“Well, Don, how does it seem, to find yourself in the saddle again? You appear to enjoy the exercise, but Bert doesn't. He looks as though he had lost his last friend.”
This was the way General Gordon greeted his boys, when they rode up beside the stump on which he was seated, superintending the negroes who were at work in the field. Bert brightened up at once, but replied that he thought he had good cause to look down-hearted, and with this introduction he went on and told David's story just as the latter had told it to him and his brother. The General listened good-naturedly, as he always did to anything his boys had to tell him, and when Bert ceased speaking, he pulled off a piece of the stump and began to whittle it with his knife. The boys waited for him to say something, but as he did not, Bert continued:
“We came down here to ask you what we ought to do about it, and we want particularly to know your opinion concerning the trick Dan and his father played on us.”
“That is easily given,” replied the General. “My opinion is that Master Don is just ten dollars out of pocket.”
“You don't mean that I must pay it over again?” exclaimed Don.
“No, I don't mean that, because you haven't paid it at all.”
“Why, father, I——”
“I understand. Dan made a demand upon Bert, and Bert borrowed five dollars of his mother and gave it to him. Godfrey came to you for the other five, and you gave it to him. David has not yet been paid for breaking the pointer.”
“No, sir; but we supposed that his father and brother had authority to ask us for the money.”
“You had no right to suppose anything of the kind. You ought to have paid the money into David's own hands, or else satisfied yourselves that he wanted it paid to some one else. Among business men it is customary, in such cases, to send a written order. You must pay David, and this time be sure that he gets the money.”
“Whew!” whistled Don, who was very much surprised by this decision. “That will make a big hole in the money I was saving for Christmas; but David needs it more than I do, and besides it belongs to him. What shall we do to Godfrey and Dan? They obtained those ten dollars under false pretences, did they not?”
“I don't know whether a lawyer could make a case out of that or not,” said the General, with a laugh. “I am afraid he couldn't, so you will have to stand the loss. Perhaps you will learn something by it.”
“I am quite sure that I have learned something already,” replied Don. “But now about Dan and Lester. How are we going to keep them from interfering with David?”
“Why, it seems to me that I could hide my traps where they would never think of looking for them, and where I would be sure to catch quails, too. If I thought I couldn't, I would set them all on this plantation, and any one who troubled them would render himself liable for trespass.”
“Aha!” exclaimed Don, who caught the idea at once.
“But, in order to throw Dan off the scent entirely, you might have David come up to our shop every day and build his traps there. He will find all the tools he wants, and those shingles we tore off that old corn-crib will answer his purpose better than new ones, because they are old and weather-beaten, and look just like the wood in the forest. When I was a boy, I never had any luck in catching birds in bright new traps. When the birds are caught, he can put them into one of those unoccupied negro cabins and lock them up until he is ready to send them off.”
“That's the very idea!” cried Don, gleefully. “We knew that if there was any way out of the difficulty, you would be sure to see it.”
The General bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment, and the brothers turned their horses about and rode away. When they reached the barn Don was willing to confess that he was very tired. Riding on horseback is hard work for one who is stiff in every joint and lame all over; but Don could not think of going into the house and taking a rest. He had been a close prisoner there for a whole week, and now that he had taken a breath of fresh air and stirred his sluggish blood with a little exhilarating exercise, he could not bear to go back to his sofa again. He proposed that they should leave their ponies at the barn and go up to David's in the canoe. They would take their guns with them, he said, and after they had paid David his money, they would row a short distance up the bayou, and perhaps they might be fortunate enough to knock over a duck or two for the next day's dinner.
Bert, of course, agreed to the proposition, and went into the shop after the oars belonging to the canoe, while Don went into the house again after the guns. When he came out again he had a breech-loader on each shoulder and David's ten dollars in his pocket. Paying that bill twice did make a big hole in his Christmas money, for it took just half of it.
The brothers walked along the garden path that ran toward the lake, and when Don, who was leading the way, stepped upon the jetty he missed something at once. The canoe was gone. They had not been near the jetty for a week, and the last time they were there the boat was all right. It could not have got away without help, for it was firmly tied to a ring in the jetty by the chain, which served as a painter, and even if that had become loosened the canoe would have remained near its moorings, for there was no current in the lake to carry it from the shore. Beyond a doubt, it had been stolen. Don would not have felt the loss more keenly if the thief had taken his fine sail-boat. The canoe was almost as old as he was, and in it he and Bert had taken their first ride on the lake and captured their first wounded duck.
“It's gone,” said Don, after he and Bert had looked all around the lake as far as their eyes could reach, “and that's all there is of it. But we'll not give up our trip. We'll go in the sail-boat.”
The sail-boat had been dismantled, and the masts, sails, rudder and everything else belonging to her had been stored in the shop under cover. While Bert was gone after the oars, Don drew the boat up to the jetty, and having stowed the guns away in the stow-sheets, he got in himself and took another survey of the lake to make sure that the canoe was nowhere in sight. It was hard to give it up as lost.
Bert came back in a few minutes, and having shipped the oars shoved off and pulled down the lake. A quarter of an hour afterward they landed on the beach in front of Godfrey's cabin. They found David wandering listlessly about in the back yard with his hands in his pockets; and when he came up to the fence in response to their call, they saw that he had been crying again.
“David,” exclaimed Don, putting his hand into his pocket, “we've got news for you that will make you wear a different looking face when you hear it. After you went home, we rode down to see father, and he told us—Eh!” cried Don, turning quickly toward his brother, who just then gave his arm a sly pinch.
“Let me tell it,” said Bert. “We'd like to see you at our house this evening about five o'clock; can you come?”
“I reckon I can,” answered David. “Was that the good news you wanted to tell me?”
“No—I believe—yes, it was,” said Don, who received another fearful pinch on the arm and saw his brother looking at him in a very significant way. “You come up, anyhow.”
“We've got some work for you to do up there,” said Bert. “It will not pay you much at first, but perhaps you can make something out of it by-and-by. It will keep you busy for two or three weeks, perhaps longer. Will you come?”
David replied that he would, and turned away with an expression of surprise and disappointment on his face. The eager, almost excited manner in which Don greeted him, led him to hope that he had something very pleasant and encouraging to tell, and somehow he couldn't help thinking that his visitors had not said just what they intended to say when they first came up to the fence.
“What in the name of sense and Tom Walker was the matter with you, Bert?” demanded Don, as soon as the two were out of David's hearing. “My arm is all black and blue, I know!”
“I didn't want you to say too much,” was Bert's reply, “and I didn't know any other way to stop your talking. There was a listener close by.”
“A listener! Who was it?”
“David's brother. Just as you began speaking I happened to look toward the cabin, and saw through the cracks between the logs that the window on the other side was open. Close to one of those cracks, and directly in line with the window, was a head. I knew it was Dan's head the moment I saw it.”
“Aha!” exclaimed Don. “He had his trouble for his pains this time, hadn't he? Or, rather, he had the trouble and I had the pain,” he added, rubbing his arm.
Bert laughed and said he thought that was about the way the matter stood.
Many times during his life had David had good reason to be discouraged, but he had never been so strongly tempted to give up trying altogether and settle down into a professional vagabond, as he was when he left General Gordon's barn and turned his face toward home. He had relied upon Don to show him a way out of his trouble, but his friend had not helped him at all; he had only made matters worse by telling him more bad news. Nothing seemed to go right with him. There was Dan, who never did anything, and yet he was better off in the world and seemed to be just as happy as David, who was always striving to better his condition and continually on the lookout for a chance to earn a dollar or two. Why should he not stop work and let things take their own course, as his brother did? He reached home while he was revolving this question in his mind, and the first person he saw when he climbed the fence and walked toward the shingle-pile to resume work upon his traps, was his brother Dan.
“Whar you been an' what you been a doin' of?” demanded the latter, as if he had a right to know.
“I've been over to Don's house,” answered David; “and while I was there I found out that you and father borrowed my ten dollars.”
“'Tain't so nuther,” cried Dan, trying to look surprised and indignant.
“I believe everything Don and Bert tell me. They have never lied to me and you have.”
“Whoop!” yelled Dan, jumping up and knocking his heels together.
“I mean every word of it,” said David, firmly. “You have got me into a tight scrape, but I'll work out of it somehow. And let me tell you one thing, Dan; you'll never have a chance to steal any more of my money.”
“Then why don't you divide it like a feller had oughter do?” asked Dan, angrily.
“Why don't you divide with mother and me when you have some?”
“Kase I work hard for it an' it b'longs to me; that's why.” And knowing by his past experience that he could not hold his own in an argument with his brother, Dan turned about and went into the house.
David worked faithfully at his traps, paying no further heed to his brother's movements. He tried to keep his mind on what he was doing, but now and then the recollection of the heavy loss he had sustained would come back to him with overwhelming force and the tears would start to his eyes in spite of all he could do to prevent it. Then he would throw down his hammer and wander about with his hands in his pockets, wondering what was the use of trying to do anything or be anybody while things were working so strongly against him.
It was during one of these idle periods that Don and Bert came up. David's hopes arose immediately when he caught sight of Don's smiling face, for he was sure that he was about to hear something encouraging. Indeed, Don's first words confirmed this impression; but it turned out that they had come there simply to offer him work that would keep him busy for two or three weeks. Of course David wanted work, but just then he wanted money more. He wanted to pay that grocery bill, so that he could look Silas Jones in the face the next time he met him.
When the brothers got into their boat and rowed away, David went back to his traps, while Dan, who had been disappointed in his hopes of hearing some private conversation between the visitors and his brother, shouldered his rifle and disappeared in the woods.
David worked away industriously until the sun told him that it was nearly four o'clock, and then he put on his coat and started off to keep his appointment with Don and Bert. He found them waiting for him at the General's barn, and he was not a little surprised when they seized him by the arms and pulled him into the carpenter-shop, the door of which they were careful to close and lock behind them.
“Now I know we can talk without danger of being overheard,” exclaimed Don. “We've got lots to tell you; but in the first place,” he added, opening his pocket-book, “there's your money.”
The expression of joy and surprise that came upon David's face as he hesitatingly, almost reluctantly, took the crisp, new bill that was held toward him, amply repaid Don for the loss of the pleasure he had expected to derive in spending the money for Christmas presents.
“Why, I understood you to say that father and Dan had drawn this money,” said he, as soon as he could speak.
“So they did, but my father says the loss is mine and not yours.”
David drew a long breath. He understood the matter now. “It isn't fair that you should pay it twice,” said he.
“I haven't paid it twice; that is, I haven't paid you at all. It's all right, David, you may depend upon it. They'll never fool us again. If I should ever have any more of your money, nobody could get it except yourself.”
“Or mother,” added David.
“O, of course. I wouldn't be afraid to trust her.”
“I was in hopes that you would have a good deal of my money in your hands some day,” continued David. “I was going to ask you to keep my hundred and fifty dollars for me; but I don't know now whether I shall ever get it or not.”
“Of course you'll get it,” exclaimed Bert. “You are not going to give up the idea of trapping the quails, are you?”
“No, but I don't know that I shall make anything at it, for Dan and Lester can break up my traps faster than I can make them.”
“Well, they'll not break up a single one of your traps, because——”
Here Don began and hurriedly repeated the conversation which he and Bert had had with their father a few hours before. As David listened the look of trouble his face had worn all that day gradually faded away, and the old happy smile took its place. His confidence in his friends had not been misplaced; Dan and Lester Brigham were to be outwitted after all.
The traps and the “figure fours” with which they were to be set, could be built there in the shop, Don said. There were tools and a bench and everything else needful close at hand, so that the work could be done in half the time that David had expected to devote to it. As fast as the traps were completed they were to be set in General Gordon's fields. They would be safe there and Dan Evans or Lester Brigham or anybody else who came near them, would be likely to get himself into trouble. The negroes were always at work in the fields in the daytime, and if they were told to keep their eyes open and report any outsiders who might be seen prowling about the fences, they would be sure to do it. The best course David could pursue would be to say nothing more about trapping the quails. Let Dan believe that he had become discouraged and given up the enterprise. If he wanted to know what it was that took his brother over to General Gordon's house so regularly, David could tell him that he was doing some work there, which would be the truth; and besides it would be all Dan had any right to know.
As fast as the birds were caught, they could be locked up in one of the empty negro cabins; and any one who found out that they were there and tried to steal them, would run the risk of being caught by Don's hounds. It was a splendid plan, taken altogether, and David's eyes fairly glistened while it was unfolded to him. He thanked the brothers over and over again for their kindness and the interest they took in his success, and might have kept on thanking them if Don had not interrupted him with—
“O, that's all understood. Now, before you begin work on those traps we want you to help us one day. We've had a good deal of excitement and some good luck since we last saw you. We have recovered my canoe, which somebody stole from me, and we have found out that there is a bear living on Bruin's Island.”
“He must be a monster, too, for such growls I never heard before,” said Bert.
“Didn't you see him?” asked David.
“No. We landed to explore the island, and while we were going through the cane he growled at us, and we took the hint and left. We didn't have a single load of heavy shot with us. We're going up there to-morrow, and we want you to go with us. We'll go fixed for him, too. We'll have a couple of good dogs with us; I'll take my rifle; Bert will take father's heavy gun; and we'd like to have you take your single-barrel. If he gets a bullet and three loads of buckshot in his head, he'll not growl at us any more. If we don't get a chance to shoot him, we'll build a trap and catch him alive the next time he comes to the island. Will you go?”
Of course David would go. He would have gone anywhere that Don told him to go. He promised to be at the barn at an early hour the next morning, and then showed a desire to leave the shop; so Don unlocked the door, and David hurried out and turned his face toward the landing. He had money now, and that grocery bill should not trouble him any longer.
“If there ever was a lucky boy in the world I am the one,” thought David, whose spirits were elevated in the same ratio in which they had before been depressed. “I'll earn my hundred and fifty dollars now, and mother shall have her nice things in spite of Dan and Lester. It isn't every fellow who has such friends as Don and Bert Gordon. But I shall have a hard time of it, anyhow. Dan will be so mad when he finds out that he can't ruin me, that he will do something desperate.”
David, however, did not waste much time in thinking of the troubles that might come in the future. He preferred to think about pleasanter things. He was so wholly engrossed with his plans that it seemed to him that he was not more than five minutes in reaching the landing. There was no one in the street, and nothing there worth looking at, except General Gordon's white horse, which was hitched to a post in front of Silas Jones's store. As David approached, the General himself came out, accompanied by the grocer, who was as polite and attentive to his rich customers as he was indifferent to the poor ones.
“Ah, David!” exclaimed the General, extending his hand; “how are times now? Business looking up any?”
“Y-yes, sir,” stammered the boy, who could scarcely speak at all. He was not abashed by the rich man's presence, for he had learned to expect a friendly nod or a cordial grasp of the hand every time he met him; but he was very much astonished by the greeting which Silas Jones extended to him. No sooner had the General released David's hand than it was seized by the grocer, who appeared to be as glad to see him as though he knew that the boy had come there to buy a bill of goods worth hundreds of dollars.
“It never does any good to give away to our gloomy feelings,” said the General. “There are many times when things don't go just as we would like to have them, but the day always follows the night, and a little perseverance sometimes works wonders.”
David understood what the General meant, but it was plain that the grocer did not, for he looked both bewildered and surprised. He bowed to his rich customer, as he rode off, and then, turning to David, conducted him into the store with a great deal of ceremony.
“Mr. Jones,” said David, who began to think that the grocer must have taken leave of his senses, “I have come here to settle father's bill.”
“O, that's all right,” was the smiling reply. “It isn't fair that I should hold you responsible for that debt, and I have concluded that I will not do it. Your father will pay me some time, perhaps, and if he doesn't, I'll let it go. The loss of it won't break me. Can I do anything for you this evening?”
David was more astonished than ever. Was this the man who had spoken so harshly to him no longer ago than that very morning? What had happened to work so great a change in him? It was the General's visit that did it. When Don and Bert left their father, after holding that short consultation with him in the field, the latter took a few minutes to think the matter over, and when his hands had finished their work, he mounted his horse and rode down to the landing, to have a talk with Mr. Jones. What passed between them no one ever knew, but it was noticed that from that day forward, whenever David came into the store to trade, he was treated with as much respect as he would have been had he been known to have his pockets full of money.
“Want anything in my line this evening?” continued the grocer, rubbing his hands; “a hat or a pair of shoes and stockings for yourself, a nice warm dress for mother, or——”
“O, I want a good many things,” replied David, “but I shall have only two dollars left after your bill is paid, and that must keep us in groceries for at least a month—perhaps longer.”
To David's great amazement, the merchant replied: “Your credit is good for six months. As for your father's debt, I wouldn't let you pay it if you were made of money. Better take home some tea, coffee and sugar with you, hadn't you? It is always a good plan to replenish before you get entirely out, you know.”
“O, we were out long ago,” said David, who could not help smiling at the mistake Silas made in supposing that tea, coffee and sugar appeared on his mother's table every day. “We haven't had any in our house for almost a month.”
“Is that so?” exclaimed the grocer, “Then I'll put up some for you, and lend you a basket to carry it home in.”
David leaned upon the counter and began a little problem in mental arithmetic, with the view of ascertaining how much of his money it would take to keep his mother supplied with the luxuries the grocer had mentioned for one month, and how much he would have left to invest in clothing for her; but before the problem was solved the grocer had placed three neat packages, good-sized ones, too, on the counter, and was looking for a basket to put them in.
“Now, then,” said he, briskly, “what next? A dress for mother or a pair of shoes for yourself? The mornings are getting to be pretty cold now, and you can't run around barefooted much longer. Ah, Dan! how do you do?”
David looked up and was surprised to see his brother standing by his side. He was surprised, too, to notice that the grocer greeted him almost as cordially as he had greeted himself but a few minutes before. David was not glad that he was there, for the expression on Dan's face told him that he had seen and heard more than he had any business to know. David made haste to finish his trading after that, and when he had purchased a dress and a pair of shoes for his mother, and a pair of shoes and stockings for himself, he handed out his ten-dollar bill in payment. Dan's eyes seemed ready to start from their sockets at the sight of it.
“Never mind that, now,” said the grocer, pushing it back. “Perhaps you will need it some day and I can wait six months, if you are not ready to settle up before.”
Dan's eyes opened still wider, and when his brother, after thanking the grocer for his kindness and confidence, gathered up his purchases and left the store, he followed slowly after him, so wholly lost in wonder that he never recollected that he had six dollars in his own pocket, and that he had come there to spend the best part of five of it. He walked along at a little distance behind his brother, looking thoughtfully at the ground all the while, as if he were revolving some perplexing question in his mind, and then quickened his pace to overtake him.
“Le' me carry some of them things,” said he, as he came up with David.
“No, I thank you,” replied the latter, who knew that Dan never would have offered to help him, if he had not hoped to gain something by it. “I can get along very well by myself. The load is not a heavy one.”
“You're an amazin' lucky feller, Davy,” continued Dan. “What you been a doin' to Silas, to make him speak so kind to us poor folks?”
“I haven't done anything to him. I don't know how to account for it, any more than you do.”
“What's the matter, now? Forgot something?” asked Dan, as his brother suddenly stopped and looked toward the landing, as if he had half a mind to turn around and go back there.
Yes, David had forgotten something, and it was very important too, he thought. He knew that Dan was always on the lookout for a chance to make a penny without work, and David was afraid that he might be tempted to repeat the trick which he and his father had played upon Don and Bert with so much success.
It would be a very easy matter for Dan to make up some plausible story to tell the grocer, and perhaps on the strength of his brother's almost unlimited credit, he might be able to obtain a few little articles of which he stood in need. David had never thought to put Silas on his guard.
“I'll hold them things fur you, if you want to run back thar,” said Dan, reaching out his hand for the basket.
“No, I'll let it go until the next time I come down,” answered David. “A day or two will not make much difference.”
“Whar did you get them ten dollars, any how?” asked Dan, as the two once more turned their faces homeward.
“That's the money you tried to cheat me out of,” replied his brother. “Don says the loss was his and not mine.”
“Did he give you ten dollars more?” exclaimed Dan.
“Not ten dollars more, for this is the first he has given me. You and father got what I ought to have had.”
“An' you never spent none on it, did you? I seen Silas shove it back to you.”
“Yes, I've got it safe in my pocket. I'm going to keep it, too.”
“Wal, I'll bet a hoss you don't,” was Dan's mental reflection. “I'd oughter have some on it, an' if you don't give it to me without my axin' you, I'll have it all. I'm the man of the house now, an' it's the properest thing that I should have the handlin' of all the money that comes in.”
Of course Dan was much too smart to say this aloud. He knew that any threats from him would put his brother on his guard, and then he might whistle for the ten dollars. He said no more, and the two walked along in silence until they came to General Gordon's barn. Just as David was going into it, he met Lester Brigham riding out of it. Lester scowled down at him, but David did not scowl back. He was quite willing to forget that they had ever had any difficulty and to be friendly with Lester, if the latter wanted him to be. It is probable, however, that he would have had different feelings, if he had known what it was that brought Lester over to Don's house.
David, as we have said, turned into the barn, and Dan, who had more than his share of curiosity, would have given almost anything he possessed to know what business he had there; but he could not go in to see, for he dared not face Don and Bert after what he had done, so he kept on toward home.
David deposited his basket and bundles on the steps that led to the loft, and making his way around the north wing of the house, knocked at the door, which was presently opened by Bert. David asked if Don was in, and receiving an affirmative reply, was ushered into the library, where his friend, wearied with his day's exercise, was taking his ease on the sofa, which had been drawn up in front of a cheerful wood fire. David declined to accept the chair which Bert placed for him, and opened his business at once.
“Don,” said he, “would you be willing to take that money you gave me and keep it until I call for it?”
“Of course I would,” replied Don, readily. “You haven't paid that grocery bill, then? Well, I wouldn't either. You are not responsible for it.”
“I offered to pay it, but Mr. Jones wouldn't take the money. He says my credit is good for six months.”
“Why, what has come over him all of a sudden?” said Don, who did not know that his father had had an interview with Silas that very day.
“I wish I knew. There's the money, and you won't let anybody have it, except mother or me, will you?”
“You may be sure that I will take good care of it this time. Don't forget that bear hunt, tomorrow.”
“No. I'll be on hand bright and early. Good-by.”
David hurried out, and picking up the basket and bundles he had left in the barn, started for home. When he got there, he was surprised to see that Dan was at work. He had pulled off his coat, rolled up his sleeves and with a frow and mallet in his hands, was busy splitting out shingles. David said nothing to him, but went into the house to put away the tea, coffee and sugar and place the articles he had bought for his mother in a conspicuous position, so that she would be sure to see them, the moment she entered the door. While he was thus engaged, Dan came in smiling, and trying to look good-natured. David was on his guard at once.
“I'll tell you what I've made up my mind to do by you, Davy,” said Dan, “an' when you hear what it is, if you don't say I'm the best brother you ever had, I want to know what's the reason why. I ain't goin' agin you like I told you I was.”
“I am very glad to hear it,” said David.
“No, I ain't. I'm goin' to be pardners with you, an' I'm goin' to give you half the money we make outen them quail. I'll give you half what I've got hid away, too.”
“I have no claim upon that,” replied David. “It belongs to Don Gordon, and if you are honest you'll give him every cent of it.”
“I can't do it,” said Dan. “Kase why, I give pap three an' a half of it, an' spent six bits myself.”
“Then give him what you have, and tell him that you will hand him the rest as soon as you can earn it.”
“Not by no means, I won't,” said Dan, quickly. “Ten dollars ain't nothing to him.”
“That makes no difference. It is his, and he ought to have it.”
“Wal, I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll pay him outen them fifty dollars we're goin' to get fur them quail. An', Davy, if you'll give me the money you've got in your pocket, I'll hide it with mine whar nobody can't find it, and then it'll be safe.”
“It is safe now.”
“But if I go halves with you, you had oughter go halves with me. Let's go out to them traps agin, and we kin talk it over while we're workin'.”
“I am not going to do anything more with those traps.”
“You hain't give it up, have you? You ain't goin' to let them fifty dollars slip through your fingers, be you?”
“What encouragement have I to do anything after what you said this morning? I have made other arrangements. I am going to work over at the General's.”
David expected that his brother would be very angry when he heard this, but if he was, he did not show it. He looked steadily at David for a moment and then turned and walked around the corner of the cabin out of sight.
“That's a purty way he's got of doin' business, I do think. He's a trifle the meanest feller I ever seed, Dave is, an' if I don't pay him fur it afore he's a great many weeks older, I'll just play myself out a tryin'. If me an' him works together we kin get them fifty dollars as easy as fallin' off a log; but he can't arn 'em by hisself, an' he shan't, nuther.”
This was the way Dan Evans talked to himself, as he trudged through the woods with his rifle on his shoulder, after his unsuccessful attempt to overhear what passed between his brother and Don and Bert Gordon; or, rather, after his failure to find out what it was that brought Don and Bert to the cabin. Hedidoverhear what passed between them, but he did not learn anything by it. Of course that made him angry. A good many things had happened that day to make him angry, and he had gone off in the woods by himself to think and plan vengeance.
“Bein' the man of the house I've got more right to them fifty dollars nor Dave has,” thought Dan, “an' if he don't give me half of 'em, he shan't see a cent of 'em hisself. Wouldn't I look nice loafin' around in these yere clothes while Dave was dressed up like a gentleman an' takin' his ease? I'll bust up them traps of his'n faster'n he kin make 'em. I'll show him that I'm the boss of this house now that pap's away, no matter if them Gordon fellers is a backin' on him up. I've larned a heap by listenin'. I heard Dave tell the ole woman that he's goin' to make three dollars a dozen outen them quail. I didn't larn nothing this arternoon, howsomever. Them fellers must a seed me lookin' through the cracks, kase they didn't tell him what they was agoin' to tell him when they fust come up to the fence.”
Dan walked about for an hour or more, talking in this way to himself. The squirrels frisked and barked all around him, but he did not seem to hear them. He was so busy thinking over his troubles that he scarcely knew where he was going, until at last he found himself standing on the banks of a sluggish bayou that ran through the swamp. The stream was wide and deep, and near the middle of it and opposite the spot where Dan stood, was a little island thickly covered with briers and cane. It was known among the settlers as Bruin's Island. Dan knew the place well. Many a fine string of goggle-eyes had he caught at the foot of the huge sycamore which grew at the lower end of the island, and leaned over the water until its long branches almost touched the trees on the main shore, and it was here that he had trapped his first beaver. More than that, the island had been a place of refuge for his father during the war. He retreated to it on the night the levee was blown up by the Union soldiers, and spent the most of his time there until all danger of capture was past.
When Dan appeared upon the bank of the bayou a dark object, which was crouching at the water's edge near the foot of the sycamore, suddenly sprang up and glided into the bushes out of sight. Its movements were quick and noiseless, but still they did not escape the notice of Dan, who dropped on the instant and hid behind a fallen log that happened to be close at hand. He did not have time to take a good look at the object, but he saw enough of it to frighten him thoroughly. He thrust his cocked rifle cautiously over the log, directing the muzzle toward the sycamore, but his hand was unsteady and his face was as white as a sheet.
“Looked to me like a man,” thought Dan, trembling in every limb, “but in course it couldn't be; so it's one of them haunts what lives in the General's lane.”
Dan kept his gaze directed across the bayou, and could scarcely restrain himself from jumping up and taking to his heels when he saw a head, covered with a torn and faded hat, raised slowly and cautiously above the leaning trunk of the sycamore. It remained motionless for a moment and Dan's eyes were sharp enough to see that there was a face below the hat—a tanned and weather-beaten face, the lower portion of which was concealed by thick, bushy whiskers. As Dan looked his eyes began to dilate, his mouth came open, and the butt of his rifle was gradually lowered until the muzzle pointed toward the clouds. He was sure he saw something familiar about the face, but the sight of it was most unexpected, and so was the sound of the voice which reached his ears a moment later.
“Dannie!” came the hail, in subdued tones, as if the speaker were afraid of being overheard by some one besides the boy whom he was addressing.
“Pap!” cried Dan.
Dan Recognizes his Father.
As he spoke he arose from his concealment, and the man on the other side of the bayou—Dan was pretty certain now that it was a man—stepped out into view, disclosing the well-known form and features of Godfrey Evans. Dan could hardly believe his eyes, and even Godfrey seemed a little doubtful.
“Is that you, Dannie?” asked the latter.
“You're just a shoutin',” was the reply.
“Nobody ain't thar with you, I reckon,” said Godfrey.
“No, I'm all by myself. But be you sartin that's you, pap?”
“In course I am, an' I've been a waitin' an' a watchin' fur yer. I'll bring you over. You're an ongrateful an' ondutiful boy to leave your poor ole pap, what's fit the Yankees an' worked so hard to bring you up like a gentleman's son had oughter be brung up, out here in the cane so long all by hisself.”
“Why, pap, I didn't know you was here,” said Dan.
Godfrey walked briskly along the shore until he reached a little thicket of bushes into which he plunged out of sight. He appeared again almost immediately, dragging behind him a small lead-colored canoe which Dan recognized the moment he saw it. It was Don Gordon's canoe, the one he used to pick up his dead and wounded ducks when he was shooting over his decoys. It was a beautiful little craft, and Dan had often wished that he could call it his own. It was one thing that made him hate Don and Bert so cordially, and he had often told himself that when he was ready to carry out the threats he had so often made, that canoe should be one of the first things to suffer. The brothers took altogether too much pleasure in it, and he wouldn't have them rowing about the lake enjoying themselves while he was obliged to stay ashore. The sight of it satisfied him that the man on the opposite bank was his father, and nobody else. If he had been a “haunt” he would not have needed a canoe to carry him across the bayou.
Having placed the canoe in the water Godfrey went back into the cane after the oars—the little craft was provided with rowlocks and propelled by oars instead of paddles—and in a few seconds more he was on Dan's side of the bayou. The moment the canoe touched the bank he sprang out, and if one might judge by the cordial manner in which father and son greeted each other, they were glad to meet again.
“I didn't never expect to feel your grip no more, pap,” said Dan, who was the first to speak, “an' I'm ridikilis proud to see you with this yere dug-out. How came you by it, and whar did you git it?”
“I jest took it an' welcome,” answered Godfrey. “I wasn't goin' to swim over to the island every time I wanted to go there, was I?”
“In course not. I'm scandalous glad you tuk it; an' now I'll have a ride in it, an' no thanks to Don Gordon nuther. Been a livin' here ever since you've been gone?” added Dan, as he stepped into the boat and picked up the oars.
“Yes, an' I've been a lookin' fur you every day. Seems to me you might a knowed where to find me, kase here's whar I hung out when the Yanks was in the country. Hear anything about me, in the settlement?”
“Yes, lots. Silas Jones has done been to Dave fur them eight dollars you owe him.”
“Much good may they do him, when he gets 'em,” said Godfrey, snapping his fingers in the air.
“Dave's goin' to pay the bill,” added Dan. “I done heard him say so.”
“The ongrateful an' ondutiful scamp!” exclaimed Godfrey. “If he's got that much money, why don't he give it to me, like he had oughter do? I need it more'n Silas does. Hear anything else, Dannie?”
“Yes; General Gordon says, why don't you come home an' go 'have yourself? Nobody wouldn't pester you.”
“Does you see anything green in these yere eyes?” asked Godfrey, looking steadily at Dan. “That would do to tell some folks, but a man what's fit the Yanks ain't so easy fooled. I'm safe here, an' here I'll stay, till——Hear anything else, Dannie—anything 'bout them two city chaps, Clarence an' Marsh Gordon?”
“O, they've gone home long ago.”
“You didn't hear nothing about them gettin' into a furse afore they went, did you?”
“Course I have. Everybody knows that you an' Clarence thought Don was ole Jordan an' shet him up in the tater-hole.”
“An' sarved him right, too,” exclaimed Godfrey. “I reckon he's well paid fur cheatin' me outen that chance of making eighty thousand dollars. I heard Clarence was robbed afore he went away,” added Godfrey, at the same time turning away his head and looking at Dan out of the corner of his eyes.
“I didn't hear nothing about that,” said Dan.
Godfrey drew a long breath of relief. Ever since he took up his abode on the island he had been torturing himself with the belief that the robbery of which he was guilty was the talk of the settlement, and that he would be arrested for at if he should ever show himself at the landing again. He breathed much easier to know that his fears on this score were groundless.
“Hear anything else, Dannie?” asked Godfrey, and his voice was so cheerful and animated that the boy looked at him in amazement. “What's Dave an' the ole woman doin'?”
“That thar Dave is goin' to git rich, dog-gone it,” replied Dan, in great disgust. “He got a letter from some feller up North this mornin' tellin' him if he would trap fifty dozen live quail fur him, he'd pay him so't he could make three dollars a dozen on 'em. I seed Don give him the letter, an' I heard 'em a talkin' and a laughin' about it.”
“That's what makes me 'spise them Gordons so,” said Godfrey, slapping the side of the canoe with his open hand. “They're all the time a boostin' Dave, an' me and you could starve fur all they keer. Now jump out, an' we'll go up to my house an' talk about it. We'll leave the boat here, so't it will be handy when you want to go back.”
As Godfrey spoke the bow of the canoe ran deep into the soft mud which formed the beach on that side of the island, and the father and son sprang out. Godfrey led the way along a narrow, winding path which ran through the cane, and after a few minutes walking ushered Dan into an open space in the centre of the island. Here stood the little bark lean-to that he called his house. The cane had been cleared away from a spot about fifteen feet square, and piled up around the outside, so that it looked like a little breastwork.
The lean-to was not a very imposing structure—Godfrey would much rather sit in the sun and smoke his pipe then expend any of his strength in providing for his comfort—but it was large enough to shelter one man, and with a few more pieces of bark on the roof and a roaring fire in front, it might have been made a very pleasant and inviting camp. Just now, however, it looked cheerless enough. There was a little armful of leaves under the roof of the lean-to and there was a block of wood beside the fire-place, the position of which was pointed out by a bed of ashes and cinders. The leaves served for a bed and the block of wood for a chair; and they were all the “furniture” that was to be seen about the camp. But Godfrey was very well satisfied with his surroundings and Dan was delighted with them. It must be splendid, he thought, to live there all by one's self with nothing to worry over and no work to do. It was not even necessary that Godfrey should chop wood for the fire, for the upper end of the island was covered with broken logs and branches, and five minutes' work every morning would suffice to provide him with all the fuel he would be likely to burn during the day.
“What a nice place you've got here, pap!” said Dan, when he had taken a hurried survey of the camp.
“I reckon it's about right,” replied Godfrey. “I had this fur a hidin' place while the Yanks was a scoutin' about through the country, an' I come here now kase nobody won't think of lookin' fur me so nigh the settlement. An' they won't stumble onto me afore I know it, nuther. They can't git to me if they come afoot kase the bayou'll stop 'em; an' I never heard of nobody coming up here in a boat. Nothing bothers me 'ceptin' a bar. He comes over every night to feed on the beech-nuts an' acorns, an' some night he'll come fur the last time. I'll jest knock him over, and then I'll have meat enough to last me a month. I build my fire and do my cookin' at night, so't nobody can't see the smoke, an' that's what frightened the bar away afore I could shoot him.”
“I've a notion to come here an' live with you, pap,” said Dan.
“'Twon't be safe,” replied his father, quickly. “If you're missin' from home folks might begin to hunt fur us, an' that's somethin' I don't want 'em to do. 'Sides you must stay in the settlement an' help me. I shall need things from the store now an' then, an' as I can't go and git 'em myself, you'll have to git 'em fur me. But what was you sayin' about Dave?” asked Godfrey, throwing himself down on one of the piles of cane and motioning to Dan to occupy the block of wood.
“I was a sayin' that he's a little the meanest feller I ever seed,” replied Dan, “an' don't you say so too, pap? Kase why, he's goin' to git fifty dollars fur them quail, an' he's goin' to give the money all to the ole woman.”
“An' leave me to freeze an' starve out here in the cane?” exclaimed Godfrey, with a great show of indignation. “Not by no means he won't. If he don't mind what he's about we'll take the hul on it, Dan, me an' you will.”
“Hewon't get none on it, you kin bet high on that,” said Dan. “I told him I was goin' agin him, an' so I am. I'll bust his traps as fast as I kin find 'em, an' I won't do nothin' but hunt fur 'em, day an' night.”
“Now, haint you got no sense at all?” cried his father, so fiercely that Dan jumped up and turned his face toward the path, as if he were on the point of taking to his heels.
“Wal, I wanted to go pardners with him an' he wouldn't le' me,” protested Dan.
“What's the odds? Set down thar an' listen while somebody what knows somethin' talks to you. What odds does it make to you if he won't go pardners with you?”
“Kase I want some of the money; that's the odds it makes to me.”
“Wal, you kin have it, an' you needn't do no work, nuther. I'm Dave's pap an' your'n too, an' knows what's best fur all of us. You jest keep still an' let Dave go on an' ketch the birds; an' when he's ketched 'em an' got the money in his pocket, then I'll tell you what else to do. Le' me see: fifty dozen birds at three dollars a dozen! That's—that's jest——”
Godfrey straightened up, locked his fingers together, rested his elbows on his knees and looked down at the pile of ashes in the fire-place.
“It's a heap of money, the fust thing you know,” said Dan. “It's fifty dollars. Dave told me so.”
“Fifty gran'mothers!” exclaimed Godfrey. “Dave done said that jest to make a fule of you. It would be fifty dollars if he got only a dollar a dozen. If he got two it would be a hundred dollars, an' if he got three, it would be——”
Godfrey stopped, believing that he must have made a mistake somewhere, and stared at Dan as if he were utterly bewildered. Dan returned the stare with interest. “A hundred dollars!” he repeated, slowly. “That thar Dave of our'n goin' to make a hundred dollars all by hisself! Some on it's mine.”
“It's more'n that, Dannie,” said Godfrey, who, as soon as he could settle his mind to the task, went over his calculations again, adding the astounding statement—
“An' if he gets three dollars a dozen, he'll get a hundred an' fifty dollars for the lot.”
Dan's astonishment was so great that for a few seconds he could not speak, and even his father looked puzzled and amazed. He was certain that he had made no mistake in his mental arithmetic this time, and the magnitude of David's prospective earnings fairly staggered him. It made him angry to think of it.
“The idee of that triflin' leetle Dave's makin' so much money,” he exclaimed, in great disgust; “an' here's me, who has worked an' slaved fur a hul lifetime, an' I've got jest twenty dollars.”
“Eh?” cried Dan.
Godfrey was frightened at what he had said, but he could not recall it without exciting Dan's suspicions; so he put on a bold face and continued:—
“Yes, I've got that much, an' I worked hard fur it, too. But a hundred an' fifty dollars! We must have that when it's 'arned, Dannie.”
“The hul on it?”
“Every cent. I'm Dave's pap, an' the law gives me the right to his 'arnin's, an' yours, too, until you's both twenty-one years ole. Now, Dannie, I've done a power of hard thinkin' since I've been here on this island, an' I've got some idees in my head that will make you look wild when you hear 'em. I didn't know jest how to carry 'em out afore, but I do now. These yere hundred an' fifty dollars will keep us movin' till we kin find them eighty thousand.”
“Be you goin' to look fur them agin, pap?”
“No, I hain't, but you be.”
“Not much, I ain't,” replied Dan, emphatically.
“Who's to do it, then?” demanded his father. “I can't, kase I'm afeared to go into the settlement even at night. You hain't goin' to give up the money, be you? Then what'll become of your circus-hoss, an' your painted boats, an' your fine guns what break in two in the middle?”
“I don't keer,” answered Dan, doggedly. “I wouldn't go into that tater-patch alone, arter dark; if I knowed it was chuck full of yaller gold an' silver pieces.”
The savage scowl that settled on Godfrey's face, as he listened to these words, brought Dan to his feet again in great haste. The man was fully as angry as he looked, and it is possible he might have said or done something not altogether to Dan's liking, had it not been for an unlooked-for interruption that occurred just then. Godfrey had raised his hand in the air to give emphasis to some remark he was about to make, when he was checked by a slight splashing in the water, accompanied by the measured clatter of oars, as they were moved back and forth in the row-locks. This was followed by a clear, ringing laugh, which Godfrey and his son could have recognized anywhere, and a cheery voice said:—
“I'm getting tired. It is time for me to stop and rest when I begin to catch crabs.”
There was a boat in the bayou, and Don and Bert Gordon were in it. They were so close at hand, too, that flight was impossible.
“I don't think there's much difference between riding on horseback and rowing in a boat, as far as the work is concerned,” said the same voice. “I've done about all I can do to-day. There don't seem to be any ducks in the bayou; so we'll stop here and take a breathing spell before we go back.”
“Is thar any place in the wide world a feller could crawl into without bein' pestered by them two oneasy chaps?” whispered Dan, jumping up from his block of wood and looking all around, as if he were seeking a way of escape.
“Not a word out of you,” replied Godfrey, shaking his fist at his son.
Following Godfrey's example, Dan threw himself behind one of the piles of cane, and the two held their breath and listened.
“You're not going to get out, are you, Don?” asked Bert, and as he was not more than four or five rods away, every word he uttered was distinctly heard by the two listeners in the cane.
“I want to stretch my legs a little,” was Don's reply. “Come on, and let's explore the island. You know it used to be a famous bear's den, don't you?”
“I should think I ought to know it, having heard father tell the story of the animal's capture a dozen times or more. He must have been a monster: he was so large and heavy that it was all a span of mules could do to drag him from the shore of the lake, where he was taken out of the boat, up to the house.”
“And didn't he make things lively before he was killed, though?” said Don. “He destroyed nine dogs and wounded two men. I'd like to take part in a hunt like that.”
“Well, I wouldn't. It looks gloomy in the cane, doesn't it? What would we do if we should find a bear in there?”
“I don't know,” answered Don, with a laugh. “Our guns are loaded with small shot, and they would hardly penetrate a bear's thick skin. If he should come at us, I'd be a goner, sure, for I am so stiff I couldn't run to save my life. But I don't think we'll find——Halloo! Bert, just look here!”
A chorus of exclamations followed, and Godfrey and Dan looked at each other and scowled fiercely.
“That's my canoe,” said Don, and they heard the oars rattle as he stepped into it.
“There's no doubt about that,” said Bert, in surprised and delighted tones; “but how came it here?”
“That's the question. The fellow who stole it took it up the bayou and then turned it loose, having no further use for it, or else it got away from him and drifted down here.”
“Who knows but the thief brought it here himself, and that he is on the island now, hidden in the cane?” said Bert, lowering his voice, but still speaking quite loud enough to make himself heard by Godfrey and Dan.
“I hardly think that can be possible,” replied Don. “You see the bow of the canoe was caught on this root; and that makes me think it was brought down by the current and lodged here.”
Godfrey and Dan looked at each other again. They had taken no pains to secure the boat when they left it, and the current had moved it from its place on the bank and was carrying it toward the lake, when it caught on the root where it was discovered by its lawful owner.
“I am glad to get it again,” said Don, “for I don't know what we should have done without it. It is just the thing to chase crippled ducks with. If I could see the man who stole it, I'd give him a piece of my mind, I tell you.”
After that there was a pause in the conversation and the rattling of a chain told Godfrey and Dan that the canoe was being fastened to the stern of the boat in which the brothers had come up the bayou. Then there was more conversation in a subdued tone of voice, and presently a commotion in the cane indicated that Don and Bert were working their way slowly toward the camp. Dan began to tremble and turn white, and his father looked as though he would have been glad to run if he had only known where to go.
“Halloo!” exclaimed Bert, suddenly, “here we are. Come this way, Don. I've found a path.”
“A path!” repeated his brother. “What should make a path through this cane?”
“I don't know, I am sure. What's this? Can you tell a bear track when you see it?”
“Of course I can,” answered Don, and the listeners heard him pushing his way through the cane toward the path in which his brother stood. “But I don't call this a bear track,” he added, after a moment's pause, during which he was closely examining the footprint his brother pointed out to him. “A barefooted man or boy has been along here, and that track was made not more than ten minutes ago. And, Bert,” he continued, in a lower tone, “you were right about that boat after all. Come on, now, and if the thief is here we'll have a look at him.”
“Pap,” whispered Dan, hurriedly, “they're comin' sure's you're livin'. Le's slip around to the other side of the island, easy like, and steal their boats afore they know what is goin' on.”
“We couldn't do it,” replied his father, in the same cautious whisper. “They'd be sure to see us. I'll fix 'em when they come nigh enough. I'd like to shoot 'em both, to pay 'em for findin' my hidin' place.”
“Don't do that, pap,” said Dan, in great alarm. “Here they come, an'—— Laws a massy? What's that?”
As Dan uttered these words, a deep, hoarse, growl, so suddenly and fiercely uttered, that it almost made his hair stand on end, sounded close at his side. Don and Bert heard it, and they were as badly frightened as Dan was.
“What was that, Don?” asked Bert, in an excited whisper. “You heard it, didn't you?”
“I should think so,” was Don's reply, and the words were followed by the clicking of the locks of his gun.
After that came a long pause. Don and Bert waited for the warning growl to be repeated, and stooping down, tried to peer through the cane in front of them, in the hope of obtaining a view of the animal, which had been disturbed by their approach, while Dan, crouching low in his place of concealment, looked first at his father and then glanced timidly about, as if in momentary expectation of seeing something frightful. He could hardly bring himself to believe that the noise, which so greatly terrified him, had been made by his father, but such was the fact.
If there was a person in the world, Godfrey did not want to meet face to face, that person was Don Gordon; and when he first became aware that the boy was close at hand, and that he was about to explore the island, he was greatly alarmed and utterly at a loss how to avoid him. If Don saw him there, of course he would tell of it, and that would set the officers of the law on his track (no evidence that could be produced was strong enough to convince Godfrey, that he had nothing to fear from the officers of the law) and compel him to look for a new hiding-place. The conversation he overheard between the brothers, regarding the capture of the bear, which had so long held possession of the island, brought a bright idea into his mind, and he acted upon it at the right time, too. It was the only thing that saved him from discovery. Don was not afraid of a man, and if he had known that Godfrey was hidden in the cane a few feet in advance of him, he would have walked straight up to him, and accused him of stealing his boat; but he had no desire to face a wild animal alone and unaided, and he was in no condition to do it, either. We say alone and unaided, because Bert would have been of no assistance to him. Bert was a famous shot with his double-barrel, and no boy in the settlement could show more game, after a day spent among the waterfowl, than he could; but he was too timid and excitable to be of any use to one placed in a situation of danger. Even the sight of a deer dashing through the woods, or the whirr of a flock of quails as they unexpectedly arose from the bushes at his feet, would set him to shaking so violently that he could not shoot.
“What do you suppose it was, Don?” asked Bert, and Godfrey did not fail to notice that his voice trembled when he spoke. “Was it a wild cat or a panther?”
“O, no,” replied Don. “One of those animals wouldn't warn us. He'd be down on us before we knew he was about. I wish I had my rifle and the free use of my legs. I'd never leave the island until I had one good pop at him.”
A slight rustling in the cane told the listeners that Don was again advancing slowly along the path. Dan was afraid that he had made up his mind to risk a shot with his double-barrel, and so was Godfrey, who uttered another growl, louder and fiercer than the first, and rattled the cane with his hands. That was too much even for Don's courage; and Bert was frightened almost out of his senses.
“Look out, Don! Look out!” he exclaimed. “He is coming!”
“Let him come,” replied Don, retreating backward along the path.
“Run! run!” entreated Bert.
“That's quite impossible. I'm doing the best I can now. If he shows himself I'll fill his head full of number six shot.”
Godfrey continued to growl and rattle the cane at intervals, but there was no need of it, for Don was quite as anxious to reach his boat and leave the island as Godfrey and Dan were to have him do so. He retreated along the path with all the speed he could command, holding himself ready to make as desperate a fight as he could if circumstances should render it necessary, and presently a rattling of oars and a splashing in the water told the listeners that he and his brother were pushing off and making their way down the bayou. In order to satisfy himself on this point, Godfrey crawled over the pile of cane, behind which he had been concealed and moved quickly, but noiselessly along the path, closely followed by Dan. On reaching the edge of the cane they looked down the stream and saw the brothers twenty rods away in their boat, Bert tugging at the oars as if his life depended on his exertions. The danger of discovery was over for the present, but how were Dan and his father to leave the island now without swimming? Don had taken his canoe away with him.
“If I could have my way with them two fellers they'd never trouble nobody else,” exclaimed Godfrey, shaking his fist at the departing boat. “Whar be I goin' to hide now, I'd like to know?”
“Stay here,” replied Dan, “an' if they come back to pester you, growl 'em off 'n the island like you done this time.”
“An' git a bullet into me fur my pains?” returned his father. “No, sar. Don'll be up here agin in the mornin', sartin, an' he'll have his rifle with him, too; but I won't be here to stand afore it, kase I've seed him shoot too ofter. He kin jest beat the hind sights off'n you, any day in the week.”
“Whoop!” cried Dan, jumping up and knocking his heels together.
“I don't see what bring them two oneasy chaps up here, nohow,” said Godfrey, taking no notice of the boy's threatening attitude. “I never knowed them or anybody else to come up the bayou in a small boat afore, 'ceptin' when that bar was killed here. That was an amazin' smart trick of mine, Dannie. Howsomever, we hain't got no more time to talk. I'm goin' to give you five dollars, Dannie, an' I want you to go to the landin' an' spend it fur me. Get me a pair of shoes—number 'levens, you know—an' two pair stockin's, an' spend the heft of the rest fur tobacker. Then when it comes dark, I want you to get that canoe agin, an' bring it up here with the things you buy at the store.”
“How am I goin' to git the canoe?”
“Take it an' welcome, like I did.”
Dan shrugged his shoulders, and his father, believing from the expression on his face that he was about to refuse to undertake the task, made haste to add:—
“An' when you come, Dannie, I'll tell you how we're goin' to work it to git them hundred and fifty dollars that Dave's goin' to 'arn by trappin' them birds fur that feller up North. I have a right to it, kase I'm his pap: an' when I get it, I'll give you half—that is, if you do right by me while I'm hidin' here. I'll give you half that bar'l, too, when we find it. Then you kin have your circus hoss an' all your other nice things, can't you?” added Godfrey, playfully poking his son in the ribs.
Dan's face relaxed a little, but his father's affected enthusiasm was not as contagious now as it was when the subject of the buried treasure was first brought up for discussion. Godfrey had no intention of renewing his efforts to find the barrel—he could not have been hired to go into that potato-patch after what had happened there—but it was well enough, he thought, to hold it up to Dan as an inducement. Besides, if he could get the boy interested in the matter again, and induce him to prosecute the search, and Dan should, by any accident, stumble upon the barrel, so much the better for himself. The great desire of his life would be attained. He would be rich, and that, too, without work.
“Why can't you steal the canoe yourself?” asked Dan.
“Kase I've got to pack up an' get ready to leave here; that's why. It'll take me from now till the time you come back to get all my traps together.”
Dan hurriedly made a mental inventory of the valuables his father possessed and which he had seen in the camp, and the result showed one rifle, one powder-horn and one bullet-pouch. All Godfrey had besides he carried on his back. It certainly would not take him three or four hours to gather these few articles together.
“Pap's mighty 'feared that he'll do something he can make somebody else do fur him,” thought the boy. “But he needn't think he's goin' to get me into a furse. I ain't agoin' to steal no canoe fur nobody.”
“An' since it's you,” added Godfrey, seeing that Dan did not readily fall in with his plans, “I'll give you a dollar of my hard-'arned money for doin' the job.”
“Wal, now that sounds like business,” exclaimed Dan, brightening up. “Whar's the money, an' how am I goin' to get off'n the island?”
“The money's safe, and I'll bring it to you in a minute,” replied Godfrey. “You stay here till I come back. As fur gettin' acrosst the bayou, that's easy done. Thar's plenty of drift wood at the upper end of the island, an' you kin get on a log an' pole yourself over. When you get home, Dannie, make friends with Dave the fust thing you do, an' tell him you was only foolin' when you said you was goin' agin him. Help him every way you kin, an' when he gits the money we'll show our hands.”
So saying, Godfrey walked down the path out of sight. After a few minutes' absence, he came back and handed Dan the money of which he had spoken, a five-dollar bill to be expended for himself at the store, and a one-dollar bill to pay Dan for stealing the canoe. When Dan had put them both carefully away in his pocket, he went back to the camp after his rifle, and then followed his father through the cane toward the upper end of the island. They found an abundance of drift wood there, and from it selected two small logs of nearly the same size and length. By fastening these together with green withes, a raft was made, which was sufficiently buoyant to carry Dan in safety to the main land. When it was completed, the boy swung his rifle over his shoulder by a piece of stout twine he happened to have in his pocket, and taking the pole his father handed him, pushed off into the stream.
Poling the raft was harder work than rowing the canoe, and Dan's progress was necessarily slow; but he accomplished the journey at last, and after waving his hand to his father, disappeared in the bushes. He took a straight course for the landing and after a little more than an hour's rapid walking, found himself in Silas Jones's store. He was greatly surprised at something he saw when he got there, and so bewildered by it that he forgot all about the money he had in his pocket, and the stockings, shoes and tobacco of which his father stood so much in need. There was David making the most extravagant purchases, and there was Silas bowing and smiling and acting as politely to him as he ever did to his richest customers. If Dan was astonished at this, he was still more astonished, when David threw down a ten-dollar bill and the grocer pushed it back to him with the remark, that his credit was good for six months. Dan could not imagine how David had managed to obtain possession of so much money, and when he found out, as he did when he and his brother were on their way home, he straightway went to work to think up some plan by which he might get it into his own hands. This problem and a bright idea, which suddenly suggested itself to him, occupied his mind during the walk; and shortly after parting from his brother at General Gordon's barn, Dan hit upon a second idea, which made his usually gloomy face brighten wonderfully while he thought about it.
Dan's first duty was to rectify his mistake of the morning, and make his brother understand that he had repented of the determination he had made to work against him, and that he was going to do all he could to assist him. He tried to do this, as we know, but did not succeed, for to his great surprise and sorrow David announced that he was not going to waste any more time in building traps for Dan to break up, and this led the latter to believe that nothing more was to be done toward catching the quails. He walked slowly around the cabin, after a short interview with his brother, and the first thing he saw on which to vent his rage was Don's pointer, which came frisking out of his kennel and wagging his tail by way of greeting, only to be sent yelping back again by a vicious kick from Dan's foot.
“I'm jest a hundred an' fifty dollars outen pocket an' so is pap,” soliloquized Dan, almost ready to cry with vexation when he thought of the magnificent prize which had slipped through his fingers. “A hundred an' fifty dollars! My circus hoss an' fine gun an' straw hat an' shiny boots is all up a holler stump, dog-gone my buttons, an' that thar's jest what's the matter of me. An' what makes it wusser is, I lost 'em by bein' a fule,” added Dan, stamping his bare feet furiously upon the ground.
Just then a lively, cheerful whistle sounded from the inside of the cabin where David was busy arranging his purchases. Things were taking a turn for the better with him now, and he whistled for the same reason that a bird sings—because he was happy.
“If I could only think up some way to make that thar mean Dave feel as bad as I do, how quick I'd jump at it! I wish pap was here. He'd tell me how. He's as jolly as a mud-turtle on a dry log on a sunshiny day, Dave is, while I—— Whoop!” yelled Dan, jumping up and striking his heels together in his rage. “Howsomever, I'll have them ten dollars afore I take a wink of sleep this blessed night——”
Here Dan stopped and looked steadily at the pointer for a few minutes. Then he slapped his knee with his open hand, thrust both arms up to the elbows in his pockets and walked up and down the yard, smiling and shaking his head as if he were thinking about something that afforded him the greatest satisfaction.