“Of course you thought so,” said Harvey, “because nobody else would have done it. However, you are going to get the tent back all right.”
“Hooray!” cried Bob.
“You’re not half so glad as I am,” exclaimed Harvey. “You bet I’m glad we didn’t harm it. It’s safe and sound, and you wouldn’t guess where it is in a hundred years. It’s up in the old haunted house, stuffed away in the garret, under the eaves. We didn’t dare keep it and we didn’t want to destroy it. In fact, we had decided to put it back on the point some day, after we had kept it as long as we wanted to.”
“We’ll set it up again this afternoon,” cried Tom.
“No, you won’t,” answered Harvey, quickly. “We’re going to do that for you, that is, if you will let us. We want to put it up in as good shape as it was before. We’ll feel better about it then, eh, fellows?”
“That’s right,” responded Joe Hinman. And the others nodded assent.
“Now, one thing more,” said Harvey. “You saw what we had in the cave. There were some things that belonged to Spencer, and one of the first things I do to-day will be to go up there and settle up with him. Then I’ll feel as though I was ready to start fair again.
“And now if you fellows will sit down and have some breakfast with us, then we’ll sail up right after it and get the tent and have it up for you just as quick as we can. We can’t do it any too quick to suit us.”
So Tom and Bob seated themselves with their new-found friends. George Baker, who had the fry-pan all heated and a big dish of batter mixed, proceeded to fry a mess of flapjacks, while Joe Hinman poured the coffee. All the old enmity had vanished in a night, and they laughed and joked as they sat about the campfire like friends of long standing.
Then, when they had finished, and had shaken hands once more all around, and Tom and Bob had departed for the Warren cottage to explain their strange absence, and to acquaint the Warrens with the new turn of affairs, Harvey and his crew got sail on theSurpriseand headed up alongshore for the haunted house.
“There,” cried George Warren, as the boys appeared in sight a little later, “didn’t I tell you, mother, not to worry about Tom and Bob? You ought to know them by this time. They know how to take care of themselves.”
“Well, the next time you go off for all night,” exclaimed Mrs. Warren, a little impatiently for her, “I wish you would let me know about it beforehand. I don’t like to have to worry about you, and I can’t help it if you start off in that canoe and don’t come back.”
“I don’t blame you for not liking it,” replied Tom, “and we’ll try not do it again. But we really couldn’t help this. We met with an adventure.”
“What, you didn’t see theEagle, did you?” cried George Warren.
“No, you’re wide of the mark,” laughed Tom. “We’ve given up that hunt for good. No, we had a different sort of an adventure altogether. Where do you suppose we slept last night?”
“With Henry Burns,” said young Joe.
“No.”
“Down on the beach?” said Arthur.
“No.”
“Give it up,” said George.
“Well, you wouldn’t guess in a hundred times trying,” said Tom, “so I’ll tell you. It was in Jack Harvey’s camp.”
“Harvey’s camp!” exclaimed the three brothers, in chorus.
“Yes, sir, Harvey’s camp.”
“I didn’t know they were off on a cruise,” said George. “Oh, I see, you’ve been getting even, have you? And how about the camp? Is it still there? What have you done with that?”
“It’s still down there,” laughed Tom. “We didn’t do anything to it at all. In fact, the crew were all there, and Harvey, too. We stayed there because they invited us. And, what’s more, we have just had breakfast with them all.”
The Warrens stared at Tom in amazement.
“Had breakfast with Harvey and his crew! Oh, say, you fellows, quit fooling now, and tell us where you have been.”
“Well,” said Tom, “listen and we’ll tell you the whole story. We’ve been having our revenge.”
And Tom related the story of the night’s adventures.
Good Mrs. Warren fairly hugged them with delight when they had concluded.
“That’s just splendid,” she cried. “That’s a splendid revenge. That’s the kind that counts for most. But I want to hear Jack Harvey tell the story now. I know you haven’t told half about the rescue. I want to hear him tell how brave you were.”
“He’ll exaggerate it,” said Bob. “He’s our friend, you know, now.”
“Well, I’m glad enough you are all friends,” exclaimed Mrs. Warren. “You must go and tell Henry Burns.”
When Jack Harvey and his crew had returned from the haunted house, and had anchored off the point and had brought the tent ashore, they found assembled there to greet them the entire group of comrades, the Warren boys, Henry Burns, and Tom and Bob.
There was a general hand-shaking all around, and then they all set to work to pitch the tent. It didn’t take long to do it, either, for Tom and Bob had saved the poles that had supported the canvas, and there were hands enough to jump at every rope and bring it taut into place. And everybody went at it in such good spirit, and everybody was so pleased and so willing to lend a hand, that the tent was up in its old place again almost as quick as it had come down.
Then they rushed off in high spirits to the Warren cottage for the camp-kit and the boxes and the blankets and all the camp equipment, and packed it down on their shoulders as fast as they had ever done anything in all their lives.
And Mrs. Warren did hear the story of the rescue from Jack Harvey’s own lips, and was prouder than ever of her boys’ friends, Tom and Bob.
Then, when everything was shipshape, and Harvey and his crew were about to take their departure, he said: “We want all you fellows to come down to-morrow evening and take supper with us, the whole of you. You see, I’ve just got my allowance from the governor, and he’s mighty generous to me, more than I deserve. It comes in just at the right time. You’ll be sure and come, all of you?”
“We’ll be there,” answered Henry Burns.
“Indeed we will,” said young Joe.
“And remember Joe counts for two when it comes to the supper-table,” said George.
“We’ll have enough,” said Harvey.
“We’ll go along with you to your camp,” said Tom, “and get our canoe. That is, unless you’d like to use it awhile,” he added, slyly.
“Not much,” replied Harvey, with a laugh. “I’ve had enough canoeing to last me for a few days. But I’m glad I took that paddle, though, for all the narrow escape I had. It was the best accident I ever had in all my life.”
“Canoeing isn’t always as easy as it looks,” said Bob, as they walked along. “By the way, we haven’t even asked you how you came to upset. It’s because we have had so much else to talk about and think about.”
“Why,” said Harvey, “there isn’t much to tell. I don’t hardly know how it happened, myself. I went to change my position in the canoe, as I was cramped with kneeling in one position so long. I suppose I lost my balance a little, but I was overboard so quick I don’t know, myself, just how it did happen. I must have wrenched myself as I went over, for the minute I tried to swim I felt a pain in my side.”
“That’s the way with a canoe,” said Tom. “It doesn’t always tip over. Moreover it just slides out from under one, without even capsizing at all. That’s usually when one is kneeling or sitting up on a thwart, and the centre of gravity is high in it. When one is low down in a canoe it is rare an accident ever happens. We never have had a bad spill in several years of canoeing, except when we got caught in the storm this summer, and that was because a paddle broke.”
They had now reached the camp, and Tom and Bob launched their canoe and paddled away. They did not return to their own camp, however, but headed down the island. When they had reached the Narrows they carried across into the other bay, and then started down along the shore at a good clip. They were in search of Harvey’s canoe.
Several miles down they found it, lodged gently on a projecting ledge. It was uninjured, beyond a little scraping of paint from the canvas, and they took it in tow and returned to the Narrows. They carried both canoes across, and then, when they had paddled up toward Harvey’s camp a way, they took his canoe up on shore and left it.
That night, when Harvey’s camp was asleep, they paddled down quietly, got the canoe, and towed it out to the yachtSurprise. They lifted it aboard and left it there, for Harvey to find in the morning.
“There’s just as much fun in that kind of a joke, after all, if one only looks at it that way,” said Tom, as they paddled home to bed.
“My! but it seems good to be back in the old tent once more, eh, Tom?” exclaimed Bob, as they turned in.
“Good? Good’s no name for it,” returned his chum. “The Warren cottage is fine, but I like to hear those waves creeping up on the beach as though they were coming clear into the tent. It just puts me to sleep.”
The next moment bore truth to this assertion.
The next afternoon, as the sun was just sinking down through the trees beyond Harvey’s camp, a band of six boys marched along the shore and through the woods, singing as they went. If they had not known every inch of the way as they did know it, a beacon-light on the shore would have guided them.
All afternoon Harvey and his crew had worked, making preparations to receive them. They had gathered wood, lugged water, brought stuff down from the village, brought in the lantern from the yacht to aid in the illumination, and had, indeed, laid themselves out to do honour to their guests.
Harvey extended a hand to welcome them, one by one, as they came up.
“That was a fine joke you played on us last night,” he said, warmly, as Tom and Bob appeared. “If you fellows keep piling it on, you’ll have me buried under a debt of gratitude that I never can attempt to pay.”
“Looks as though you had made a good start at it,” said Bob, pointing to one of the benches, where a huge supply of food lay heaped.
“Well,” replied Harvey, “just watch Joe now. He’s going to give us a treat. If any one knows how to broil a chicken over the coals, it’s Joe.”
Joe, thus distinguished, had raked over a bed of glowing coals, the product of a heap of ship’s timbers, nearly consumed, and was preparing to lay out the aforesaid chickens, split for broiling, upon a big wire broiler.
“There’s half a dozen of them,” said Harvey, “and they’re the best that the island affords. You needn’t be afraid—we didn’t confiscate them, either. We’re all done with that sort of thing.”
“Don’t they smell good!” said young Joe, gleefully.
Soon they had a great dish of the chickens on the table, flanked by a heaping plate of potatoes, baked in ashes, a pot or two of jelly, several loaves of bread, and coffee that filled the woods with fragrance.
Then they fell to and ate like wolves. If young Joe had any the best of it, it was hard to see,—and nobody cared, anyway, for every one did his level best.
And then, when they had eaten, they sat and sang, roaring away at the top of their lungs, for it was a fair place for noise and no one to be disturbed; only the fish-hawks high in their nests and the seals away out on the ledges to wonder at the unusual disturbance. Then, as the fire blazed, they told stories of fishing, of hunting, of the search for the strange yacht, and a hundred other things, more than ever fascinating, heard under the stars, in the shadow of the woods, in the sight and sound of the sea, by the firelight.
It was a night long to be remembered, although as yet they did not dream of those events soon to happen, which would be far more memorable, and of which this evening by the camp-fire was but the beginning.
It was nearly midnight when the boys came over the hill, and the half-moon was just sinking out of sight. They strolled down past the hotel, whistling a college tune in chorus. The hotel stood out, a big, black, indefinite object in the enveloping darkness, for the lights had been out for nearly two hours, and the guests were supposed to be all abed.
“Hulloa!” exclaimed Henry Burns, pointing to a faint gleam that shone from a basement window. “John Carr has forgotten to put out his lamps in the billiard-room. Old Witham will give him fits when he finds them burning in the morning. Wait a moment, and I’ll just slip in through this window and put them out for him. If the colonel should find them, just as likely as not he would discharge John for wasting five cents’ worth of oil.”
So saying, Henry Burns, with the best of intentions, shoved up the sash and crawled into the billiard-room in the basement.
The boys stood around the window, waiting for him to return, but one and all thrust their heads into the open window as Henry Burns suddenly gave a whistle of surprise.
“Say, fellows,” he called, turning the lights up stronger instead of extinguishing them. “Look what John Carr’s done. He’s left all the balls and cues out, instead of locking them up. Wouldn’t the colonel be furious? I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Old Witham always drives us out of the billiard-room, so we’ll just stop and play one game now and I’ll make it all right with John Carr. He wouldn’t care, and he will be glad enough to have things put to rights, so Witham won’t find them out in the morning.”
George Warren, as the eldest of the brothers, demurred at first. “We’ve been up to enough pranks this summer,” he said, “and we don’t want to get into any more trouble.”
“But we’re not going to do any harm,” persisted Henry Burns. “We’ll only play one game, just for the lark of playing at this time of night, and to get ahead of old Witham; and then we’ll put everything away shipshape and put out the lights, and no harm done.”
It did not take much argument to influence them; and in a moment they were all inside, each equipped with a cue, and engaged in the forbidden game. The time passed faster than they knew, and one o’clock found them there still.
But, late as it was, a most unusual hour for any Southport dweller to be astir and abroad, there were at least three individuals who were not abed and asleep; and with these three we shall have to do in turn.
It so happened on this morning that Squire Brackett had important business that took him across to Cape Revere, on the mainland; and, as no steamer was due to run across till afternoon, and he must be there in the morning, he had arranged to sail over, taking advantage of the ebb-tide, which served strongest shortly after midnight. He was sleepy and surly as he came down the road, but paused a moment in his haste as he caught the gleam of light and heard the sound of subdued voices from the half-opened basement window.
Squire Brackett stole up softly and peered inside.
“Aha!” he exclaimed, under his breath. “So that’s the way the young rascals treat Colonel Witham, is it? I’ll just see about that in the morning. I fancy Colonel Witham will have something to say about this breaking and entering. I’d call him down now and trap them at their game, if it wasn’t that I’d lose a tide and a twenty-dollar bargain by it.”
And the squire tiptoed craftily away, chuckling maliciously to himself at the thought of how he would aid in punishing the boys on the morrow.
The second man of the three who were to figure in the night’s adventure had set out some two hours ago from afar down the island on the obscure western side. If any of the boys had seen him rowing in from a yacht anchored just off shore, had seen him land on the beach and drag his boat well up on it with supreme strength, and had seen him set off through the fields and along the strips of beaches of the coves, if any of the boys had seen all this and had looked carefully into his forbidding face, with its malign, evil expression, it is probable that that boy might and would have seen a striking resemblance to that same individual whom he had seen in flight on a certain evening, and have wondered and feared what business could bring him back to the scene of former danger at this hour.
Not being seen by them, nor by anybody else, the man slunk along, now running, as a clear stretch of field opened up before him, now thrusting his way through clumps of alders, now skirting the shore of some little inlet.
At length he struck fairly across the island, directly toward the very town from which, a few weeks ago, he had made so hurried an exit. Coming finally in view of the hotel, he squatted down in the grass and surveyed the prospect long and carefully before approaching nearer.
Squire Brackett, going on down to the hotel, would not have been so much at ease had he felt the presence of this evil figure, crouching within a few feet of him as he went by, and following stealthily in his footsteps, pausing as he paused, and watching him wonderingly as he peered into the window at the boys.
Now, as the squire went on his way, the man, himself, crawled up to the window and cast a quick glance within.
What he saw clearly startled him, for he had expected to find the hotel in utter darkness. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then quickly drew away from the window.
“So much the better,” he muttered. “They won’t stop me, and if only some one has seen them there they’ll get the blame.”
Stealing around to the second window distant from where the light came, the man took a short piece of iron from a coat pocket and proceeded to pry the window open. Its flimsy lock broke easily under the pressure, and he sprang inside. He may have known where he should find himself, for in the darkness he appeared at home. It was the hotel’s storeroom, and was crowded with a litter of boxes and barrels; loose straw lay in profusion, and a barrel or two of oil stood in one corner.
It was scarce a moment from the time the man had entered till he sprang out again. But now his manner was altered. No longer proceeding with caution, he started on a run for the fields whence he had come, holding his arms hard to his sides as he ran.
Up the long slope of the hill he dashed, breathing hard, rather, it would seem, from some deep excitement than from the exertion. So he went on without interruption for nearly a mile. Had he seemed less beset by some fear that drove him recklessly on, and been more mindful of his road, he might have avoided the third person who was abroad this night, and who now suddenly loomed large in it.
Plunging desperately along through the rough pasture, following an uncertain path as it wound in and among clumps of cedars and alders, the man all at once ran full tilt into another man, or, rather, a large, heavy-set youth, and, clutching at each other, they both fell sprawling upon the ground.
“Hulloa!” exclaimed Jack Harvey, for he it was, “you seem in a confounded hurry, my friend, and that’s something new on this island, I’ll be bound. Why don’t you—” but, as they scrambled up together, Jack Harvey grumbling, but inclined to treat the incident as a rough joke, the man lunged out heavily at him with his fist and struck him full in the face.
Jack Harvey was no coward. He clinched with the man, and they reeled for a moment in a fierce embrace. But the man had muscles of iron, and, nerved to desperation, more than matched Harvey. Presently he threw the youth to the ground, and as Harvey struggled to his feet again he dealt him a blow between the eyes that stretched him flat, and for a moment stunned him.
Before Harvey had regained his feet and collected his senses, the man was off, running harder now than ever.
When Harvey finally stood upright, his first impulse was to set out in pursuit of his mysterious adversary. On second thought he paused a moment to consider the matter.
Who could the stranger be, and where could he be going? There was one thing Jack Harvey did know. He knew every living soul on all the island, man and boy, and this man was not of them. There was not a fisherman along this part of the coast with whom Harvey had not cast a line or raced with his yacht, theSurprise. He had looked the man fair in the face twice in their struggle, and thought for the moment that he had never seen him before.
He had come from some other island, or the mainland, then, and, as was evident, he was in desperate haste to return. He must, then, have a boat, presumably a sailboat, waiting for him, and that boat must be moored somewhere along the western shore of the island. The man’s haste and fear of being delayed argued that he had been up to some bad business, “Thieving at the hotel, perhaps,” said Harvey.
And then Harvey, knowing every bush and tree and nook and corner, and every rock and cove on all the shores of the island, ran over quickly in his mind the inlets along the coast, to pick out the most likely spot he knew of where a man might choose to moor his yacht and steal ashore; and the proof of his accurate knowledge was that the mental picture he drew of the place was that very cove toward which the stranger was now travelling, and where there lay snugly at anchor the strange yacht.
With this clearly in mind, Jack Harvey resolved to follow in pursuit, although the man had now some ten minutes the start. Harvey had the advantage, however, that, whereas the man knew only the general direction he must take, to Harvey every inch of the way was as familiar as the ground around his own camp. For instance, he knew, when the way led through Captain Coombs’s grove of woods, that through the centre, the most direct way, it was boggy and hard travelling, and that one could save from one to three minutes by skirting along the end nearest the town, and going through there in a smoothly travelled path.
Again, and most profitable of all, there was full five minutes to be gained by swimming the narrow opening of Gull Cove, instead of following the line of the shore in the way it spread out in the shape of a huge pear. At the point which the stem of the pear would represent, the passage from the bay into the cove, it was only a matter of two rods wide.
Jack Harvey did not even stop to remove his trousers, blue blouse, and tennis shoes, but plunged in and swam across.
What he had gained by this was soon apparent, for, as he ascended the top of a low bank on the farther shore, he saw running along the beach, not many rods distant, the man whom he was pursuing.
Now the chase had become simplified and was easy for the rest of the way. There could be no doubt of the man’s destination. Jack Harvey, covering himself with rock and tree, made no effort to come up with him, but took his time in following, knowing where he should ultimately find him.
Presently Harvey left the shore, ascended the bank to a roadway which led down the island, followed it for a few rods, cut across a narrow strip of field, seated himself deliberately upon a gnarled tree-trunk, and looked out upon a tiny inlet that was just discernible through the bushes.
There, of a certainty, lay a pretty sloop at anchor, and presently there came to Harvey’s ears the creaking of the halyards and of the ropes in the blocks as the mainsail fluttered up.
“He’s in a tearing rush to get away, sure enough,” muttered Harvey. “Now he is getting up the anchor, and slatting it up in lively style, too. But he is a stronger man than I am, there’s no mistake about that,” and Harvey felt of two lumps on his head that bore witness to the man’s violence.
“If I only had Joe Hinman and Allan Harding here now he wouldn’t sail away so easily. But that’s neither here nor there. I’ll know that elegant hull, however, and I’ll know that slick-setting suit of sails anywhere in all this bay, and I’ll get even with him yet. TheSurprisecouldn’t catch that boat in a race in a hundred years, but I’ll catch him napping somewhere between here and Portland, or I have sailed this bay for nothing.”
The yacht, its sails filling to the light morning airs, sailed slowly out from its place of hiding and faded away into the darkness.
Jack Harvey, waiting a moment longer to rest, started off on an easy jog-trot back to camp. “For,” said he to himself, “theSurprisemust up anchor and after that fellow before daylight. We’ll catch him first, and then find out what he has been up to. Perhaps he is another—
“Why, by Jove!” exclaimed Harvey, suddenly, “what a fool I am! How could I ever have forgotten for a moment where I saw that face once before? The man in the rowboat! Whoop! And that yacht is theEagle, as sure as my name is Harvey. And that man is Chambers. And to think I came across the bay with him, alone at night!”
The cold drops of perspiration stood out on Harvey’s forehead at the very thought of it.
Over hills and through woods ran Harvey, his arms pressed close to his sides and his head down. He had gone about a mile in this way when, upon emerging from a dense clump of bushes and ascending at the same time a little hill, he paused to survey the prospect ahead.
The sight that met his eyes astounded him. Up against the black morning sky there streamed a broad flaring of red, irregular and uncertain. Now it streamed up in a widely diffused glare. Again it darted up in a series of sharp streaks of red.
“Heavens!” cried Harvey. “It’s the hotel and it’s all on fire! Now I know it’s Chambers, for certain. Now I know why he struck me down. Now I know what we’ll hunt him for and what we’ll catch him for.”
Harvey, redoubling his speed, raced for his camp.
While this strange chase of Harvey after the man had been going on, even more exciting things had been happening at the hotel.
Shortly before the time the man had run into Harvey in the pasture and knocked him down, the boys had finished an absorbing game of billiards, had put cues and balls carefully away, extinguished the lights, and left the hotel.
They were in high spirits at their harmless adventure, as they walked a short distance together, and then separated.
“I think I’ll go along with you,” said Henry Burns to Tom and Bob, “if you’ll give me that spare blanket to put down on the floor.” And the boys locked arms with him in answer, as they said good night to the Warrens. They were soon inside the tent, and, too weary to undress, threw themselves down with their clothes on to sleep.
But scarcely had they closed their eyes when the sound of persons running hard roused them, and they recognized the voices of the Warren boys, calling to them in excited tones.
The next moment the tent was burst open, and George and Joe Warren thrust their heads inside.
“Get up! Get up, boys, quick!” they cried, and Arthur, appearing the next instant, added his voice to the others. “Hurry!” they screamed. “The hotel’s afire and the flames are pouring out of the basement windows. We’ve got to give the alarm, and there’s no time to be lost.”
Tom and Bob and Henry Burns groaned in anguish; but the three sprang up and darted out of the door.
“Could we have done it? Oh, how could it have happened?” moaned Bob, as his teeth fairly chattered with excitement.
“I don’t see how,” answered Arthur Warren. “I put the lights out myself, and we didn’t light a match in all the time we were there.”
“Never mind,” said Henry Burns. “We’ve got to give the alarm. We’ve got to see that everybody gets out, and let the rest take care of itself.”
And they started on the run for the hotel. The fire was already plain to be seen, for the flames were gaining the most rapid headway, and a dense cloud of smoke mixed with flame poured out of the basement windows.
They rushed madly up the hotel steps, found the doors locked, smashed in one of the big front windows opening into the parlour, and one and all crawled inside, screaming “Fire!” at the top of their lungs.
Almost the first person they encountered was Colonel Witham, rushing down the front stairs to the office, his red face looking apoplectic with excitement.
“What’s this?” he yelled, as he came down-stairs two steps at a time. “Some more of your practical joking, I’ll be bound.” But then, as he breathed a choking cloud of smoke that by this time had begun to pour in from the direction of the parlour, he changed his tone.
“Good for you, boys!” he cried. “I guess you’ve saved us this time. Scatter through the halls now, quick. You can do it quicker than I can. We mustn’t let any one burn to death.”
The colonel was, indeed, out of breath and nearly helpless, and could be of little assistance.
The boys needed no urging. They ran from one end of the long halls to the other, up-stairs and down, pounding on every door and startling the inmates of the rooms from sleep.
The guests, rushing out on each floor into darkened halls, and smelling the all-pervading smoke, were ready to jump from windows in panic; but the boys ran quickly among them, explained just where the fire was, just what the particular danger was, and guided them all to escape.
Thanks to them, not a life was lost, although there were several narrow escapes. Once when the guests had assembled and a count was taken to see that no one was missing, some one exclaimed: “Well, where’s Mrs. Newcome? Has any one seen her?”
Then there was a rush and a scurrying for the second floor, but the guests were met on the stairs by Joe Warren and Tom Harris, carrying the little old lady in their arms. They had knocked at her door and had received no response, and so, hurling themselves at the flimsy door, had burst it in, and found her on the floor in a dead faint.
“Perhaps this will kind of square accounts with the poor old lady,” said Joe Warren, as they laid her gently down at a safe distance from the fire. “She used to complain that we made more noise than a band of wild Indians, and were always disturbing her afternoon naps, but I guess she won’t complain of our disturbing this nap.” Then the boys left her in the care of the guests, and hurried back to the fire.
The fire had gained rapid headway, and there was no hope of saving the new part of the hotel, at least. The old-fashioned town fire-engine came rattling up in charge of Captain Sam, but, though the guests and villagers and the boys all took turns at the pumps, the machine could do little more than throw a feeble stream up as high as the base of the second-story windows. The water-supply of the hotel, which was pumped by a windmill at a distance, was of more avail, but it was helpless against the headway that the flames had gained.
Soon the whole front end of the hotel collapsed, sending up a fierce cloud of smoke, ashes, and sparks.
“Lucky we’re not in there now,” exclaimed one of the guests. “By the way, has anybody stopped to think that we should all probably have been burned to death if it hadn’t been for these boys that we’ve been complaining of all summer? Guess we’ll owe them a vote of thanks, at least, when this is over.”
“We can’t be too thankful that everybody’s saved,” said another.
“That all may be,” growled Colonel Witham, “but I can’t see so much to be thankful for in watching a twenty-five thousand dollar hotel burn to pieces, and I’ve got the lease of it—” But his sentence was interrupted by a piercing wail that came from the scene of the fire, and, following the sound of the noise, one and all looked up in time to see a large, handsome tiger cat leap from a window from which smoke was pouring to a narrow ledge which was as yet untouched by the flames. There it crouched, crying with fear.
“Oh, it’s poor Jerry! It’s my poor Jerry!” cried a thin, piping voice, and old Mrs. Newcome, roused from her faint, came forward, trembling and waving her hands helplessly. “Oh, can’t somebody save him?” she cried. “He knows more than lots of these boys. Why don’t somebody do something?”
“Can’t erzactly see as anybody’s goin’ ter risk his life for a fool cat,” muttered one of the villagers. “There ain’t no ladder’ll reach up there. Guess Jerry’s a goner, and lucky it ain’t a baby.”
Waving her hands wildly and moaning, Jerry’s old mistress was a pathetic sight, as Henry Burns went up and spoke to her.
“I’m afraid I can’t do much,” he said, “but I’ll try. You just wait here, and don’t take on so. I know some things about climbing around this hotel that the others don’t.” And he gave a quiet smile. Then he suddenly darted across to the old hotel, and, before any one could stop him, disappeared up the stairs. Wholly unmindful of the fact that a human being was risking his life for that of a dumb animal, old Mrs. Newcome took fresh hope and screamed shrilly, in words intended to encourage the terrified Jerry.
All at once the crowd of guests and villagers saw a boy’s slight figure at the edge of the hotel roof in relief against the sky.
“Who’s that?” they screamed. “I thought every one was safely out,” cried one to another.
“It’s that Burns boy, and he’s going to save Jerry,” piped old Mrs. Newcome. “He’s—”
A howl of indignation drowned her voice, and a chorus of voices rose up to Henry Burns, demanding that he return.
But, helpless now to prevent, they saw him coolly divest himself of his coat, seize hold of a lightning-rod, and go hand over hand quickly to the top. Then he stood for a moment on the only remaining wall of the hotel, for the rest of the roof, though not yet aflame, had caved in and broken partly away from the end wall.
Along this narrow strip of wall crept Henry Burns; but when he had come to the end of it there was a sheer drop of ten feet down to the ledge where the cat crouched, wailing and lashing its tail.
“Go back! Go back!” screamed those below. “You can’t do anything.”
But Henry Burns, paying not the least attention, reached one hand into his pocket, drew from it a piece of rope, which he proceeded to lower till it dangled within reach of the unfortunate Jerry.
“Grab it, Jerry! Grab it!” piped old Mrs. Newcome; and, whether in answer to the familiar voice or from an appreciation of the situation, Jerry fastened his claws into the rope, clawed at it furiously till all four feet were fast, and so, miaowing shrilly, was drawn up to safety by Henry Burns.
Back along the wall he crawled, and, sliding down the lightning-rod, was once more on the roof of the old hotel. Then, with Mrs. Newcome’s cat perched on his shoulder, he shortly reappeared below, amid the cheering of the crowd.
“I’ll never say you boys are bad again and ought to be horsewhipped,” sobbed old Mrs. Newcome, as she fondled her pet.
But she got no farther, for a moment later the end wall, on which Henry Burns had stood shortly before, was seen to sway violently. Then, with a wrenching and tearing, as of beams split apart, and with grinding of timbers, it collapsed upon the roof of the old hotel, and a few minutes later that, too, was all ablaze, and there was nought to be done by any one but to stand helplessly and see the flames devour everything.
When morning lighted up the spot where on the previous day the hotel had stood, the pride of the village and the boast of Colonel Witham, the sun shone only on a charred and blackened heap of ruins.
Southport, rudely awakened from sleep as it had been, and awake all the rest of the night by so unusual and stirring an event as a fire, was too much excited to go back to its slumbers, but stayed awake through the morning hours to discuss it. A group of villagers hung around the grocery-store all day long, adjourning only now and then to journey to the spot where the hotel had been, where they stood solemnly contemplating the ruins, with all-absorbing interest in the twisted and distorted fragments that still bore some resemblance to whatever part they had constituted in the structure of the building.
There were dozens of theories advanced as to how the fire had started. The oil had exploded from spontaneous combustion; rats had set the blaze by gnawing at matches, and so on through the list of ordinary causes of fires; but as for Colonel Witham, with his customary suspicion of all human nature, he was sure of one theory, because it was his own, and that was, that the hotel had been set on fire. This he doggedly asserted and as stubbornly maintained. The hotel could not have set itself afire; therefore, some one must have done it. This was as plain as daylight to the colonel.
He fiercely questioned John Carr as to whether any lights had been left burning, but John Carr was loud and persistent in his assurances that the hotel had been as dark as Egypt when he had retired for the night.
But throughout all the discussion, that ranged through cottages, along the streets, and that spread throughout the length and breadth of the island, there were six boys who were silent, who took no part in it, but who kept away from wherever a group was gathered.
They were a serious-looking lot of boys as they assembled on the shore in front of the tent; so much of anxiety and apprehension showing unconcealed in their faces that one happening upon their council might have read therein a key to the mystery. It would have been a mistaken clue, of course, but it would have sufficed for the village and for Colonel Witham.
For a few moments not one of them spoke, though each boyish brain was turning the one awful subject over and over, vainly seeking the answer for a problem that defied all attempts at solution.
Finally Bob broke the awful silence.
“How could it have happened?” he exclaimed. At which there was a universal whistle and a shaking of heads.
“You see,” continued Bob, “it’s absolutely necessary for us to decide in our own minds, the first thing, whether it was our fault or not. Because, if it was, I suppose we’ve got to own up to it sometime or other, and we may as well do it first as last.”
“Better now, if at all, than later,” said Tom. “They might have some mercy on us now, being grateful that they didn’t burn up.”
“All but Colonel Witham,” said young Joe. “Catch him being grateful for anything, with his hotel in ashes.”
“Keep quiet, Joe!” exclaimed George Warren, sharply.
The very mention of Colonel Witham’s name was irritating. It was only too certain that no mercy could be expected from the colonel.
“But,” said Arthur Warren, “we’re not to blame, so why should we consider that at all? You remember,” he continued, turning to Henry Burns, “how we waited after I had blown the last lamp out and the room was absolutely dark, and we had to stand still a moment till our eyes got accustomed to the darkness before we could find our way to the window?”
“I remember that,” answered Henry Burns; “and not one of us lighted any matches all the time we were there, because the lamps were all burning dimly when we went in; but,” he added, somewhat desperately for him, “that is not going to save us the moment an investigation begins, if they have one. The first time they begin to question one of us we’re done for. The moment they know we were in there last night, that will settle everything in their minds.”
“And what then?” asked young Joe.
“Well,” said Henry Burns, more calmly, “it means that we’ve got a twenty-five thousand dollar hotel to pay for.”
The proposition was so absurd that they burst out laughing; but it was a short-lived and bitter merriment, and they could just as easily have cried.
“What would our fathers say?” said Arthur Warren. “Ours told us we’d have to make our pocket-money go a long way this summer, because he rigged the boat all over for us. There couldn’t any of us pay for the hotel in all our lives.”
“Perhaps they’d send us to jail,” suggested young Joe.
This happy remark was received with howls of indignation, and the originator of it was invited to clear out if he couldn’t keep quiet.
“They couldn’t send us to jail,” said Arthur, gravely, “for, at the worst, we could convince them that it was accidental. We may be nuisances, but we’re not criminals. Wouldn’t it be better, on the whole,” he concluded, “to make a clean breast of it to father, and do whatever he says is best?”
“I’d do it in a minute,” said George Warren, “but when I know we didn’t set the fire, even accidentally, I hate to put all that trouble and worry on father; because, you see, we might not be able to convince him absolutely that we may not, in some way that we don’t know of, have been responsible. Of course, if it comes to it, we’ll tell him all,—and he’ll believe it, too. That is, he’ll believe that we are telling what we think is right, for we’ve always done that way, because he puts confidence in us.”