry got out his compass and found that it was a little west of north and, as nearly as he could judge, five or six miles distant. He studied it closely.
“That’s it, sure,” said Gordon.
“You might run up there and see,” Harry answered dryly. “I’ll wait till you get back.” He got out his map and tried to determine the locality. “Port Henry is eight or nine miles north of here, see?” he said. “It may possibly come from there, but it’s not coming out of a chimney, I’m almost certain. Of course, there’s no telling how far north it is, but it’s probably this side of the high land which begins with Bulwagga Mountain. I dare say it’s between Bulwagga and the shore. There’s a stream there, too—Grove Brook—and that would attract them.” He studied it long and carefully. “I don’t see any suggestion of lightness below it, do you? It must be at least five miles off.”
“Harry, I have an idea!”
“Good for you.”
“You know Red Deer’s rule—eleven o’clock sharp. We all agreed to it. You remember what he said about not leaving any fire burning? Well, now, if they smother that at eleven o’clock—I can just see Conway jumping up like a little tin soldier and piling on green stuff as soon as Red Deer gives the word. You’ll see, Harry, something will happen to that at eleven o’clock!”
Harry folded his map, took a piece of chocolate, and settled himself comfortably against the tree trunk. “We’ll wait and see,” he said.
The thin, distant column wavered in the moonlight, its top dissolving in the air. Sometimes it was scarcely visible. As eleven o’clock drew near, they watched it with growing suspense. The smoke in the southwest had long since died away. For twenty minutes or so before the hour the boys fancied that the column was losing somewhat in volume. Eleven o’clock came—five—ten minutes after eleven and nothing happened. Gordon looked puzzled. “I—I guess, maybe, Red Deer’s watch is wrong,” he said.
“Look!” shouted Harry, jumping to his feet.
The thread of smoke had suddenly expanded into a dense mass. They could see it plainly now.
“We’ve found them! We’ve found them!” shouted Gordon.
“When our young hero gets over his fit,” said Harry, “I will gently remind him that we havenotfound them at all. There is something going on up in that direction—there seems to be a fire. That’s all we know.” But they watched the thickening mass intently. “Well,” said Harry, “we may as well obey the rule, Kid; let’s turn in. In the morning we’ll cut up through Crown Point village and camp on high ground to-morrow night.”
“No,sir! We’ll go straight—”
“Where?”
“To that—to camp.”
“Yes, but where?”
“Right where that smoke is.”
“There won’t be any smoke there to-morrow morning. Where do you propose to go? Can you point me out on the map just where that smoke is? Well, then, come down out of your airship and listen to reason. If to-morrow is very clear we may possibly be able to pick out the smoke of the cook fire—assuming that that’s our own camp. But I don’t think there’s much chance of our seeing it. That smoke has been coming from several good-sized logs—it’s a big fire. To-morrow we’ll drop into Crown Point and return this little reticule to its owner and then—”
“And you’ll ask questions in Crown Point, Harry, and they’ll tell you just where our camp is, and you’ll spoil the whole business. No sirree, we’ve picked up the trail ourselves, and I’m not going to run the chance of our getting information.”
“I’ll promise not to ask a soul, Kid.”
“Then whatwillyou do?”
“We’ll get up north of Crown Point and camp to-morrow night on Bulwagga Mountain. If my idea is correct, we ought to see that smoke to-morrow night close underneath us. Then the next morning we can drop right in on them—if—”
“There’s noifabout it,” said Gordon. But he reluctantly agreed to this cautious advance, and they turned in for the night. Gordon sang Kipling’s “Scout Song,” chastising his companion by way of accompaniment:
“These are our regulations:There’s just one law for the scout.And the first and the last.And the future and the past,And the present and the perfect is,Look out!”
“These are our regulations:There’s just one law for the scout.And the first and the last.And the future and the past,And the present and the perfect is,Look out!”
“These are our regulations:
There’s just one law for the scout.
And the first and the last.
And the future and the past,
And the present and the perfect is,
Look out!”
With every emphasized word a camp cushion came down upon Harry’s head. “And the first” (bang) “and the last” (bang).
“You bet it’s the last!” said Harry, “Look out!” and he promptly returned the compliment with the other cushion.
“And the first and the last,And the future and the past.
“And the first and the last,And the future and the past.
“And the first and the last,
And the future and the past.
I say, that’s a terrible song, isn’t it, Harry? Say it. Go on, say it once. You can never get it out of your head. There was a fellow over in England—a tenderfoot—and he learned it and it drove him crazy. Go on, say it, Harry.”
“Who told you that?”
“You say it once—please.”
Harry said it, and lost two hours of his night’s sleep in consequence. For while Gordon slept peacefully, dreaming of what the next day was to bring forth, his friend lay looking out into the darkness and saying, over and over:
“And the first and the last,And the future and the past,And the first and the last,And the future and the past,And the present and the perfect is,LOOK OUT!”
“And the first and the last,And the future and the past,And the first and the last,And the future and the past,And the present and the perfect is,LOOK OUT!”
“And the first and the last,
And the future and the past,
And the first and the last,
And the future and the past,
And the present and the perfect is,
LOOK OUT!”
He finally shouted the last two words in hopeless exasperation.
“What’s the matter?” said Gordon, sitting suddenly up. “Look out for what?”
“And the first and the last,And the future and the past,”
“And the first and the last,And the future and the past,”
“And the first and the last,
And the future and the past,”
moaned Harry, while a smile of delight stole over Gordon’s sleepy countenance.
“Kipling’s a fiend, isn’t he, Harry?”
“Kid, if you ever mention that song to me again, I’ll do something desperate!”
CHAPTER XVTHE OWNER OF THE RETICULE
The sleeping propensity of a top is nothing to the way Harry and Gordon slumbered. You cannot sleep such sleep indoors. You need the starry sky, the dark surrounding trees, the lullaby of cricket and locust, the low, musical rustle of leaves. Then you can sleep, as Gordon put it, “till the cows come home.”
It must have been the custom for the cows in that vicinity to come home at seven A. M., for at that hour the boys awoke, and Harry soon had water boiling for the coffee. Of course, every one’s way of making coffee is by far the best way. The scout way is to bring your water to a boil first, then drop your coffee in and stir like the mischief.
At eight-thirty they had every single thing in their bags and were on their way down the northern slope of the mountain. You would not have known that any one had camped at the spot except for the ashes of the fire and the beaver’s head scratched on a rock.
They followed a winding, woodland path, scarcely visible in places. “What’s this?” asked Gordon, picking up a small, flat, triangular stone which his alert eyes had discovered. It proved to be an Indian arrow-head about an inch and a half long and nearly an inch wide at one end, tapering to a blunt point at the other. Harry showed his companion how, wedged into the split end of a stick and bound firmly, it constituted the old-time arrow of the bloody Mohawk tribe, whose savage warwhoops had no doubt once been heard along this obscure mountain path.
Gordon trudged along, kicking the earth in search of more of these murderous souvenirs. Although they searched carefully, they could find no more of them, but Harry came upon something which held a grewsome interest. At the base of an old oak tree where the earth was gray and powdery, he found the head of a tomahawk, eaten with rust and so encrusted with earth that he was able to break off the corners of it as if it had been made of plaster.
“I guess some poor chap met his end here,” Harry said soberly. “How would you like to be tied against that old tree and have a pack of savages throw these things at you?”
Gordon shuddered. “Do you suppose we’re on the old trail of the Mohawks, Harry?”
They were, indeed, treading the very ground over which that treacherous, bloodthirsty tribe had once carried their victims to torture and massacre. The thought of it had a quieting effect on Gordon, and they pressed their way along silently for a little while. Then he began humming:
“Though you didn’t or you wouldn’t,Or you hadn’t or you couldn’t—”
“Though you didn’t or you wouldn’t,Or you hadn’t or you couldn’t—”
“Though you didn’t or you wouldn’t,
Or you hadn’t or you couldn’t—”
“What’s that?” asked Harry.
“It’s the rest of that ‘Scout Song,’ Harry,” said Gordon, looking slyly sideways at his friend.
“You know what I told you, Kid! So help me—”
“Where do we come out?” Gordon interrupted.
“We’re headed for Crown Point Centre.”
Within an hour they came upon an open road and soon reached the village. It was not necessary to inquire for the owner of the little reticule, for on a wooden post outside the post-office was a notice written in a delicate hand on a half sheet of note paper:
LOSTLady’s small hand-bag on road near Ticonderoga. Finder will confer great favor by kindly leaving with postmaster or returning toMiss Antoinette Crosby,Buck Mansion.
LOST
Lady’s small hand-bag on road near Ticonderoga. Finder will confer great favor by kindly leaving with postmaster or returning to
Miss Antoinette Crosby,Buck Mansion.
Miss Antoinette Crosby,
Buck Mansion.
The word “great” was underlined several times, the word “kindly” was underlined twice, and the word “Miss” once.
“How far is it to Buck Mansion?” Harry asked, sauntering into the post-office.
The postmaster took a leisurely scrutiny of both boys. “What yer want to go up thar for?”
“Just to see some one. About how far is it?”
“Well, up here folks calls it three mile. City folks sometimes calls it five. One man that was up thar last summer calc’lated ’twas ten—said ’twas ten mile down and twenty mile back. He was a kind of a comic. But I can tell you right now they ain’t got a vacant room in the house.”
“Thank you,” said Harry. “Come on, Kid, we’ll go up there. We don’t need to get up Bulwagga Mountain before night.”
The distance to Buck Mansion was somewhere between one mile and ten, and the way led them through a fragrant country with houses at intervals along the road. To-day the distance was rather shorter than usual, or else the “scout pace” helped to make it seem so, for within an hour the boys reached a spacious white house, standing well back from the road. The lawn in front was covered with trees, where a number of hammocks hung. The fence skirting the road was broken in one place by a little summer-house containing a pump, and the half of a cocoanut shell hung near by way of a cup.
The position of this little well-house on the very edge of the public road afforded a tempting resting-place for tired wayfarers. Through the trees the boys could see that a deer’s head with spreading antlers hung over the doorway of the house. On the deep porch easy-chairs stood about, and in a frame swing to one side of the lawn a solitary figure sat writing. With this exception, not a soul was to be seen, which seemed odd in a spot that afforded such tempting facilities for idleness and repose.
“The deserted village,” said Harry, “but I guess this is the place, all right.”
Just then voices reached the boys through the trees:
“Shall I come to you?”
“No, try to go out.”
“She’s for that wicket.”
“Shecan’t get through.”
“I could send her down to you.”
“She plays before I do.”
“Well, I’m going to try to hit her anyway.” There was a second’s silence, then a whack, then “Missed! I told you so!”
“Come on over there,” said Harry.
On a smooth croquet ground an exciting war was going on. So intent was the group of ladies on the game that it was fully five minutes before any one spied the two scouts who leaned on the picket fence watching the play. Then one of them came toward the fence, her croquet mallet over her shoulder like a musket.
“Excuse me for interrupting you,” said Harry, removing his hat, “but I didn’t like to come out on the ground. Is this Buck Mansion?”
“Yes, indeed,” she said, eying the boys curiously. “Is there some one you wish to see?”
“Is there a Miss Crosby here?”
“Indeed, there is. Nettie!” she called. “Here are two young gentlemen to see you.”
The figure in the swing rose quickly, spilling a writing tablet, a bag of candy, a fountain pen, and a magazine. As she straightened out her gown, which did not reach anywhere near the ground, the boys saw her to be a girl of not more than sixteen. They turned toward her.
“Miss Crosby?” Harry asked.
“Ye-es.”
“I think this little hand-bag is yours.”
“Oh,didyou find it?”
“Yes, and I ought to have returned it sooner. I’m afraid I found it within an hour of the time you lost it, but better late than never.” He handed her the bag.
“Oh, thank you sovery, verymuch. Howdidyou find it?”
“Oh, I was just amusing myself noticing where your auto broke down.”
“It isn’tmyauto.”
“And I picked up the bag on the stone wall.”
“Oh, thank you soverymuch for your trouble. The bag isn’t reallyworthanything, but—” She stopped short and looked at him suspiciously. “How did you know I was in an auto?”
“You just said so—or said as much,” smiled Harry.
“Yes, butyousaid itfirst.”
“Well,” said Harry, driven to it, “I happened to be along the road above Ticonderoga that night, and I saw the auto tracks in the moonlight and the ground all rumpled, and, oh, one thing and another, and then the bag on the wall. So I put it in my pocket to return it if I could find the owner.”
“Youknewwe broke down?”
“I thought so.”
“Oh,isn’tthat justwonderful?”
“That’s nothing,” said Gordon. “He does things like that every day—he does them by deduction.”
“Deduction?”
“Yes—putting two and two together and making four.”
“That’s arithmetic,” said she.
“For instance, he thought this bag belonged to an elderly lady,” Gordon continued. “Of course, once in a great while he’s wrong,” he added quickly, rather regretting that he had selected this particular illustration of Harry’s talent for deducing.
“What made him thinkthat? Why, it’s a pale blue—it matches—whatmadeyou think that?” she demanded of Harry.
“On account of the smelling salts,” said Gordon.
She opened the bag and closed it hastily. “I think you’re justhorrid!” she said, looking at Harry. But she did not think he washorrid. Quite otherwise.
“You see,” explained Harry, “I had to open it to see if it contained a name or address.”
“Of course,” she said, “but it was just horrid tothinkI was anold maid! Do you always finds things out about people that way—what is it?”
“Deduction,” Gordon spoke up. “All scouts have to learn to decide things that way—it’s dandy fun.”
“I think it’s horrid. I suppose you’re just finding thingsoutabout menow. It makes mecreepy! But you’reverykind,” she promptly added. “Tell me, honest and true, whatareyou deducing aboutmenow?”
“Well,” said Harry, “I deduce that you’ve been writing a letter and underlining lots of words.”
She opened her mouth in astonishment. “You’re aperfectghoul!” said she. “But I haven’tevenasked you to sit down yet. Won’t you come over here and rest?” She led the way to the little well-house by the roadside, giving Gordon an opportunity to whisper to Harry:
“Now, you see, Harry—if you only had your uniform on! Did you see how she looked at me? It wasn’t I she cared about, Harry—it was the scout uniform. The scout suit catches them every time. I know more about those things than you do, Harry, because I’ve had more experience. Now you’ve learned a lesson.”
There was no chance for Harry to reply, for the young lady had reached the little shelter and stood waiting for them. She was an extremely pretty young lady, with a great mass of dark hair held together in the back by a huge bow, and she had a very snub nose and a way of puckering her brows into a kind of whimsical frown. A number of rebellious locks hung about her forehead, shaken loose by the habit she had of giving all her adjectives a racking emphasis, thus causing her head to be in a state of almost continual agitation. She wore a white sailor blouse, with blue trimming and a blue anchor worked in front. Also a blue braided cord with a tiny round mirror on the end, used in capturing and confining the loose locks after a particularly emphatic tirade. The other extremity of Miss Antoinette was on the whole more demure and reposeful, her small feet being encased in bewitching little pumps, which were hardly worth while at all since they were almost completely obscured by enormous silk bows.
It took Gordon about one minute to forget his anxiety to keep secret the object of their wanderings, and presently Miss Antoinette was apprised of their intention of ascending Bulwagga that very day. She said it was allwonderful.
“And it was soclever,” she went on, “yourknowingthat I was autoing. They were friends of mine over in Vermont, and have such alovelyplace. Mr. Danforth—he’s just, oh,sogenerous andsucha dear! It was his son, Roger, that I was with that evening, and oh, he’s sodreadfullyunlucky!”
“I should call him lucky,” said Harry.
“Oh,no, you wouldn’t.Somethinghappenseverytime he goes out. Now whatareyou looking that way for? You’rededucingthis very minute—youknowyou are!”
Harry clasped his hands behind his head, settled far back on the seat, and looked serious and thoughtful. Gordon cast his eyes heavenward as if buried in deep calculation.
“There must be some cause for this bad luck, Kid,” said Harry. “What do you make of it? He understands autos perfectly, I suppose, Miss Crosby?”
“Oh, yes, he hastwo.”
“Interested in mechanical matters, then?”
“Oh,verymuch.”
“Probably has a motor boat, also?”
“Yes, hehas.”
“Such traits usually run in families. Has he any brothers and sisters?”
“Yes, thedearestlittle fellow—andhe’sinterested in mechanical things, too.”
“Ah,” said Harry, thoughtfully. “He would probably be interested more in some other form of mechanics—aeroplanes, for instance.”
“He is, he is!” cried Miss Antoinette.
“And if he spent too much time reading and studying about them it might affect his health,” suggested Gordon, innocently.
“I catch your idea,” Harry said. “You think the older brother might be preoccupied by concern for the little fellow’s health, and so not give his full attention to his car?”
“That might account for his having so many accidents,” said Gordon. “He ought to take his chauffeur along.”
“Possibly he leaves him at home to help the little fellow with his aeroplanes,” said Harry, after a moment’s thoughtful pause. “Living in the city, as I suppose they do, the little chap would naturally take advantage of being up here to try out his models. And they might be afraid of his meeting with some accident—being so near the lake, too.Ishis health at all delicate, Miss Crosby?” he added.
“Yes,indeed,” cried the girl, who had been staring from one to the other in speechless amazement.
“They all worry about himsomuch. And hedoesstay indoors too much, reading and experimenting with his aeroplanes. Roger isalwaysspeaking of it, and I believe hedoesleave his chauffeur at home for thatveryreason.”
“Then, too,” said Gordon, placing the tips of his fingers together, “the chauffeur would be needed for the other auto—taking parties about. The house is probably full of guests most of the time.”
“Pre-cisely,” said Harry. “And the father probably doesn’t understand much about motors,” he added, as an after-thought. “He naturally wouldn’t. May I ask if the chauffeur is Irish, Miss Crosby?”
“His name is Pat,” she answered, as if in a trance.
“Probably cheerful and good-natured,” mused Harry. “So you think they do worry about the younger brother’s health?”
“Oh, Iknowtheyalldo, for his lungs aren’t strong.”
“I should say they’ll probably move to the country before very long,” said Gordon, with great deliberation. “The little boy would be better there. Very likely they’ll build in some good, healthful suburb, most likely somewhere in New Jersey, and give up their city residence altogether.”
“Not necessarily,” said Harry.
But Miss Antoinette had jumped to her feet. “Ineverin mylife!” she exclaimed. “It’sperfectly miraculous! That’sexactlywhat theyaregoing to do! Mr. Danforth is building abeautifulplace up on a hill in New Jersey, and they’re going there to live this Fall!”
“‘I NEVER IN MY LIFE!’ SHE EXCLAIMED.”
“‘I NEVER IN MY LIFE!’ SHE EXCLAIMED.”
“’Twas merely a guess of my friend,” said Harry, in a deprecating way, as he rose to pump some water. But the repressed twitching around Gordon’s rebellious lips made the girl suspicious.
“You’re justfoolingme!” she cried. “You mustknowthem!”
In a few minutes it was all out. Gordon, entirely heedless of Harry’s scowls and embarrassment, gave her a complete account of the rescue of little Penfield and their subsequent visit at the Danforth place. She was entirely of Gordon’s way of thinking as to the acceptance of the boat, and assured Harry that there was really no hope of escaping Mr. Danforth. “You mightjustas well havetakenit,” she said, “and then you wouldn’t have to beworryingabout what he might do next.”
“You don’t think he’ll really get up a conspiracy?” Harry laughed.
“Iknowhe will, and it will serve youright; youdidinterfere with his liberty.”
“Now you see,” sneered Gordon, with great satisfaction. “What did I tell you? He never takes my advice,” he added, confidentially, to the girl. “Now you take to-day, if he only had—”
“Is that a tennis court over there?” Harry interrupted.
“Yes—do you like tennis? Ihatecroquet—theyallplay croquet here, and there’s not aboyin the place. Oh, I wish I were you, you can havesuchfun, goingwhereveryou want to, and just camping out.”
They walked over through the croquet field and were presented to twelve ladies and two lonely gentlemen, all of whom showed a lively interest in them, as people usually do in boy scouts. Then to the tennis court, where Miss Crosby and Harry played a lively game, while Gordon sat on a rustic seat and gorged himself with apples. Between games she made a hasty trip to her mother on the croquet ground, and presently that lady strolled over and insisted that the boys remain to dinner.
Gordon’s eye was on Harry, and he did not dare decline. They found the summer guests a cordial set, who were only too glad to vary the daily routine of alternate croquet and bridge by entertaining them and plying them with questions.
Early in the afternoon they set forth for Bulwagga Mountain. Miss Crosby had acquired a lively interest in their enterprise and had made them promise, at parting, that they would call again if they could possibly manage it, “and show me some morededucing” she had said, with an injured look.
And she added that she would “certainlystay up untilmidnight, and try to discover smoke, and if shediddiscover it, she would know thattheyhad seen it too, and would be with their friends in the morning, andwouldn’tthat be justdear?”
Harry said it certainly would, but that it was too good to be true.
“Now, Harry,” said Gordon, as they started into a clump of woods in the direction of the great Bulwagga Mountain, “the trouble with you is that you don’t recount your adventures. That’s the only trouble with you, Harry. You should have recounted your adventures. There was your chance to recount them to a maiden.”
“A what?”
“A maiden—it’s the same as a girl. And you’ve got the very best kind of an adventure, too—rescuing some one from drowning—it’s always a winner. Why, Harry, a maiden always marries a fellow that saves her from drowning—always! It’s all right to have adventures, but if you want to be a real hero, you’ve got to recount them. They always do in books. ‘After he recounted his adventures—’”
“Well, that shows I’m not much of a hero, Kid, doesn’t it?”
“I know, but youmightbe. You’ve got the adventures all right, only you don’t recount them.I’mnot blaming you, Harry, because you don’t know much about girls. Now there was a fellow in a play, named Othello, and oh, cracky, Harry, but he was a peacherino! He used to recount his adventures all the time—to a maiden. And he made a great hit, too. And you could do the same thing, Harry. There’s no kind of an adventure like a rescue from drowning. Of course, I don’t say anything against pulling a maiden off the railroad track, especially if she’s bound with cruel thongs, because that’s a winner, too. But a rescue from drowning catches them every time. Why, don’t you suppose that Alger, and Henry, and men like that, know? You bet they do! ’Most all their heroes save people from drowning, and that’s how they win her hand. If I had an adventure like that, I’d recount it to maidens, you can bet! But I’m not saying you didn’t make a hit, Harry.”
“Oh, stop that, Kid.”
“No, I won’t stop it, either. If you’d only had on your khaki suit, like me, it would have been great. But even as it was, you made a hit, Harry.”
“You’re dreaming, Kid.”
“All right; but you’re going there again, I can tell you that.”
“Not.”
“I bet you do.”
“I bet I don’t.”
“She invited you.”
“She invited both of us.”
“Yes, but she meant you.”
“What the dickens gives you that idea?”
“I deduced it, Harry.”