XVII.WINTER DAYS.

MR. PRENWOOD’S launch carried Allan and McConnell, with theArabellaastern, swiftly southeast to Hazenfield.

Blickens was very talkative on the journey. It was evident that he wished to atone for that which had happened at Stonyshore; and Allan felt so little resentment for what had happened that he earnestly urged Blickens to come to the Hartel house for dinner. “Then,” said Allan, “I can send back these clothes by you.”

But Blickens could not be persuaded to stay. “I’ll wait here for the clothes, if you want me to,” said Blickens at Detective Dobbs’s landing; “though I don’t believe Mr. Prenwood expects you to bother sending them back.”

Since Blickens did not seem to be willing to accept the invitation, Allan said that he himself would return theclothes later, so that Blickens need not feel compelled to wait. Blickens said he hoped there would be no hard feelings, and shook hands good-by.

The boys were mooring theArabellawhen Detective Dobbs came down the path with Sporty.

“Ship ahoy!” he called. “How many whales did you catch?”

“We caught a very unexpected fish,” said Allan. “There’s his skin,” and he tossed ashore the convict’s clothes.

“What do you mean?” demanded Dobbs, picking up the clothes. “This is a Sing Sing suit.”

Allan hurried ashore and as quickly as he could outlined to Dobbs the meeting with the Ghost and what followed.

Dobbs uttered an exclamation of astonishment. “Of course, you don’t know in what direction he went—everybody has been after him for three days.”

“We left him behind in the fog; but he said he wanted to get to New York.”

“But he only had one oar.”

“Your other oar.”

“What color was your jacket—and the sweater?” Allan described the clothes the convict had taken, and Dobbs waited to hear no more. In six minutes Dobbs was at the station talking to police headquarters in New York. In twenty minutes every police station near the Hudson, from the Battery to Sing Sing, had a description of the clothes the Ghost wore, with information as to the skiff and the single oar. The police everywhere already had a full description of the man.

“I almost hope they don’t catch him,” said Allan, as he and McConnell hurried inland from the river.

“I don’t know what I hope,” confessed McConnell. “When I think of his knocking your head against the centre-board, I want to have him caught. When I think of how hungry he looked, and how thin his hands were, I want him to get away.”

“I wonder how Owen will get home?” Allan queried. “It almost seems as if we should have tried to find him; though I’m quite sure he has walked south and will get across the river somehow.”

Both McConnell and Allan found an anxious welcome awaiting them at home. The Doctor had assured Mrs. Hartel and Edith that the boys had prudently anchored when the storm came up, and that they would be home as soon as the fog lifted; yet both mother and cousin had worried greatly, and even little Ellen had made many inquiries as to why Allan did not come home.

It may be supposed that Allan’s recital found highly interested listeners; that a hundred questions were asked; that some of them were answered; that Allan did not eat much dinner.

Allan insisted that he only was worrying about Owen. In the afternoon, at about three o’clock, Owen walked in to say that he had been home for a couple of hours. It appeared that after calling hopelessly into the fog, and waiting in the vicinity of the anchorage for half an hour, Owen made up his mind that theArabellawould have no chance of making the same point again while the fog lasted. He then turned back, and finding his way to Alexander Hamilton made inquiry of him as to the nearest way to the highroad, and was about making his way inland when a freight train on the West Shore road hove in sight. The train halted at a near-by switch, and Owen so successfullymade friends with a man in the caboose that he was invited to get aboard. Three miles south he slipped off the train at Boughton, got a boat from a man he knew at the landing, and rowed across to Hazenfield.

“And so you see,” said Owen, “I got out of the scrape easier than you did.”

Despite the Doctor’s questions, Allan continued to insist that he felt all right, that he would be all right in a little while—or the next day anyway. Yet his confidence was not justified. On the following day the Doctor betrayed by his looks that he did not find Allan to be very well. He forbade him to do any developing for a day or two longer, and kept him away from the Academy.

At the end of a week Allan was down with a fever, and the autumn colors, the stately river, the faces of his friends, the walls of the club rooms, all faded away in a troubled sleep; and other weeks passed, and there were anxious faces at his bedside, and his father would sit holding his hand and looking fixedly at him in the dim light of the sick chamber; and his head was very queer and heavy and hot, so that the ice felt like an angel’s hand. And he asked them to be sure that the focus was right and that the shutter had been set, ordered McConnell to pull in on the sheet, and Owen to hand up the camera carefully.

“I tell you, mother,” he said one day to Mrs. Hartel, his eyes glistening, “I’ve thought over the finest way to develop films! They have never thought of it! Why, it’s dead easy! All you have to do is soak the film in—in—there, I’ve—I’ve forgotten just what it was, but—oh, it’s very easy! I’ll have great fun showing them at the club.”

It was difficult to keep him from talking about cameras and expeditions and new developers.

One day he said, “It’s funny that Owen doesn’t get back. But I suppose he’s living with Alexander Hamilton—poor old man! You had better send over and get Owen. If it hadn’t been for the fog—how foggy it is again!”

Owen came every day to ask about his chum’s condition; and McConnell, who was pitifully upset, never could understand why he was forbidden to see Allan, or to help take care of him.

There were many inquirers,—Major Mines, Miss Manston, Mr. Thornton, Mrs. Creigh, and other members of the Camera Club, and Detective Dobbs often called in.

It was one afternoon in late November that Allan, lying very still and quiet, with his eyes fixed on the wall at the foot of his bed, where there was a picture of the monks of St. Bernard with their dogs, said, suddenly, to his mother,—

“Did they catch the Ghost?”

At first, Mrs. Hartel thought the question was but another rambling question incident to the abating fever, and was about to utter one of the evasive replies that are offered to fevered invalids, when something in Allan’s face made her understand that he was coming out of that long dream into which his mind had fallen. Then she answered him quite truthfully:—

“No. They have not found him, Allan.”

“Good! I believe now that I wanted him to get away.”

“But you must not worry about that.”

“How many days’ start has he had?”

“He has had just a month.”

“A month?” Allan turned his eyes to his mother. She did not seem to be joking. “A month?”

His mother came over and stroked his hair. “Yes, a month—a long month. And my boy has had a very long sleep.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Allan asked. “I see,” he said, looking into his mother’s tired but cheerful eyes, “I see, I have been sick. Oh, I know it now! I can remember that the queerest things were going on in my head! One day I think it seemed to be a camera, and the lens was red hot, somehow, and somebody—who was it?—was pulling the bellows out too far. Great Scott! I thought they would break it.”

“But you must not talk any more, now,” urged his mother.

And he lay there for half an hour without speaking.

Then he asked: “Did Owen get back all right?”

“Yes, soon after you did.”

The next day he tried for a long time to remember the wonderful plan he had dreamed of for developing films, but he could not recall the particular formula upon which the superiority of the plan rested. Perhaps, he thought, it would come back to him.

It was early in December that McConnell and Owen were permitted to come in and see him, and McConnell came in every day after that. There had been an early snow, and the boys had proofs of some snow scenes which proved to be immensely entertaining to Allan. Owen’s glimpses of winter trees and snow-silvered bushes suggested many things that he himself had planned to make when winter came.

“McConnell came in every day after that.”

“I shall soon be out,” he told the boys, “and then I want to begin right away on some winter things.” McConnell came in every day after that.

Detective Dobbs on his first visit to Allan brought a batch of pictures he had made of Sporty. “I don’t have time to develop,” said Dobbs, “so I let them ‘do the rest’ for me now. As soon as you get well,” continued Dobbs, “I think the club is going to have an exhibition; they have been talking about it for some time.”

Allan thought this was a capital idea. A plan for a frame big enough to hold some of his most successful pictures gave him something pleasant to think about for a whole day.

But he grew impatient to get about, and as December dragged along his resentment against the long convalescence grew deeper. It was not until Christmas Day that he came down to dinner. There were several little surprises for him, in addition to the Christmas morning surprises, that had been carried up to his room.

The dinner seemed to be in his honor, for the big cake had a frosted camera on the top, and “Captain Kodak” in fantastic letters. In the middle of the cake was a miniature imitation of a dark-room lamp with a candle burning inside.

Soon after dinner Mr. Thornton and McConnell came in with a large leather portfolio and a fine magnifying glass, which the members of the club had sent to Allan. “We all are very glad you are getting well,” said Mr. Thornton. “The club will be happy to greet its President again.”

“Speech!” cried McConnell.

But Allan could only say, “Thank you, Mr.Thornton,” and sit down again quickly. His head was not very strong yet, he afterward confessed.

They had a great night at the club when Allan did get back, and plans for an exhibition were talked over in earnest. There was so large an attendance of members that there was talk, too, of new club rooms, though Major Mines and Mrs. Creigh said they wouldn’t give up the present quarters for the most sumptuous club outfit that could be devised.

The club exhibition took place in January, and it proved an exceedingly interesting affair. Several of the members had surprises to present—pictures which no one had been permitted to see. Among these were amusing trophies of the Central Park trip, and of the first country walk of the club. There were enlargements, beautiful bits in toned bromide paper, platinum prints, one or two gems in carbon, and to show what could be done with simple materials, Mr. Thornton had a series of “blue prints” daintily mounted.

Allan was not exactly satisfied with the framing of his prints, and wished he had had time to give more attention to that. Owen and McConnell also made a good impression. McConnell’s “Water-melon Party” contained many familiar faces. Then there was Big McConnell’s remarkable picture of his younger brother. Detective Dobbs exhibited his first attempts at printing. Six out of the eight prints he had framed with great pride in a gorgeous gold frame (picked out by Mrs. Dobbs) revealed the countenance of Sporty. Major Mines had some snapshots from St. Augustine and elsewhere. Miss Illwin had sent in a little landscape, which had no sooner been hung than it began to cause her great misery. “For I can see now,” she said, “that I should have sent the other one.”

“Big McConnell’s remarkable picture of his younger brother.”

“The club exhibition took place in January.”

The pictures, which filled all the available space in the club rooms, were displayed for a week. And almost every night during the week there was an unusually large gathering at the rooms. On Saturday night Major Mines hung a sheet at the head of the front room, and with the aid of a small stereopticon gave an exhibition of lantern slides.

Very few of the members had tried lantern slides, but the Major’s exhibition resulted in many resolutions to make slides from “pet” plates. Another result was that a few months later the club bought a stereopticon, and two nights in every month were given up to the display of lantern pictures. Allan found great enjoyment in his lantern-slide work. Adevice which he rigged up in the back room was soon in general use by those members who went in for slide making.

“McConnell’s ‘Water-melon Party.’”

Nothing looked more beautiful on the screen than the snow pictures. The silvery tracings in the trees, the sunlight in footprints, the icicles in the summer house, the river ice pushed into pyramids in the coves,—these and a score of other themes shone with peculiar naturalness in the light of a lantern.

Allan did not go back to the Academy until February, and he had not been long at his school work again when news came that the battle shipMainehad been destroyed in the harbor of Havana.

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