DONALD AND ED TYLER TRY THE GYMNASIUM.DONALD AND ED TYLER TRY THE GYMNASIUM.
Pretty soon, boys who came to jeer remained to try the horizontal bar, or the "horse," or the ladder that stretched invitingly overhead from one end of the building to the other. By special suggestion, Don's and Dorry's Christmas gifts from Uncle were a flying-course, a swinging-bar, and a spring-board. Jack and Don carted load after load of sawdust from the lumber-mill—to soften the deck in case of a slip from the rigging, as Jack explained to Lydia—and presto! the gymnasium was in full operation.
All of which explains why Josie Manning and Dorothy Reed bought dark-blue flannel, and sent to town for the latest pattern for gymnasium dresses; why Don and Ed soon exasperated them by comfortably purchasing suits ready made; why Dorry's cheeks grew rosier; why Uncle was pleased; why Jack was proud; and why Lydia was morally sure the D's would break their precious necks, if somebody didn't put a stop to it.
Dorothywas made very happy one day by Uncle George handing her the little copy-book diary, and saying that she and Donald could read as much of it as they wished.
"Oh, Don; see here!" she exclaimed, holding up the book, as Donald, by invitation, joined her in the Cosey Corner. "It's all right. Uncle says so. We'll begin at the first page and read every single word!"
The diary, it seemed, contained nothing startling, but it gave them an excellent idea of Aunt Kate's happy girlhood. She spoke of many things familiar to them, and above all, they were interested in her frequent allusions to "our new dog, Nero," evidently her own special pet.
Poor Nero! So young then, and now so very old! This was his last winter. He had become blind of late and very feeble; but, nevertheless, when the end came, it was a shock to all, and a sore trial to Don and Dorry. Many a time, after that day, they would stop in their sports to bend beside the little headstone under the evergreens and talk of him—the faithful friend they had loved all their lives, who had reached his prime and died of old age during their own youth.
We must pass rapidly over the next few months, only pausing to say that they were busy ones for the D's. In the first place, the new tutor, as Don expressed it, was "worked by steam" and was "one of the broad-gauge, high-pressure sort;" but Uncle George noted that his nephew and niece made great advancement under whathecalled Dr. Sneeden's careful and earnest teaching.
But they had, too, their full share of recreation. Don and Ed found the gymnasium not only a favorite resort in the way of pleasure, but also a great aid to their physical development. After a few weeks' exercise, their muscles began to grow stronger and harder, and the startling climbs, leaps, tumbles, hand-springs and somersaults which the boys learned to perform were surprising.
When the summer came, Don and Ed Tyler secretly believed themselves competent to become members of the best circus troupe in the country, and many a boy-visitor was asked to "feelthat, will you?" as each young Hercules knotted the upper muscles of his arm in order to astonish the beholder. Even the girls caught the spirit, and, though they would not for the world have had the boys know it, they compared muscle in a mild way among themselves, and Dorry's was declared by admiring friends to be "awfully hard."
Little Fandy Danby, too, after giving himself numberless bruises, became so expert that he finally attained the summit of his ambition by hanging from the horizontal ladder and going hand over hand its entire length, though not without much puffing and panting and a frantic flourishing of little legs.
Don and the boys had great fun in "stumping" each other; which consisted in one performing a certain feat and challenging the others to do it, and if matched in that, then daring them to some bolder and more difficult attempt.
Uncle George himself took part in these contests, and, though often beaten, threatened to distance them all after a few months' practice. "There's a plentiful share of limberness tied up in these old muscles," he would say, "and when it's set free, boys, look out for your laurels!"
Well, the spring passed away and no bones were broken. Boating and bathing, berrying and other sports, came with the advancing season; but the great feature of the summer was the G. B. C., or Girls' Botany Club, of which Dorry was president, Josie Manning secretary, and Dr. Sneeden inspirer, advisory committee, and treasurer, all in one. Nearly all the favorite girls joined, and boys were made honorary members whenever their scientific interest and zeal in hunting for botanical treasures entitled them to that distinction.
Ah, those were happy days! And if the honorary members were troublesome now and then, scaring the girls half to death with lizards, toads, or harmless garter-snakes, why it was only "the boys;" and after all, it really was fun to scream a little by way of lightening the more solid pursuits of the club. Besides, the boys often were a real help, especially in rocky places and in the marshes, and— Well, it was less troublesome to have them than to do without them.
So far, only one real shadow had fallen across the sunny hours; and that was when Dorry had proposed Charity Danby as a member, and some of the foolish girls had objected on the plea that the Danbys were "poor folks."
"Poor folks," indeed! You should have seen their president then! You should have heard her spirited remarks, her good, wholesome arguments, and seen her glowing, indignant presidential countenance! The opposition had been stubborn at first, gathering strength in secret and losing it in public, until at last good sense and kindliness prevailed. The motion to admit Charity as a member of the G. B. C. was carried unanimously, and almost the first she knew about it she was a full member, eagerly searching hill-side and meadow with the rest, and wondering deep in her inmost soul whether she ever, ever could "catch up" to the other girls. They knew so much from books, and she had been able to study so little!
Poor Charity! She was wiser than she knew. Her habit of close observation, and her eager desire to learn, soon made her a valuable addition to the club. She knew where to find every wild flower of that locality in its season, from the trailing arbutus in the spring to the latest bloom of the autumn, and "Charity Danby says so" soon became a convincing argument in many a discussion.
But we must now go back several weeks, and learn how it happened that our busy Charity was able to accept the invitation of the G. B. C.
It was early in July; remnants of exploded fire-crackers still lingered in the trampled grass near Mrs. Danby's white-washed fence. She—busy soul!—was superintending the mending of her home-made chicken-coop now trembling and quivering under the mighty strokes of Daniel David. With one breath the mother was making suggestions to her young carpenter, and with the next screaming to Helen and Isabella to be careful or they would tumble into the pig-pen, when, suddenly, she saw Dorry at the back gate.
"Massy! Here comes Dorothy Reed, looking like a fresh rose, as she is, and not a thing in the house to rights. Well, I can't help it—ten children so, and everything to look after. Ah, Dorothy!" continued Mrs. Danby, exchanging her silent thoughts for active speech, "walk right in, dear, and do please excuse everything. Charity's in the house, picking up and putting away; I'd call her out, but—"
No need to finish the sentence. Dorry, with a cheery "Oh, no, indeed, thank you!" had already vanished under the morning-glories that brightened the doorway.
"Bless her heart!" pursued Mrs. Danby, now talking to Daniel David, "but she's a beauty! Not that my own are humly, either. Charity's no fright, by no means, and there's your sister Amanda—why, only last summer Master Donald's teacher drew a picture of her, because she was so picturesky, which I'll keep to my dying day. There, Dan Dave, you don't need no more slats on that side; take this broken one out here, that's a good child; it scrapes the old hen every time she goes under. Look out! You'll break the whole thing to pieces if you ain't careful. My! How strong boys are!"
Meantime, Dorry, as we know, had entered. The housewasout of order, but Charity was doing her best. With one hand she was "picking up and putting away," and with the other stroking the bumped head of baby Jamie. Though now able to walk alone, the little one had just experienced one of his frequent tumbles, and was crying and clinging to Charity's skirts as he trotted beside her. No one else was in the room, and perhaps this was why the busy sister was softly saying to herself, as she worked:
"SO PICTURESKY!""SO PICTURESKY!"
"Queen Elizabeth was one, William-and-Mary's Mary was another, and Lady Jane Grey and Queen Victoria—Oh, do hush, Jamie, dear, I've kissed it twice already—there!"
Suiting the action to the word, she pressed her lips of healing once more upon Jamie's yellow hair, and lifting her head again, she saw Dorry in the doorway laughing.
"Oh, Dorothy, how you startled me! I didn't hear you coming at all! I'm so glad! But you needn't laugh at me, Dorry—I'm only trying to remember a little hist'ry."
"I'm not laughing atyou," Dorry protested, merrily. "But it was so funny to hear you putting the English queens into the pots and pans; that was all. Here, let me help a little. Come, Jamie, sit on Dotty's lap, and she'll tell you all about Bluebeard."
"Oh, no; that's too old for him. Tell him about the chickies," suggested Charity, in a business-like way, as, disengaging her gown from his baby clutch, she sprang upon a chair, in order to put something away on the highest shelf of the dresser.
"It's no use," she said, jumping down again, almost angrily, and raising her voice to be heard above Jamie's outcry. "Oh, dear, whatdoesmake you so naughty, Baby?"
"He isn't naughty," said Dorry, soothingly; "he's only tired of being indoors. Come, Jamie, we'll go out and play chickie till Charity gets through, and then we'll all take a nice walk."
Jamie seized Dorry's hand instantly, and out they went.
"Be careful!" called Charity, after her, setting a chair down hard at the same time. "Look out, or he'll get right under the cow's feet; he always does."
"I'll be careful," sang out Dorry. "Come as soon as you can. This delightful air will do you good." Then, seeing Ellen Eliza, the ten-year-old Danby girl, standing not far from the house, she led Jamie toward her.
"HE'S COMPLAININ'.""HE'S COMPLAININ'."
Ellen Eliza had a very tender heart. Every one who knew Mrs. Danby had heard of that tender heart more than once; and so Dorry was not in the least surprised to find Ellen Eliza in the act of "comforting" a draggled-looking fowl, which she held tenderly in her arms in spite of its protest.
"Is it hurt?" asked Dorry.
Ellen Eliza looked up with an anxious countenance as she murmured:
"Oh, no, not exactly hurt; he's complainin'. I think he's hungry, but he won't eat."
"Dear me!" was Dorry's unfeeling comment; "then I'd let him go hungry, I certainly should."
"Oh, no, you couldn't be cruel to a poor sick rooster!" Here Ellen Eliza pressed the uneasy fowl to her heart. "May be, he has a sore throat."
"Do you know whatIthink?" said Dorry, quite disregarding the patient's possible affliction.
"What?" asked Ellen Eliza, plaintively, as if prepared to hear that her feathered pet was going into a rapid decline. And Dorry went on:
"Ithink that if people with tender hearts would remember their sisters sometimes, it would be—"
"What do you mean?" interrupted the astonished Ellen Eliza, releasing the now struggling bird as she spoke.
Dorry laid her hand kindly on the little girl's shoulder.
"I'll tell you," she said. "If I were you, I'd help Charity more. I'd take care of this dear little brother sometimes. Don't you notice how very often she is obliged to stay from school to help with the work, and how discouraged she feels about her lessons?"
"No!" answered Ellen Eliza, with wide-open eyes. "I didn't ever notice that. I think it's nice to stay home from school. But, anyhow, Charity wouldn't trust me. She dotes on Jamie so. She's always been afraid I'd let him fall."
Dorry smiled.
"Oh, that was long ago, Ellen. Jamie can walk now, you know, and if you look after him sometimes, you'll soon be able to help Charity wonderfully."
"All right!" was Ellen Eliza's cordial answer. "I'll do it. Somehow, I never thought of it. But I often help Mother. She says I'm the best-hearted of all the children, and so I am. You see if I don't help Charity after this."
The conversion seemed too sudden to be very lasting; but Ellen Eliza, who was really sincere, proceeded at once to put her new resolution into practice. To be sure, her renowned tender heart did not make her all at once an experienced housemaid, seamstress, and nurse, as Charity was; but from that day it made her, at intervals, a willing little hand-maiden, and so gave her sister many a leisure hour for reading and study. More than this, Ellen Eliza and Dorry became close friends in Charity's behalf, and one thing led to another, until Charity actually attended school regularly. She was behind most of the scholars, of course; but very often she spent an hour in the Cosey Corner, where Dorry helped her to study her lessons. Her progress was remarkable.
"You make everything so beautifully plain, I can't help improving," she would say to Dorry. And Dorry would laugh and protest that the teacher was learning as much as the pupil, and that they were a wonderful pair, anyway.
All this while, Charity, bright and hopeful, was doing a goodly share of house duties, and making the Danby home more sunny with her happiness. Little Jamie was her delight, as she was his; but she was no longer jaded and discouraged. Ellen Eliza looked at her with pride, and willingly submitted to the school teaching that Charity, in turn, was able to give her.
"I can't bear 'rithmetic," was the tender-hearted one's comment, "but I have to learn my tables, else Charity'd worry, and Dorry wouldn't like it. And jography's nice, 'cause Pa likes me to tell him about it, when he comes home. Soon's I get big, I mean to make Helen and Is'bella learn their lessons like everything!"
Alas! The new educational movement met with a sudden but temporary check in the shape of the measles. One fine day, that unwelcome visitant came into the house, and laid its hand on poor little Helen. In a few days, Isabella and Jamie were down beside her—not very ill, but all three just ill enough to require a darkened room, careful nursing, and a bountiful supply of Dorry's willing oranges.
This was why Charity, for a time, was cut off from her studies, and why she was quite taken by surprise when word came to her of the G. B. C., and that she was to join it, as soon as the little ones could spare her.
You have seen Charity botanizing on the hill-side with the other girls, but to understand her zeal, you should have heard her defend the science against that sarcastic brother of hers—Daniel David. In vain that dreadful boy hung dried stalks and dead branches all about her room, and put dandelions in her tea cup, and cockles in her hair brush—pretending all the while that he was a good boy bringing "specimens" to his dear sister. In vain he challenged every botanical remark she made, defying her to prove it. She always was equal to the occasion in spirit, if not in knowledge.
One Saturday morning, though, she had her triumph, and it was an event to be remembered. Daniel David had listened, with poorly concealed interest, while Charity was describing a flower to Ellen Eliza,—how it has calyx, corolla, stamens, and pistils; how some flowers have not all these parts, but thatallflowers have pistils and stamens,—when he, as usual, challenged her to "prove it."
"Very well," said Charity, with dignity, and yet a little uneasily; "you bring the flowers, and I think I can satisfy Your Majesty."
Out he ran, and in a moment he came back, bearing defiantly a fine red-clover blossom.
"Ha, my lady!" he said, as he handed it to her. "There's the first flower I came to; now let's see you find your pistils and stamens and thingamies."
Instead of replying at once, Charity looked long and silently at the pretty flower in her hand. She seemed rather puzzled and crestfallen. Daniel David laughed aloud; even Mrs. Danby and the poetic Amanda smiled.
"Oh!" said Charity, at last, with an air of great relief. "I see it now. How funny! I never thought of it before; but the clover-blossom isn'toneflower at all—it's a good many flowers!"
"Ho! ho!" cried Daniel David. "That's a good one! You can't get out of it in that way, my lady. Can she, Ma?"
Ma didn't know. None of the rest knew; but they all crowded about Charity, while, with trembling fingers, she carefully pulled the blossom to pieces, and discovered that every piece was a flower. "See!" she exclaimed, eagerly. "Dozens of them, and every single one complete,—pistil and stamens and all! Oh, my! Isn't it wonderful?"
"I surrender," said Daniel David.
"But you've helped me to find out something that I didn't know before," said the enthusiastic sister, forgiving in an instant all his past taunting. "I wonder if Dorothy knows it. Let's go right over and ask her."
"Agreed," said Daniel David. "Wait till I dress up a bit." Off he ran, whistling, and in fifteen minutes he and Charity were with Dorry in the Reed sitting-room, examining the separated, tiny clover-flowers through Donald's microscope.
Dorothy explained to them that the clover-blossom or head is a compound flower, because a head is made up of many flowerets, each complete in itself.
But when she went further, and told them that not only the clover, but every dandelion and daisy in the field is made up of many flowers, even Charity appeared incredulous, saying: "What! Do you mean to say that the daisy, with its yellow centre and lovely white petals, is not a flower?"
"No, I don't mean that," said Dorry. "Of course, the daisy is a flower. But it is a compound flower. What you call white petals are not exactly petals. Anyhow, the yellow centre is made up of hundreds of very small flowers. That's what I mean. I have seen them magnified, and they look like yellow lilies."
Daniel David hardly dared to say "prove it" to so elegant a creature as Dorry, but his countenance was so expressive of doubt that the president of the G. B. C. at once proposed that he should go and gather a dandelion and a daisy, for them to pull to pieces and then examine the parts under the microscope.
All of which would have come to pass had not Donald rushed into the house at that moment, calling:
"Dorry! Dorry! Come up on the hill! We're going to set up the targets."
Theboys were to have a shooting-match.
The targets, eight in number, which had been made by the boys a few days before, were really fine affairs. They were painted on sheets of strong pasteboard, and were each about eighteen inches in diameter. Every circle, from the bull's-eye to the outer ring, was carefully made out, and all the targets were of exactly the same measurements. Eight rough tripods already awaited them at the shooting-range, and each tripod had its upright piece of eighteen-inch plank at the top, to which a pasteboard target was now to be firmly fastened.
On any ordinary occasion one or two tripods would have been sufficient, but on this special day there was to be a real "match," and a target to each man would be required, so that the contestants could show a clear record of every shot. Experience had proved this to be the best plan.
The spot selected for the shooting-range was well adapted to the purpose. It was a plateau or broad strip of level land, forming the summit of the long slope that rose from the apple-orchard back of the Reed mansion. At the rear or eastern limit of this level land was a steep, grassy ridge, called by the D's the second hill.
Perhaps you will see the plateau more clearly if you read this description which Dorry afterward wrote in a letter to a friend at boarding-school:
"Don and the boys have made a rustic summer-house by an apple-tree on the second hill, back of the house. It's so high up that you can look across our place from it, and see the lake in front, and the village far down at the left. It is beautiful, at sunset, looking from the summer-house, for then the lake sometimes seems to be on fire, and the trees in the orchard between us and the road send long shadows that creep, creep up the hill as if they were alive. You see we really have two hills, and these are separated or joined, whichever you please, by a long level strip more than a hundred feet wide, forming a grassy terrace. I often imagine a long row of enormous giants resting there on the grass side by side, sitting on the great wide level place, with their backs leaning against the second hill, and their feet reaching nearly to the edge of the first hill. Now, I hope you understand. If you don't you will when you come here to visit me this fall. Well, it was on this level ground that we had the shooting-match I'm going to tell you about, and where something happened that I'll never, never forget as long as I live."
"Don and the boys have made a rustic summer-house by an apple-tree on the second hill, back of the house. It's so high up that you can look across our place from it, and see the lake in front, and the village far down at the left. It is beautiful, at sunset, looking from the summer-house, for then the lake sometimes seems to be on fire, and the trees in the orchard between us and the road send long shadows that creep, creep up the hill as if they were alive. You see we really have two hills, and these are separated or joined, whichever you please, by a long level strip more than a hundred feet wide, forming a grassy terrace. I often imagine a long row of enormous giants resting there on the grass side by side, sitting on the great wide level place, with their backs leaning against the second hill, and their feet reaching nearly to the edge of the first hill. Now, I hope you understand. If you don't you will when you come here to visit me this fall. Well, it was on this level ground that we had the shooting-match I'm going to tell you about, and where something happened that I'll never, never forget as long as I live."
While Don and Ed, assisted by the doughty Daniel, are at work setting up the row of targets close to the base of the second hill, so that stray bullets may be safely buried in the soft earth-wall, and while Dorry and Charity are watching the boys from the shady summer-house, we may look into Mr. Reed's study.
He is sitting in his arm-chair by the window, but the warm breeze stealing through the closed blinds is not lulling him to repose; his face is troubled, and he holds something in his hand which he is studying intently, though it seems to give him no satisfaction. It is a small gold chain or necklace, with an old-fashioned square clasp. On a graceful mahogany stand close by are several articles carefully laid together near an open box, as though he had been examining them also. They were there when Donald knocked at the door, a few moments ago, to ask his uncle to come up and see the arrangements for the shooting-match. But Mr. Reed, without unlocking the door, had said he was very busy, and begged Don to excuse him.
"Certainly, Uncle; but I'm sorry," Don had replied, and even while trudging up the hill with the targets his mind had been busy.
"What is the matter? Something is troubling Uncle George yet. I've noticed it very much of late. There's more to be told, and I must soon have a good square talk with him about it. There's no use in putting it off for ever.—We can't excuse him from the match though. Why, it would spoil the whole thing not to have Uncle see it.—Wouldn't it, Dot?" he asked aloud, as Dorry at that moment joined him.
"Wouldn't what?"
"Why, not to have Uncle here at the match."
"I don't understand," she said, looking puzzled.
"Why, the study door's locked and he's very busy. I was just thinking it would be a great shame if he shouldn't come up this afternoon at all."
"What a ridiculous idea!" said Dorry, with a light laugh. "Why, of course, Uncle will come. I'll bring him myself."
And she did.
Of all the merry company that came trooping up the green slope to the shooting-range that afternoon, not a brighter, happier-looking pair was seen than Mr. Reed and Dorry, as they joined the eager crowd of boys and girls. The little maid evidently had chased away his troubles for that day.
Donald was too busy to do much more than glance at them, but that glance did him good; his hearty "Ho, Uncle!" did Mr. Reed good, too.
After a careful inspection of the arrangements, and a few words with Don and the other boys concerning the necessary rules and restrictions for the general safety, Mr. Reed retired to the rustic seat of honor that had been prepared for him. The other spectators stood near by, or settled themselves comfortably upon the turf.
Sailor Jack stood at a respectful distance with the smallest youngsters about him, explaining to them that they'd best "stand close, and keep a sharp lookout; for dry land was a pesky dang'rous place at all times, and now, with bullets flyin' about there was no tellin' what might happen. But if they wanted to see right clever shootin', they could just wait a bit; for Master Donald had the sharpest eye he ever see'd in any youngster on sea or shore."
There were to be eight contestants. All had arrived excepting Ben Buster. He had been invited to shoot, but had loftily replied that he had other affairs on hand, and he'd come if he could; and anyhow, they'd best have a substitute ready.
Mr. Reed's two rifles and Don's and Ed Tyler's were the only fire-arms to be used; for Mr. Reed had objected to a fully equipped party of young gunners ranging across his estate. But they were not like Creedmoor shooters, who must not only use their own special rifles, but must clean them after every shot. The Nestletown boys were used to trying borrowed weapons, and though a few had grumbled at a fellow not being allowed to bring his own gun, the spirit of sport prevailed, and every face wore a look of eager interest in the occasion.
Ben Buster was missing, but a substitute was soon found, and the match began in earnest, four on a side,—the Reds and the Blues,—each wearing ribbon badges of their respective color.
The Blues.Edward Tyler,Barry Outcalt,Theodore Hart,"Ben Buster."The Reds.Henry Jones,Will Burroughs,Frank Henderson,Donald Reed.
Dorry had made the four red rosettes and Josie Manning the four blue ones. Besides these, Josie had contributed, as a special prize to the best marksman, a beautiful gold scarf-pin, in the form of a tiny rifle, and the winner was thenceforth to be champion shot of the club, ready to hold the prize against all comers.
Ed Tyler had carefully marked off the firing line at a distance of forty paces, or about one hundred feet from the targets; and it had been agreed that the eight boys should fire in regular order,—first a Blue, then a Red, one shot at a turn, until each had fired fifteen times in all. This was a plan of their own, "so that no fellow need wait all day for his turn." In the "toss-up" for the choice of targets and to decide the order of shooting, the Reds had won; and they had chosen to let the Blues lead off.
As Ed Tyler was a "Blue," and Don a "Red," they found themselves opponents for once. Both were considered "crack shots," but Don soon discovered that he had a more powerful rival in another of the "Blues"—one Barry Outcalt, son of the village doctor. It soon became evident that the main contest lay between these two, but Don had gained on his competitor in the sixth round by sending a fourth bullet into the bull's-eye, to Barry's second, when Ben Buster was seen strolling up the hill. Instantly his substitute, a tall, nervous fellow, nicknamed Spindle, proposed to resign in Ben's favor, and the motion was carried by acclamation,—the Blues hoping everything, and the Reds fearing nothing, from the change.
Master Buster was so resolute and yet comical, in his manner, that everyone felt there would be fun if he took part. Seeing how matters stood as to the score, he gave a knowing wink to Barry Outcalt, and said he "didn't mind pitchin' in." He had never distinguished himself at target practice, but he had done a good deal of what Dorry called "realshooting" in the West. Besides, he was renowned throughout the neighborhood as a successful rabbit-hunter.
Shuffling to his position, he stood in such a shambling, bow-legged sort of an attitude that even the politest of the girls smiled; and those who were specially anxious that the Reds should win felt more than ever confident of success.
If Don had begun to flatter himself that it was to be an easy victory, he was mistaken. He still led the rest; but for every good shot he made after that, Ben had already put a companion hole, or its better, in his own target. The girls clapped; the boys shouted with excitement. Every man of the contestants felt the thrill of the moment.
The Blues did their best; and with Outcalt and Ben on that side, Don soon found that he had heavy work to do. Moreover, just at this stage of the shooting, one of the Reds seemed to contract a sudden ambition to dot the extreme outer edge of his target. This made the Blues radiant, and would have disconcerted the Reds but for Don's nerve and pluck. He resolved that, come what might, he would keep cool; and his steadiness inspired his comrades.
"Crack!" went Don's rifle, and the bull's-eye winked in response. A perfect shot!
"Crack!" went Ed's, beginning a fresh round, andhisbull's-eye didn't wink. The second ring, however, showed the bullet's track.
"Crack!" The next Red left his edge-dot on the target, as usual.
"Crack!" went Outcalt's rifle, and the rim of the bull's-eye felt it.
Will Burrough's bullet went straight to the left edge of the centre.
Hart, the third Blue, sent a shot between targets, clean into the earth-wall.
"Crack!" went the next Red. Poor Henderson! His target made no sign.
Ben Buster, the Blue, now put in his third centre shot. He was doing magnificently.
In this round, and in the next, Donald hit the centre, but it was plain that his skill alone would not avail to win the match, unless his comrades should "brace up," and better their shots; so he tried a little generalship. He urged each of the three in turn not to watch the score of the enemy at all, nor to regard the cheers of the Blues, but to give attention solely to making his own score as high as possible. This advice helped them, and soon the Reds once more were slightly ahead of the Blues, but the advantage was not sufficient to insure them a victory. As the final rounds drew near, the interest became intense. Each marksman was the object of all eyes, as he stepped up to the firing-line, and the heat of the contest caused some wild shooting; yet the misses were so evenly divided between the two companies that the score remained almost a tie.
Ed Tyler advanced to the firing-line. His shot gave the Blues' score a lift.
Now for the rim-dotter. He pressed his lips together, braced every nerve, was two whole minutes taking aim, and this time put his dot very nearly in the centre!
Outcalt was bewildered. He had been so sure Jones would hit the rim, as usual, that now he seemed bound to do it in Jones's stead. Consequently, his bullet grazed the target and hid its face in the earth-wall.
The second Red fired too hastily, and failed.
Third Blue—a bull's eye!
Third Red—an "outer."
Ben Buster stepped to the line. The Blues cheered as he raised his gun. He turned with a grand bow, and levelled his piece once more. But triumph is not always victory. His previous fine shooting had aroused his vanity, and now the girls' applause quite flustered him. He missed his aim! Worse still, not being learned in the polite art of mastering his feelings, he became vexed, and in the next round actually missed his target entirely.
Poor shooting is sometimes "catching." Now, neither Reds nor Blues distinguished themselves, until finally only one shot was left to be fired on each side; and, so close was the contest, those two shots would decide the day.
It lay between Ben Buster and Donald.
Each side felt sure that its champion would score a bull's-eye, and if both should accomplish this, the Reds would win by two counts. But if Ben should hit the bull's-eye, and Don's bullet should fall outside of even the very innermost circle, the Blues would be the victors. It was simply a question of nerve. Ben Buster, proud of his importance, marched to position, feeling sure of a bull's-eye. But, alas, for over-confidence! The shot failed to reach that paradise of bullets, but fell within the first circle, and so near the bull's-eye that it was likely to make the contest a tie, unless Donald should score a centre.
Don had now achieved the feat of gaining nine bull's-eyes out of a possible fifteen. He must make it ten, and that with a confusing chorus of voices calling to him: "Another bull's-eye, Don!" "One more!" "He can't do it!" "Fire lower!" "Fire higher!" "Don't miss!"
It was a thrilling moment, and any boy would have been excited. Don was. He felt his heart thump and his face flush, as he stepped up to the firing-line. Turning for an instant he saw Dorry looking at him proudly, and as she caught his glance, she gave her head a saucy, confident little toss as if sure that he would not miss.
"Ay! ay! Dot," said Don under his breath; and, reassured by her confidence, he calmly raised the gun to his shoulder and took careful aim.
It seemed an age to the spectators before the report broke upon the sudden hush of expectation. Then, those who were watching Don saw him bend his head forward with a quick motion, and for a second peer anxiously at the target. Then he drew back carelessly, but with a satisfaction that he could not quite conceal.
A few moments later, the excited Reds came running up, wildly waving Don's target in their arms. His last bullet had been the finest shot of the day, having struck the very centre of the bull's-eye. Even Ben cheered. The Reds had won. Donald was the acknowledged champion of the club.
But it was trying to three of the Reds, and to the Blues worse than the pangs of defeat, to see that pretty Josie Manning pin the little golden rifle on the lapel of Donald's coat.
Little he thought, amid the cheering and the merry breaking-up that followed, how soon his steadiness of hand would be taxed in earnest!
Mr. Reed, after pleasantly congratulating the winning side and complimenting the Blues upon being so hard to conquer, walked quickly homeward in earnest conversation with Sailor Jack.
Thecompany slowly dispersed. Some of the young folk cut across lots to their homes; others, remembering errands yet to be attended to in the village, directed their course accordingly. And finally, a group of five boys, including Donald and Ed Tyler, started off, being the last to leave the shooting-range. They were going down the hill toward the house, talking excitedly about the match, and were just entering the little apple-orchard between the hill and the house, when they espied, afar off, a large dog running toward them.
The swiftness and peculiar gait of the animal attracted their attention, and, on a second look, they noted how strangely the creature hung its head as it ran.
"Hallo!" exclaimed Don, "there's something wrong there. See! He's frothing at the mouth. It's a mad dog!"
"That's so!" cried Ed. "Hurry, boys! Make for the trees!"
A glance told them plainly enough that Don was right. This was a terrible foe, indeed, for a party of boys to encounter. But the apple-trees were about them, and all the boys, good and bad climbers alike, lost not a moment in scrambling up into the branches.
All but Donald: he, too, had started for one of the nearest trees, when suddenly it occurred to him that the girls had not all left the second hill. Most of them had quitted the range in a bevy, when the match was over; but two or three had wandered off to the summer-house, under the apple-tree, where they had been discussing the affairs and plans of the Botany Club. Don knew they were there, and he remembered the old ladder that leaned against the tree; but the dog was making straight for the hill, and would be upon them before they could know their danger! Could he warn them in time? He would, at least, try. With a shout to his companions: "The girls! the girls!" he turned and ran toward the hill at his utmost speed, the dog following, and the boys in the trees gazing upon the terrible race, speechless with dread.
Donald felt that he had a good start of his pursuer, however, and he had his gun in his hand; but it was empty. Luckily, it was a repeating-rifle; and so, without abating his speed, he hastily took two cartridges from his jacket and slipped them into the chamber of the gun.
"I'll climb a tree and shoot him!" he said to himself, "if only I can warn the girls out of the way."
"Girls! Girls!" he screamed. But as he looked up, he saw, descending the hill and sauntering toward him, his sister and Josie Manning, absorbed in earnest conversation.
At first he could not utter another sound, and he feared that his knees would sink under him. But the next instant he cried out with all his might:
"Back! Back! Climb the tree, for your lives! Mad dog! Mad dog!"
The two girls needed no second warning. The sight of the dreadful object speeding up the slope in Donald's tracks was enough. They ran as they never had run before, reached the tree in time, and, with another girl whom they met and warned, clambered, breathless, up the ladder to the sheltering branches.
Then all their fears centred upon Donald, who by this time had reached the plateau just below them, where the shooting-match had been held. He turned to run toward the apple-tree, when, to the horror of all, his foot slipped, and he fell prostrate. Instantly he was up again, but he had not time to reach the tree. The dog already was over the slope, and was making toward him at a rapid, swinging gait, its tongue out, its bloodshot eyes plainly to be seen, froth about the mouth, and the jaws opening and shutting in vicious snaps.
Dorry could not stand it; she started to leave the tree, but fell back with closed eyes, while the other girls clung, trembling, to the branches, pale and horrified.
To the credit of Donald be it said, he faced the danger like a man. He felt that the slightest touch of those dripping jaws would bring death, but this was the time for action.
Hastily kneeling behind a stump, he said to himself: "Now, Donald Reed, they say you're a good shot. Prove it!" And steadying his nerves with all the resolution that was in him, he levelled his rifle at the advancing dog and fired.
To his relief, the poor brute faltered and dropped—dead, as Don thought. But it was only wounded; and, staggering to its feet again, it made another dash forward.
"DON LEVELLED HIS RIFLE AND FIRED.""DON LEVELLED HIS RIFLE AND FIRED."
Don was now so encouraged, so thankful that his shot had been true, that, as he raised his gun a second time, he scarcely realized his danger, and was almost as cool as if firing at the target on the range, although the dog was now barely a dozen feet away. This was the last chance. The flash leaped from his rifle, and at the same moment Donald sprang up and ran for the tree as fast as his legs could carry him. But, before the smoke had cleared, a happy cry came from the girls in the tree. He glanced back, to see the dog lying motionless upon the ground.
Quickly reloading his gun, and never taking his finger from the trigger, he cautiously made his way back to the spot. But there was nothing to fear now. He found the poor brute quite dead, its hours of agony over.
The group that soon gathered around looked at it and at one another without saying a word. Then Dorry spoke: "Stand back, everybody! It's dangerous to go too near. I've often heard that."
A hint was sufficient. Indeed, the shuddering girls already had turned away, and the boys now drew aside, though with rather an incredulous air.
"It ought to be buried deep, just where it lies," suggested Ed; and Donald, nodding a silent assent, added, aloud: "Poor fellow! Whose dog can he be?"
"Why it's our General!" cried one of the boys. "As sure as I live it is! He was well yesterday." Then, turning pale, he added: "Oh, I must go right home—"
"Go with him, some of you fellows," Don said, gravely; "and Dot, suppose you run and let Uncle know. Ask him if we shall bury it right here."
"He will say 'yes,' of course," cried Dot, excitedly, as she started off. "I'll send Jack right back with spades."
"Yes; but tell Uncle!" Don shouted after her.
Donaldhad won the gratitude of many Nestletown fathers and mothers, and had raised himself not a little in the estimation of the younger folk, by his encounter with the rabid dog. That it was a case of hydrophobia was settled by the testimony of some wagoners, who had seen the poor animal running across the road, but who, being fearful of having their horses bitten, had not attempted to stop him. Though all felt sorry for "General," everybody rejoiced that he had been put out of his misery, and that he had not bitten any one in his mad run through the fields.
As the summer advanced, and base-ball and running-matches proved to be too warm work for the season, the young folk naturally took to the water. Swimming and boating became the order of the day, and the night too; for, indeed, boats shot hither and thither through many a boy's sleep, confounding him with startling surprises and dreamland defeats and victories. But the lake sports of their waking hours were more under control. Donald and Ed Tyler, as usual, were among the most active in various contests with the oars; and as Donald believed that no event was absolutely complete if Dorry were not among either the actors or the spectators, boat-racing soon grew to be as interesting to the girls as to the boys.
The races usually were mild affairs—often impromptu, or sometimes planned in the morning and carried into effect the same afternoon. Now and then, something more ambitious was attempted: boys in rowing suits practised intently for days beforehand, while girls, looking on, formed their own not very secret opinions as to which rowers were most worthy of their support. Some went so far as to wear a tiny bit of ribbon by way of asserting allegiance to this or that crew, which sported the same color in cap, uniform, or flag. This, strange to say, did not act in the least as "a damper" on the pastime; even the fact that girls became popular as coxswains did not take the life out of it; all of which, as Dorry said, served to show the great hardihood and endurance of the boy-character.
After a while, Barry Outcalt, Benjamin Buster, and three others concocted a plot. The five held meetings in secret to complete their arrangements, and these meetings were enlivened with much smothered laughter. It was to be a "glorious joke." A boat-race, of course; and there must be a great show of previous practice, tremendous rivalry, and pressing competition, so that a strong feeling of partisanship would be aroused; while in truth, the race itself was to be a sham. The boats were to reach the goal at the same moment, nobody was to win, yet every one was to claim the victory; the air was to be rent with cries of "foul!" and spurious shouts of triumph, accompanied by vehement demands for a "fresh try." Then a second start was to be made—One, two, three, and off! All was to go well at first, and when the interest of the spectators was at its height, every eye strained and every heart almost at a standstill with excitement, two of the boats were to "foul," and the oarsman of one, in the most tragic and thrilling manner, was to fall over into the astonished lake. Then, amid the screams of the girls and scenes of wild commotion, he was to be rescued, put into his empty boat again, limp and dripping—and then, to everybody's amazement, disregarding his soaked garments and half-drowned state, he was suddenly to take to the oars in gallant style, and come in first at the close, rowing magnificently.
So ran the plot—a fine one truly. The five conspirators were delighted, and each fellow solemnly promised to stand by the rest, and not to breathe a word about it until the "sell" should be accomplished. So far, so good. Could the joke be carried out successfully? As the lake was public property, it was not easy for the two "fouling" boys to find opportunities for practising their parts. To make two boats collide at a given instant, so as to upset one and spill its occupant in a purely "accidental" way, required considerable dexterity. Ben Buster had a happy thought. Finding himself too clumsy to be the chief actor, he proposed that they should strengthen their force by asking Donald Reed to join the conspiracy. He urged that Don, being the best swimmer among the boys, was therefore best fitted to manage the fall into the water. Outcalt, on his part, further suggested that Ed Tyler was too shrewd to be a safe outsider. He might suspect, and spoil everything. Better make sure of this son of a lawyer by taking him into the plan, and appointing him sole judge and referee.
Considerable debate followed—theprosurging that Don and Ed were just the fellows wanted, and theconsinsisting that neither of the two would be willing to take part. Ben, as usual, was the leading orator. He was honestly proud of Don's friendship, and as honestly scornful of any intimation that Don's better clothes and more elegant manners enhanced or hindered his claims to the high Buster esteem. Don was a good fellow, he insisted,—the right sort of a chap,—and that was all there was about it. All they had to do was to let him, Ben, fetch Don and Ed round that very day, and he'd guarantee they'd be found true blue, and no discounting.
This telling eloquence prevailed. It was voted that the two new men should be invited to join. And join they did.
Though Donald generally disliked practical joking, he yielded this time. As nobody was to be hurt, he entered heartily into the plot, impelled both by his native love of fun and by a brotherly willingness to play an innocent joke upon Dorry, who, with Josie Manning, he knew would surely be among the most interested of all the victimized spectators.
A number of neat circulars, announcing the race and the names of the six contestants, with their respective colors, were written by the boys, and after being duly signed by Ed Tyler, as referee, were industriously distributed among the girls and boys.
On the appointed afternoon, therefore, a merry crowd met at a deserted old house on the lake-shore. It had a balcony overlooking the place where the race was to begin and end.
This old building was the rendezvous of young Nestletown during boating hours; indeed, it was commonly called "the boat-house." Having been put up long years before the date of our story, it had fallen into a rather dilapidated condition when the Nestletown young folk appropriated it; but it had not suffered at their hands. On the contrary, it had been carefully cleared of its rubbish; and with its old floors swept clean, its broken windows flung open to air and sunlight, and its walls decorated with bright-colored sun-bonnets and boating flags, it presented quite a festive appearance when the company assembled in it on the day of the race.
Fortunately, its ample piazza was strong, in spite of old age and the fact that its weather-stained and paintless railing had for years been nicked, carved, and autographed by the village youngsters. It was blooming enough, on this sunny Saturday, with its freight of expectant girls and boys, many of the first-named wearing the colors of their favorites among the contestants.
The doughty six were in high spirits—every man of them having a colored 'kerchief tied about his head, and sporting bare, sinewy arms calculated to awe the beholder. Don was quite superb. So were Ben Buster and young Outcalt. Many a girl was deeply impressed by their air of gravity and anxiety, not suspecting that it was assumed for the occasion, while the younger boys looked on in longing admiration. Ed, as starter, umpire, judge, referee, and general superintendent, rowed out with dignity, and anchored a little way from shore. The six, each in his shining boat, rowed into line, taking their positions for the start. The stake-boat was moored about a third of a mile up the lake, and the course of the race was to be from the starting-line to the stake-boat, around it, and back.
The balcony fluttered and murmured as Ed Tyler shouted to the six rowers, waiting with uplifted oars:
"Are you ready?—ONE, TWO, THREE—GO!"
On the instant, every oar struck the water, the six boats crossed the line together, and the race began.
No flutter in the balcony now; the spectators were too intent.
Not for a moment could they imagine that it was not a genuine race. Every man appeared to bend to his work with a will. Soon Ben Buster, with long, sweeping strokes, went laboriously ahead; and now Outcalt and another passed him superbly, side by side. Then Don's steady, measured stroke distanced the three, and as he turned the stake-boat his victory was evident, not only to Dorothy, but to half the spectators. Not yet. A light-haired, freckled fellow in a blue 'kerchief, terribly in earnest, spun around the stake-boat and soon left Don behind; then came the quick, sharp stroke of Ben Buster nerved for victory, closely followed by Steuby Butler, who astonished everybody; and then, every man rowing as if by super-human exertion, inspired by encouraging cries from the balcony, they crowded closer and closer.
"Ben's ahead!" cried the balcony, confusedly.
"No, Donald Reed has gained on him!"
"Don't you see! it's Outcalt! Outcalt will win!"
"No, I tell you it's Butler!"—And then, before any one could see how it was done, the boats, all six of them, were at the line, oars were flourished frantically, the judge and referee was shouting himself hoarse, and the outcry and tumult on the water silenced the spectators on the land. Cries of: "Not fair!" "Not fair!" "It won't do!" "Have it again!" "Hold up!" "I won't stand such work!" culminated in riotous disorder. Seven voices protesting, shouting, and roaring together made the very waters quiver.
But Tyler was equal to the occasion. Standing in his boat, in the identical position shown in the picture of "Washington Crossing the Delaware," he managed to quiet the tumult, and ordered that the race should be rowed over again.
Once more the boats were in line. Again the umpire shouted: "Are you ready?" and again the crowd fluttered and murmured with expectation as every boat dashed forward.
But what was this? Dorry and Josie, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, moving rapidly as they could among the crowding spectators, and whispering urgent words that evidently produced a strong sensation.
Still the boats pressed on, every rower apparently outdoing himself, if not outdoing everything else. If cheers and shouts had inspired them before, the intense silence now was even more inspiring. Could anything have succeeded better? With every show of exertion, the rascals managed to slacken or quicken as the case required, until, when nearly home, they were all close together.