"You will tell tales, will you?" he cried.
"Let me alone," replied the other, striving to shake off John Ellison's grasp, but failing. Then he added, as the other canoes came in to shore and the boys stepped out of them. "Can't you take a joke?"
"No, not when you've done the same kind of a thing before," exclaimed John Ellison. "Come on, fellows, in with him."
Ready for any kind of a rough joke, several of the canoeists laid hands on the unfortunate Benjamin.
"Most too many against one," remarked Henry Burns, quietly. "Better let him go."
"No, he's got to be ducked," insisted John Ellison, whose anger was aroused.
"Well, only a little one," assented Harvey, grinning good-naturedly. So they held the luckless youth heels over head and plunged his head beneath the surface up to his coat-collar. He was sputtering wrathfully as they lifted him out again.
"Going to tell on us?" cried John Ellison.
Benjamin Ellison glared at his cousin, doubtfully.
"Once more," said John Ellison; and they put the victim's head under again.
He wasn't hurt and his clothes were still dry; but he was whining, and he begged for mercy after the second ducking.
"I won't tell," he said.
"Honest?"
"Honest Injun!"
They let him go, and he departed hastily up through the field.
"Tell, will he?" queried Harvey, as Benjamin departed.
"Guess not," replied John Ellison. "He's got enough. He'd like to, though. He don't like you city fellows any better than father does. He hasn't got anything against you, either. He's too lazy to paddle. Come on, Jim, let's follow him up. Well be on hand to-morrow, if there's no trouble."
The brothers took up their canoe and left the party.
"They're all right, those Ellison chaps," said Harvey; "all except Benny. He's no good. Come on, fellows, let's lock up, and no walking in to town, remember. Running's good for the wind. Coming along, Tim?"
"No, I'm going to sleep in the cabin," replied Tim Reardon, "and see the start in the morning."
"Guess I will, too," said Allan Harding. So the two remained, while the troop of canoeists set off soon after, on the run back to Benton.
The following morning, the first of a double holiday, came in bright and clear. Little Tim and his companion were early astir, and cooking a mess of oatmeal from the cabin's scanty stores over a cracked sheet iron stove.
"There they come," cried Tim presently, as the sounds of fresh, boyish voices came from outside. "Hooray! I wish 'twas a yacht race, though. Wouldn't I go along?"
By nine o'clock the four canoes were fully equipped, drawn up in line off the cabin, and the canoeists, paddles in hand, arms bared, and sweaters tied around the thwarts, were ready to start. Jim and John Ellison were there, a sturdy pair of farm lads; Jack Harvey, apparently much over-matching his mate in physique, but with something in the slighter figure of Henry Burns that indicated resource and staying powers; Tom and Bob, old and hardened canoeists; and George and Arthur Warren, clean-cut and athletic.
"Ready for the horn!" called Harvey, holding his paddle in his right hand and a long, tin horn in the other.
"All ready!" sang out the canoeists.
Harvey put the horn to his lips and blew a loud, full blast. The paddles struck the water with a vigour, and the race was begun.
The three canoes shot ahead of Harvey's at the start, owing to the slight delay caused him in dropping the horn.
"Let them lead, Jack," said Henry Burns, quietly. "It's a two days' race. Take it easy."
"That's so," said Harvey, half pausing in a stroke in which he had started to exert his strength to the utmost. "Lucky I've got you. You always keep cool. How do you manage to do it?"
Henry Burns smiled, but made no reply. Instead, he pointed ahead to where the Ellison brothers, putting their strength into their work, were showing several rods of clear water between them and the two nearest canoes, which were going along side by side.
"They've got the race won in the first five minutes," said Henry Burns. "See Tom and Bob take it easy till they get limbered up."
The two thus indicated were, indeed, setting an example worthy to be followed. They had started off at an easy, regular stroke, one which they could keep up for hours and increase when they should see fit. They were paying no attention to the leading canoe, but were exchanging a word or two with the Warrens, who were striving to imitate their course and pace.
The first mile and a half that intervened between the starting point and the Ellison dam was quickly covered. The Ellison boys, still leading, were out on shore and carrying their canoe up the bank when the others were still some rods away. It was a steep pitch of the shore, and Tom and Bob, when they came to it, took it leisurely, saving their wind. The others followed, in like fashion. Harvey and Henry Burns were the last to make the portage.
Once around the dam, on higher level, the canoes were launched again, and the race continued.
A little way up the shore from the dam, Tom and Bob and the Warren boys, some distance ahead of the rear canoe, saw an odd little figure swinging and swaying in the top of a birch tree overhanging the water. The Ellison boys had passed her unnoticed. Her bit of skirt fluttering, and her hair waving, showed that the occupant of this novel swing was a girl.
All at once, to their horror, she seemed to slip and fall. Down she came from her perch, struck the water with a splash and sank beneath the surface.
Tom and Bob, driving their paddles into the water with desperate energy, darted on ahead of the Warren boys, who bent to the paddles and shot after them. The two canoes fairly flew through the water, while the four occupants gazed anxiously ahead over the surface for signs of the girl's reappearance.
To their amazement, a laughing voice hailed them most unexpectedly, from shore. They looked toward the bank, where, just emerging, dripping wet, the girl was waving a hand to them.
"How was that for a dive?" she called, pushing her wet hair back from her eyes, and looking at them roguishly.
"Bully!" exclaimed George Warren, wiping the drops of perspiration from his forehead. "We thought you had fallen. My, but it gave me a scare."
The girl's eyes danced with merriment. Then espying the other canoe coming up, she called, "Hello, you back again? Look out Ellison don't catch you."
"It's Bess Thornton," said Henry Burns, and the two boys called out a greeting to her.
"Say, do you know Tim Reardon?" she asked abruptly.
"Why, yes," answered Henry Burns. "Should say we did."
"Well," said Bess Thornton, "tell him you saw me dive from the tree, will you? He didn't think I dared, when I told him." Then she added, laughing, "Don't get rained on again. But if you do, remember the mill." And she danced away, wringing the water from the hem of her short skirt.
"Confound her!" exclaimed Harvey. "Look at the start Jim and John have got. Come on, Henry."
They pushed on again, Tom and Bob soon taking the lead of the three rear canoes, with a strong steady stroke that meant business. The first canoe was by this time a quarter of a mile ahead.
This part of the stream, for some two miles above the Ellison dam, was deep, still water, lying between quite steep banks, and there was little perceptible current. So that now, the water being unruffled by any wind, the four canoes shot ahead at good speed, retaining generally their relative positions.
Tom and Bob gradually quickened their stroke, hoping to make some slight but sure gain on the leaders; but the Ellison brothers were evidently of a mind to hold their lead as long as possible, and continued to do so. This, however, was at the cost of some extra exertion, which might tell in the long run.
In the course of half an hour, after leaving the dam, the current began to flow faster against them; now and then it came down over shoals of quite an incline, so that they made better headway by getting out their setting-poles and using them, instead of the paddles.
Then, at a point a mile farther up stream, they came to rapids of some considerable extent, flowing quite swiftly and boiling here and there around sunken rocks. The Ellison brothers had avoided this place, and were to be seen now, on the right bank of the shore, carrying their canoe with difficulty.
The shore here was broken up by the out-cropping of ledges, amid the breaks of which a canoe must be carried with great care, as a false step would mean a bad fall and perhaps the smashing of the canoe. The only other alternative, besides the water, was to make a long detour through the off-lying fields, with loss of time.
Tom and Bob guided their craft swiftly in to land and proceeded to drag it ashore, as the Ellison boys had done. The Warren brothers followed, and Jack Harvey was turning his canoe in the same direction when a word from his companion caused him to cease paddling.
"Jack," said Henry Burns, "I think we could make the rapids. What do you say? If we win out, we may be in time to call the Ellison fellows back."
It was a rule of the race that, if a canoe succeeded in ascending any difficult place in the stream, the successful pair was entitled to call back any of the other canoes that were still carrying around the place, and make them do likewise. If, however, any of the canoeists had made the carry completely, and had launched their craft above, they could not be called back.
The Ellison brothers were about half way up the carry at this time.
"I don't think we could do it, Henry," answered Harvey, to the other's suggestion. "We could get part of the way up, all right, but the last few rods are too steep."
He pointed, as he spoke, to the upper incline of the rapids, which was, indeed, much sharper than the first of the ascent, bending over from the higher level of the stream abruptly, like a sheet of rounded, polished ebony; flowing smoothly but with great swiftness; then broken here and there below with rocks, sharp and jagged, and foaming threateningly as it whirled past them.
"I think we can do it, Jack," insisted Henry Burns, quietly. "I remember the place. The water was a little higher when we came through in the rain; but we ran these rapids, and don't you remember, half way down that steepest part, we thought we were going to hit a sunken ledge—just to the right of the middle of the slope?"
"Why, yes, seems to me I do," replied Harvey, gazing ahead. "But I didn't care much what we hit that evening, I was so wet and tired."
"Well, look now," continued Henry Burns. "You can see the water whirling at that very spot. The ledge doesn't show above water, but it's there. What's the matter with working up to that, hanging on it till we get rested, and then make one quick push up over the top?"
"Oh, well," said Harvey, "I'm game. You seem to guess things right. We'll try it, anyway."
They pushed on into the first of the rapids, while the Ellison brothers, turning and espying what they were attempting, redoubled their efforts to make the carry. Tom and Bob cast a glance back, and also continued along the carry; but George and Arthur Warren, having seen Henry Burns's schemes work successfully before, turned and came out to the rapids. There they waited, ready to make the attempt should they see it prove successful, or to be in a position to put hurriedly for shore should it prove a failure.
"Better come on. You're wasting time," called Tom Harris once, as he set his end of their canoe down on a shelf of ledge. But Henry Burns made no reply, while Harvey only waved his paddle defiantly.
For several rods, Harvey and Henry Burns made fair progress, working quick and sharp, plying their paddles with rapid thrusts. Little clumps of white froth floated fast by them, indicating the swift running of the water, and its disturbance. Then the stronger current caught them, and they barely forged ahead. By the appearance of the water, looking down upon it as they struggled, they seemed to be flying; but it was the water, and not they, that was moving rapidly. They hung close by the little points of projecting ledge for moments at a time, making no headway. They redoubled their efforts, drove their paddles through the water with desperate energy, and gained the first mark they had set.
Slowly the bow of the canoe crept up to a spot where the keen eyes of Henry Burns had noted the sunken ledge, at a point only a rod from the upper incline. This ledge did not show above water, but the boiling of the stream and an almost imperceptible sloping of the surface on either hand showed that it was there.
Henry Burns leaned over the side of the canoe and gazed anxiously. Should the water there prove deeper than he had hoped, they would not ground, and must be carried back, their strength exhausted. But he had not been mistaken.
In a moment the water suddenly shallowed. A hard thrust with the paddles, and the canoe grated gently.
"Easy, Jack," cried Henry Burns. "She's hit. Get out the pole."
Harvey seized the setting-pole from the bottom of the canoe, dropping his paddle in its place. He thrust it quick and with all his strength into the swift-running water. At a depth of about three feet it caught the rocky bottom and held. Harvey braced with the pole and shoved the bow of the canoe, which had touched on the part of the ledge that was close to the surface, a little farther ahead.
"Great!" shouted Henry Burns. "Take it easy now. She'll stay if the pole don't slip."
Harvey relaxed his exertions, holding the pole at an angle sufficient to keep the canoe where it was, with only slight pressure. Henry Burns, dropping his own paddle and likewise taking up his setting-pole, got a grip in the rocks and aided his companion. They could rest now, with the swift water rushing past them on either bow, and recover their wind and strength for the final struggle.
Their plan was, when they should have rested, to let the canoe drop back about a foot, enough to clear the sunken ledge; then, before the current should catch them, to shove out into it quickly, turn the bow of the canoe to meet the rush of the rapids, and push over with the poles, by main strength. They could do it, if, as Henry Burns expressed it, the canoe "did not get away from them."
The five minutes they waited seemed like hours. Away up along the carry, they could see the Ellison brothers, lifting their canoe across the broken bits of shore; Tom and Bob some way behind these, hurrying as fast as they dared over the treacherous footing. But now, as they gathered their strength, and gently shoved their canoe back, a cry from Tom, who had noted their move, arrested the progress of the Ellison boys. They paused for a moment and, with Tom and Bob, watched the outcome, eagerly.
Alas! it was sharp and bitter for Henry Burns. The canoe hung for a moment, as they arrested its drifting with strong thrusts of the poles. Then it shot ahead, as they pushed its nose diagonally out into the sharp slope of the rapids. Henry Burns thrust his pole down hard, as they cleared the sunken ledge, to swing the bow straight into the current. But the bottom proved treacherous.
It was all over so quickly that neither he nor Harvey knew hardly how it had happened. He only knew that the pole did not catch, but instead, struck the slippery face of a smooth bit of the rocky channel, slipped, gave way, and that he barely recovered his balance to avoid going overboard.
The next moment, the canoe had swung around, receiving the full force of the current broadside. A moment more, they were running with it and being borne down to where George and Arthur Warren greeted them with cries—not all sympathetic—of "hard luck."
They had hardly got their canoe under control and turned it into an eddy, and had realized the unhappy turn of affairs, when a shout of derision and triumph came down to them from the Ellisons. They had made the carry successfully and were launching their canoe in the smooth water above.
The Warren boys lost no time in paddling for shore. Tom and Bob, seeing the discomfiture of their rivals, quickly picked up their canoe and proceeded along the carry. Harvey looked inquiringly at Henry Burns, who turned, smiling and unruffled.
"Well?" said Harvey, "got enough?"
"No," replied Henry Burns, and added deliberately, with a twinkle in his eyes, "we might as well do it, now we've started. We've got two days to get up over there in, you know."
"Good for you!" exclaimed Harvey. "Come on, if you're ready. We've got time yet before Tom and Bob make the carry."
They bent to the paddles and got once more to the sunken ledge, panting and perspiring, for they had worked hard and the current seemed, therefore, even swifter now than before. There, holding their canoe in place, they waited a little longer than on the first attempt, to rest and study the current.
"Let's try the right hand from the ledge this time," said Henry Burns. "Those whirls mean shallow places. Perhaps the bottom isn't so slippery."
He pointed at some almost imperceptible breaks in the ebony surface of the slope, and Harvey agreed.
"I can shove this canoe up over there as sure as you're alive," said Harvey, gazing proudly at a pair of muscular arms that were certainly eloquent of strength; "that is, if you can keep her head straight. Don't try to do much of the poling. Just try to hold what I gain each time, till I can get a fresh hold. What do you say—rested enough?"
"Aye, aye, captain," replied Henry Burns, coolly. "Up we go."
Again the canoe dropped back a little from the ledge, and again they caught and held it and shoved out into the current—this time on the right, instead of the left side.
Their comrades ashore watched anxiously. They saw the canoe strike the swift running of the water and hang for a moment, as if irresolute, uncertain whether it would turn its bow upstream or be swerved broadside. The moment it hung there seemed minutes in duration. They saw Henry Burns, lithe and agile, but cool and self-possessed, strike his pole into the slope of the water where he had seen a shallow spot. And the pole held.
The watchers ashore saw the canoe slowly turn and face the swift current, lying upon its polished slope as though upon a sheet of glass. They saw Harvey in the stern set his pole and shove mightily, his muscles knotted and his face drawn and grim with determination. They saw the canoe slowly gain against the current.
At the edge of the slope it stood still for what seemed an age. They saw the two in bow and stern struggle desperately again and again to wrest their craft from the clutch of the current. Then, almost with a leap, freed from the fierce resistance of the rapids, the canoe slid over the brink of the incline, into the deeper part of the stream above.
A moment later, they saw the poles dropped and the paddles snatched up. The canoe shot swiftly ahead, propelled by triumphant arms. The rapids were conquered. Henry Burns and Harvey had won their hard fight.
In vain had Tom and Bob, hurrying recklessly, bumping their canoe along the rough shore, essayed to complete the carry before it would be too late. To their chagrin and dismay, the sound of a horn blown three times with a vigour announced to them the triumph of their comrades. Sadly they shouldered their canoe, which they had set down at the first blast of the horn, and turned their faces back along the trail, toward the foot of the rapids.
Likewise, the Warren boys, accepting the inevitable, turned back and prepared to attempt the difficult feat which they had seen accomplished. At all events, they were, by reason of their position in the rear of Tom and Bob, in possession of that much advantage over the more skilled canoeists.
"Whew! but that was a tough one," exclaimed Harvey, dipping his paddle leisurely, and recovering his breath. "Say, look at poor old Tom and Bob—the champion canoeists. Bet they feel sore."
Henry Burns turned, looked back and smiled. Then, gazing up stream again, he said, "Yes, but look there."
At a bend of the stream, fully a half mile ahead, the first canoe was gliding easily along.
Harvey groaned. "And they'd be back there, too," he exclaimed, "if we hadn't made that slip. Never mind, there's another day coming."
It seemed a long, long time, and they, themselves, had reached a point fully a half mile above the rapids, before they espied first one canoe and then another achieving the incline. They could not discern which was in the lead, but it proved later to be the canoe handled by Tom and Bob, the Warrens having made two failures before succeeding, giving time to the others to come up and pass them. They were about abreast now, coming along slowly.
It was smooth paddling now, along the shores of green meadows and pasture land, until noon arrived. Then, at the signal of four blasts of the horn, by Harvey, answered in turn by all the others above and below, the canoes were drawn out on shore and luncheon was eaten. They built no fires, but ate what they had brought, cold. With an hour to rest in, the leaders strolled back to where Harvey and Henry Burns were, and chaffed them good-naturedly on their failure to make them take the rapids, and over their own strong lead. To which, Harvey and Henry Burns, being good sportsmen, replied good-humouredly, assuring the Ellisons they should beat them on "the next hard place."
The other canoeists remained where they were, and ate their luncheons together.
When, at about two o'clock that afternoon, the sound of the horn, blown four times by Jack Harvey, announced that the race was resumed, there was a do-or-die expression on the faces of Tom Harris and Bob White. Harvey and Henry Burns were a good half mile ahead of them; the Ellisons fully a mile.
Not that this was disheartening to athletic lads in good training, who had learned in many a contest of skill and strength to accept a result fairly won, even though they were beaten. On the contrary, here was a contest worth the winning, now that the odds were against them. Their first pique, over the clever move of Henry Burns that had set them back in the race, having subsided, they were ready to give him credit for carrying it out.
But they were still bound to win. So that soon, settling down to a strong, vigorous stroke, which had often carried them over miles of rough water in Samoset Bay, they gradually drew ahead of George and Arthur Warren. They seemed tireless. Their muscles, trained and hardened, worked like well oiled machinery. In vain the Warren brothers strove to keep up the pace. They were forced finally to fall back. That quick, powerful thrust of the paddles, as Tom and Bob struck the water with perfect precision, sent the light canoe spurting ahead in a way that could not be equalled by less trained rivals.
Henry Burns and Jack Harvey, toiling manfully, seemed to feel that they, too, were being out-paddled; for ever and again one of them would glance back over his shoulder; after which he would strike the water with a sharper thrust, and the canoe would respond to the fresh endeavour.
"They'll gain some," said Henry Burns once, calmly. "We can't help that. They've had too many years of it, not to be able to set a stronger pace. But they can't catch us in one afternoon. If they do, we're beaten. We'll hold some of our advantage, eh, Jack?"
"You bet we will!" exclaimed Harvey, jabbing the water savagely. "I'm going to make a gain, myself, if only for a spurt."
So saying, he called to his companion to "give it to 'em lively," and they set a pace for the next fifteen minutes that did, indeed, exceed the speed at which Tom and Bob were travelling. But spurts such as that would not win a two days' race. Gradually they fell back into their normal swing, and Tom and Bob crept up on them once more.
The Ellisons, too, were feeling the strain of the long test of skill and endurance. Now, as the afternoon hours went by, their stroke fell off slower and slower. Heavier built somewhat than Tom and Bob, their muscles, hardened and more sluggish with harder work, did not respond to the call. Harvey and Henry Burns were gaining on them; and Tom and Bob were gaining on both.
On went the four canoes; up rapids or around them, as proved necessary according to the depth of the water. Harvey and Henry Burns, seeing they were gaining on the leaders, would take no more chances on questionable rapids, but carried around those that the Ellisons did. Tom and Bob and the Warrens also took the readiest way around each difficulty.
Had the race a few more hours to run for that afternoon, it is certain Tom and Bob must have overtaken and passed their rivals. But now the time for the end of the first day's contest was at hand, and presently Harvey, after a glance at his watch, lifted the horn to his lips. Four blasts sounded far up and down the still waters, and four answering blasts came from each canoe. The first day's race was done. The canoes headed for shore. It was six o'clock, and the Ellisons were still in the lead.
But the margin was not now so great. Between them and the nearest canoe there was not over a quarter of a mile of winding stream. Harvey and Henry Burns had done well. But Tom and Bob had accomplished even more. Scarcely more than an eighth of a mile intervened between their craft and the canoe of Harvey and Henry Burns. The Warrens had paddled gamely, also, but were fully three quarters of a mile behind the leaders.
Leaving their canoes drawn up on shore, at precisely the spot where each had been at the sound of the horn, the boys met together now and shook hands all around. It was clean, honest sport, and no mean jealousy.
"But look out for to-morrow," said Tom Harris, good-naturedly shaking a fist at Jim Ellison.
They brought forth now from each canoe a light frame-work of three bamboo poles, standards and cross-piece, and a thin, unbleached cotton "A" tent, and quickly pitched the four tents on a level piece of ground, in a semi-circle. The tents were flimsy affairs, light to carry, and would not do in rainy weather; but they had picked their day, and it was clear and no danger of a wetting.
Then, for there had been a careful division of weight, each canoe furnished some necessary article for getting the supper: a pail for boiling coffee from one, fry-pan from another, and so on; with bacon for frying, and bread and potatoes. They soon had a fire going in the open space in front of the four tents, with a log rolled close to it, and the coffee-pail hung on a crotched stick, set aslant the log and braced in the ground. The bacon sizzled later in the pan, set on some glowing coals. The potatoes were buried in the hot ashes, under the blaze, just out of reach of burning.
The canoeists stretched themselves on the ground around the fire, hungry and healthfully wearied. Twilight was upon them when all was ready, and they had removed the feast away from the warmth of the fire, piling on more wood and making it blaze up brightly for its cheer.
Then they fell to with amazing appetites; and the amount of crisp bacon and hot potatoes and bread they made way with would have appalled the proprietor of the Half Way House, or any other hotel keeper, if he had had to supply it. Then, when they had startled the cattle in near-by pastures with a few songs, heartily if not so musically bawled, they were ready to turn in for the night, almost with the glowing of the first stars. It was surprising how soon they were off to sleep, each rolled in his single blanket, slumbering soundly on the bare turf.
"Well?" remarked Henry Burns inquiringly, next morning, sitting up and looking at his companion, who had scarcely got his eyes open. Harvey gave a yawn, stretched and roused up. "I feel fine," he answered. "Lame any?" "Not a bit," replied Henry Burns.
Stepping outside the tent, he found, to his surprise, Tom and Bob already up and their tent and blankets snugly packed and stowed.
"Have a plunge?" asked Bob.
"Yes," said Henry Burns. "Come on, Jack?"
The four went down to the shore, leaving the others still finishing their morning naps. One quick plunge and they were out again, ready for breakfast. It was plain they were ready for the day's race. So said Jim and John Ellison, when they were out, some minutes later. But Henry Burns gave a sly wink at Harvey, as his sharp eye observed the motions of the brothers when they came to strike their tent. Nor did he fail to note the quickness with which Jim Ellison dropped his right arm, when he had raised it once over his head.
"Just a bit lame," said Henry Burns, softly. "We'll give it to 'em hard at the start, before they get limbered up."
Breakfast eaten, and the camp equipments stowed, they all proceeded now to the spot where the Ellisons' canoe was drawn ashore. There they set up a pole cut for the purpose. It marked the turning point of the race. At the signal, the Ellisons could start down stream from there; and each canoe must go up stream to that point before it could begin its home run.
It was a race now, as Henry Burns expressed it, for glory and for dinner. They had eaten their stock of food and would stop for nothing more till they reached camp. They had covered some fifteen miles of water, up stream against rapids and the current, in the preceding day's paddling; but they could make it down stream in about half the time.
They were soon afloat now, for Harvey was impatient to be off, and he was by consent the one to give the signal. The Ellison brothers would gladly have delayed, but Harvey, at a word from Henry Burns, was firm.
They took their places, struck the water together at the sound of the horn, and the second day's race was begun.
Confident as were the occupants of the second and third canoes, it was a bit disconcerting, at the outset, to see the leaders go swiftly past them on the way down stream, while they had still to go on against the current up to the turning point. Moreover, the leading canoe quickly caught a patch of swift running water, which the Ellisons had carried around the day before, but could run now, by merely guiding their canoe. So, at the start, they made an encouraging gain, and turned once, at the foot of some rapids, to wave back defiance at their opponents.
Skill and training were bound to tell, however. In the miles that were reeled off rapidly now, the second and third canoes gained on the leaders in the calm, still, sluggish places. There was more spring and snap to their muscles. Their canoes moved faster through the water.
Eight miles down stream, they were overhauling the foremost canoe rapidly, the canoes of Tom and Bob and Henry Burns and Harvey being nearly abreast, and the four straining every nerve and muscle. The Warrens had fallen at least a half mile behind them.
Luck had been with the Ellisons, surely; for running rapids in shallow water is most uncertain work. Tom and Bob, old canoeists, knew well the appearance of water that denotes a sunken rock, and by sheer skill and watchfulness turned their canoe aside ever and again with a quick sweep of the paddles, to avoid a treacherous place, where the water whirled ominously. Henry Burns and Harvey had lately come down the stream, and knew by that experience how easy it was to get hung up when it was least expected.
Yet, with all experience, now and again a canoe would grate and perhaps hang for a moment in some rapid; and once, when the canoe of Tom and Bob would have shot ahead of Harvey's, they went hard aground, and lost precious minutes.
When they were within a mile of the rapids where Henry Burns had won honours on the preceding day, however, Tom and Bob had shown the proof of their superior training and skill; they were leading Harvey and Henry Burns and were close upon the leaders.
"Cheer up, Jack," said Henry Burns, coolly, to his comrade; "they ought to win, but we've given them a good race, anyway. Something may happen yet."
And something did happen—but not to the canoe steered by Tom Harris.
The three foremost canoes were now upon the brink of the worst rapids, and each youth was bracing himself for the run. They saw the Ellisons shoot quickly over the brink, go swiftly down the smooth incline into the rougher water. All at once, the canoe seemed to be checked abruptly and hang for a moment. Then it slid on again. But the damage had been done. A sharp point of ledge had penetrated the canvas, and the canoe was leaking.
Down went the two next canoes, one after the other; deftly handled; sheering a little this way and that, as the watchful eyes detected the signs of danger; riding gallantly through the frothing, fretting rapids into clear water beyond. Their pace was not abated much as they got into their swing again, and, one by one, they passed the Ellisons. The latter's canoe, encumbered by water that leaked slightly but steadily through the rent in the canvas, dragged somewhat and had to be bailed before they had gone a half mile further.
That afternoon, a boy, barefoot and hatless, stood by the shore at a point a little way above the Ellison dam, anxiously watching up stream as far as he could see. That he was intensely excited was evident by the way he fidgeted about; and once he climbed a birch tree that overhung the water and gazed away from that perch.
"Hello, Tim," said a voice close by him, suddenly. "What are you looking for?"
"Oh, hello, Bess," responded Tim Reardon, turning about in surprise. "How you startled me! I'm watching for the canoes—don't you know about it? Cracky, but don't I hope Jack'll win."
"Why don't you go out on the logs?" queried the girl. "You can see up stream farther from there. Come on."
Without waiting for a reply, Bess Thornton darted out across a treacherous pathway of light cedar and spruce logs that lay, confined by a log-boom, waiting to be sawed into shingle stuff; for the old mill occasionally did that work, also, as well as grinding corn. Many of the logs were not of sufficient size to support even the girl's light weight, but sank beneath her, wetting her bare feet. She sprang lightly from one to another, pausing now and then to rest and balance herself on some larger log that sustained her. Little Tim, equally at home about the water, followed.
The boom confining this lot of logs was made of larger and longer logs, chained together at the ends, and extending in a long irregular line from a point up the shore down toward the dam, to a point just above the landing place for the canoes. Tim Reardon and Bess Thornton ran along this boom as far as it extended up stream.
Presently Little Tim gave a yell and nearly pitched head-first into the stream.
"They're coming! they're coming!" he cried. "Who's ahead? Can you see?"
The next moment he gave an exclamation of dismay. Two canoes shot around a bend of the stream, one not far behind the other—but the second canoe, to Little Tim's disappointment, that guided by Jack Harvey. Tom and Bob had a fair lead, and, by the way they were putting life into their strokes, seemed likely to maintain it.
"Ow wow," bawled Little Tim. "Come on, Jack! Come on, Henry! You can beat 'em yet. Give it to 'em!"
Bess Thornton, catching the enthusiasm and spirit of her companion, and espying who the occupants of the second canoe were, added her cries of encouragement to those of Little Tim.
But the leaders came on steadily and surely, heading in slightly toward the point on shore where they would disembark to make the carry about the dam.
Away up the stream, two more canoes could be seen, about abreast, the four boys plying their paddles with all the strength in them.
So the leading canoe passed the boy and girl, Little Tim yelling himself hoarse, with encouragement to Harvey and Henry Burns to come on. Surely if there had been any impelling power in noise, Tim's cries would have turned the scale in favour of his friends.
The leading canoe touched shore, and Tom and Bob sprang lightly out; snatched up their craft and were off up the bank, to make the carry. Henry Burns and Harvey headed in to do likewise. But now Bess Thornton, catching Tim suddenly by an arm, started back down the boom, saying to him, "Come on quick." He, surprised, wondering what she meant, followed.
The girl ran swiftly along the line of logs to a point a little way above the dam. There the line of the boom swung inshore in a sweep to the left. To the right of them, as they stood, was the deep, black water, flowing powerfully in the middle of the stream, and with a strong current, toward an opening in the dam. This was the long flume, a steep, long incline, down which the water of the stream raced with great velocity. It was built to carry rafts of logs through from time to time—a chute, planked in on either side, with the entrance formed by the cutting down of the top of the dam there a few feet. There was no great depth of water in the flume—no one seemed to know just how much. It depended on the height of water in the stream.
Now the girl, waving to Harvey and Henry Burns, cried shrilly for them to watch. Surprised, they ceased their paddling for a moment and looked over to where she stood.
To their amazement and Little Tim's horror, the girl, barefoot and bare-armed, and clad in a light calico frock, gave a laugh and dived into the stream. A moment more, she reappeared a few feet from the boom, and was unmistakably heading for the swift water beyond running down to the flume.
"Come back!" cried Little Tim. "You'll get drowned there. You're going into the flume."
The girl turned on her side as she swam, calling out:
"Tell 'em to come on. They'll beat the others. I've been through once before."
Again she turned, while Little Tim stood with knees shaking. Henry Burns and Harvey, seeing the girl's apparent peril, uttered each an exclamation of alarm, and headed out once more into the stream.
But they were helpless. A moment more, and they saw the girl caught by the swift rush of the water. Waving an arm just as she went over the edge of the incline, she straightened out and lay at full length, so as to keep as nearly as she could at the surface. She disappeared, and they waited what seemed an age, but was scarcely more than two minutes. Then, all at once, there came up to their ears, from far below, the clear, yodelling cry of Bess Thornton. She had gone safely through.
It was a serious moment for Tim Reardon. There wasn't a better swimmer of his size in all Benton. Only a few of the larger lads dared to dive with him from the very top of Pulpit Rock, a high point on the bank of the stream, some miles below. Now he was stumped by a girl no bigger than himself, and he felt his knees wabbling in uncertain fashion at the thought of attempting the flume. And there was his big friend, Harvey, and Henry Burns, waiting out on the water, uncertain as to what they should do. He might aid them to win the race. Or he might hang back, be beaten, himself, by a girl, and Harvey and Henry Burns would lose.
Little Tim gazed for one moment out into midstream, to where the water, black and gleaming, rushed smoothly and swiftly into the opening of the sluice-way. Then he got his voice under control as best he could, waved toward the canoe and shouted:
"Come on, Jack. I'll show yer. It's e-e-asy."
Little Tim shut his eyes, swallowed a lump in his throat, dived from the boom and made a long swim under water. When he reappeared, he was near the swift current, a little way below where the canoe lay.
"Come on, fellers," he cried again—and the next moment Henry Burns and Harvey saw him disappear over the edge of the dam. It seemed as though there had been hardly time for him to be borne down to the foot of the descent before they heard his voice, calling triumphantly back to them.
Henry Burns turned and gave one quick, inquiring glance at his companion. In return, Harvey gave a whistle that denoted his surprise at the odd turn of affairs, and said shortly, "Got to do it now. We can go through if they can. Hang that girl! Get a good brace now. Gimminy, look at that water run!"
They were on the very brink, as he spoke; and, even as he muttered the last exclamation, the canoe dipped to the incline of the chute and went darting down its smooth surface. They hardly saw the sides of the flume as they shot by. Almost instantly, it seemed, they were in the tumbling, boiling waters at the foot of it, Henry Burns crouching low in the bow, so as not to be pitched overboard; Harvey bracing for one moment with his paddle and striking the water furiously the next, to keep it on its course.
The canoe shipped water, and they feared it would be swamped; but they kept on. Then, as they swept past a jutting of ledge that bordered the lower shore, two figures standing together waved to them and cried out joyously:
"Paddle hard! Go it, Jack! Give it to her, Henry! You're way ahead. They're not half 'round the bank yet. Hooray!"
Spurred by the cries, the two canoeists plied their paddles with renewed zeal. So on they emerged into smooth water. Away up the bank, Tom and Bob, dismayed, saw their rivals take the lead in the long race—a lead that could not be overcome.
Sitting up proudly, Henry Burns and Harvey raced past the familiar shores, saw the old camp come into view, shot across the finishing line, and the race was won. Standing on the bank, they watched the others come trailing in: Tom and Bob not far behind; the Warren boys third, and the Ellisons last.
"Yes," said Tom Harris, good-naturedly, as they sat outside the camp a little later, "but you had to get a girl to show you how to beat us."
"How'd you know you could go through there, anyway?" he added, turning to the girl who, with Little Tim had come down the shore to see the finish.
"Did it to get away from gran' once," replied Bess Thornton, her eyes twinkling. "My, but wasn't she scared. It's easy, though, isn't it, Tim?"
"Easy! It's nothin'," said Little Tim.
It was evening, and the streets of Benton's shopping section were lighted; the illumination of windows serving to display the attractions arranged therein to best advantage. The night was warm and pleasant, and the passers-by moved leisurely, enjoying the sights, or pausing now and then to gaze in, as some object caught their eye.
Three boys, sauntering along one of the principal thoroughfares, stopped abruptly as one of their number called them to a halt and pointed on ahead. The object to which he pointed was a fourth youth, who was standing, with hands in his pockets, intently absorbed in the display in one of the shop windows.
"Sh-h-h!" whispered young Joe Warren to his companions, his brother George and Bob White, "look at Henry Burns. My, but that's rich. We've got one on him, all right. Hold on, let's come up on him easy."
The boys drew a little nearer to Henry Burns, grinning broadly. Henry Burns, all unmindful of such concerted observation, continued to gaze in at the brilliantly lighted window.
The contents of the window-case were, indeed, such as one would hardly have supposed to be of interest to a youth of his age. The shop was one of Benton's largest dry-goods establishments, and the particular window was devoted wholly to an assortment of women's and misses' dresses. Several more or less life-like figures, arrayed in garments of the season, occupied prominent positions in the display.
Directly in line with Henry Burns's vision was one of these: the figure of a girl, dressed in a neat summer sailor suit, the yellow curls of the head surmounted with a dashing sailor hat; its waxen cheeks tinted a most decided pink; its blue, staring eyes apparently returning the gaze of Henry Burns, unabashed at his admiration.
There was no mistaking Henry Burns's desire to form a closer acquaintance with the wax figure, for presently he approached closer to the window and stood studying it with undisguised interest.
"Seems to like the looks of her, don't he?" chuckled Young Joe, nudging Bob White and doubling up with laughter. "Wish Jack Harvey was here now to see him. Come on, let's wake him up."
Approaching softly, the three neared the unsuspecting admirer of the yellow-haired, waxen miss.
Still lost in contemplation of her, Henry Burns was suddenly greeted by a series of yells and hoots of derision that would have done credit to a wild west performance. Then roars of laughter followed, as he turned and faced them.
It was not in the nature of Henry Burns to be startled or easily disconcerted, however, and, although taken by surprise, he turned slowly and faced the three.
"Hello," he said coolly.
"Hello, Henry," snickered Young Joe. "Say, what's her name?"
"Yes, who is she?" echoed the other two; whereupon all three went off again into mingled roars of laughter and yells of delight.
"Dunno," responded Henry Burns. "I'll go in and ask, though, if you want."
"Isn't she sweet?" said Bob White. "How long have you known her?"
"Oh, not so long as you've known Kitty Clark," replied Henry Burns.
"Ow! wow!" squealed Young Joe; an exclamation which began in great satisfaction and terminated in a howl, as he felt the force of a punch from Bob's vigorous right arm.
It wasn't so easy getting the best of Henry Burns, in spite of his disadvantage.
"Seen Jack?" he inquired.
"No—yes, there he comes now," answered George Warren, pointing back in the direction whence they had come.
Henry Burns left them abruptly, and they went along, calling back at him mockingly. But he paid little heed. Anyone familiar with the youth would have known that he had something particular in mind; and in such case, Henry Burns was not to be turned aside by bantering.
Some five minutes later, Henry Burns and Harvey stood looking in at the very same shop window, whither Henry Burns had conducted his companion.
"Say—er—Jack, what do you think of that?" inquired Henry Burns, pointing in at the wax figure.
Harvey looked at his companion and grinned.
"Think of what!" he exclaimed. "The curls?"
"No, hang the curls!" said Henry Burns. "The dress."
Harvey stared at him, open-mouthed.
"Oh, yes," he said at length, as though endeavouring to grasp the meaning of so extraordinary an inquiry; "looks like Bob White's sister. What of it?"
"Oh, nothing," replied Henry Burns, "only you and I are going to buy it."
Harvey's grin expanded.
"Sure," he responded. "You'd look nice in it, Henry. Only you need the curls, too—"
"And give it to Bess Thornton," continued Henry Burns, unmindful of his comrade's remark.
Harvey whistled.
"Well, I'll be skinned if I don't think you're in earnest!" he exclaimed.
"I am," said Henry Burns. "It's eight dollars and eighty-seven cents—marked down—they always are, ain't they? Half of that's four dollars and something or other apiece. Come in with me?"
"Not much!" cried Harvey, turning red at the very thought of it. "I'll pay half, though, if you'll get somebody to buy it. It's worth more than that to me, to win that race. Well, if you don't beat all thinking up queer things. What put it into your head?"
"Why, she spoiled hers, showing us how to come through that sluice, didn't she?" said Henry Burns.
"Guess not," replied Harvey. "Spoiled long before that, I reckon. They're poor enough. Get somebody to buy the dress, and I'll pay for half, all right."
"I'm going to buy it now," said Henry Burns, coolly; "that is, if you've got any money. I've got five dollars."
Harvey produced his pocket-book and the necessary bills.
"Gee!" he exclaimed. "I wouldn't do it for a hundred dollars. Go on; I'll watch you through the window."
In no wise daunted, Henry Burns, whose critical study of the model and the garment through the window had satisfied him that the figure was of Bess Thornton's size, boldly entered the store, calmly made the purchase, ignored the inquiry of the clerk if he was thinking of getting married, and returned with it to his companion.
"Say," exclaimed Harvey, "I don't wonder you learned to sail theVikingquick as you did. You've got the nerve."
"Now we've got to take it up there," said Henry Burns.
Harvey stopped short.
"Take that dress and give it to a girl?" he asked.
"No, we won't give it to her," replied his comrade. "She might not like to have us—and I wouldn't know what to say, would you?"
"Would I!" exclaimed Harvey.
"We'll just leave it and cut and run," explained Henry Burns. "Then she won't know who sent it, and she'll have to keep it. See?"
"It's most nine o'clock," remarked Harvey.
"I'm going," said Henry Burns.
"Oh, well, I'll stand by," said Harvey. "Let's be off, then. It's a good two miles and a half, nearer three."
Shortly after, one might have seen the two comrades trudging along the road leading out of Benton, in the direction of Ellison's mill.
They walked briskly, and in a little less than three quarters of an hour a light from a window on a hill-top warned them that they were approaching the farmhouse of Farmer Ellison. They turned in from the road that ran along the bank of the stream, and made their way through his field on the hillside, in the direction of the brook.
"Does Ellison keep any dog?" asked Harvey, once.
"I don't know, any more than you do," replied his companion. "Never saw any. We'll keep well down near the brook, though, so they can't see us from the house."
They passed through some clumps of small cedars and thin birches, stumbling now and then over cradle-knolls and pitching into little depressions. It was a clear night and starlit, but the shadows in the half darkness were confusing. A lamp gleamed in the kitchen window, above them, and they could see someone moving past the window from time to time.
"Ellison hasn't gone to bed," remarked Harvey.
"Well, what of it?" replied Henry Burns. "Not scared of him, are you?"
"No," answered Harvey. "But he's touchy about this brook. Ever since he caught Willie Dodd setting a net there one night he's been crazy for fear he'd lose some of these trout."
"I know what's the matter with you," said Henry Burns. "It's this dress. You wouldn't have anyone catch us with it for a million dollars."
"You bet I wouldn't," answered Harvey.
Harvey's nerves, usually the steadiest, were not proof against even a slight alarm; for when, a few moments later, his companion touched him lightly on an arm and motioned for him to be still, he waited, keyed up to a high point of excitement and ready for a dash across the fields.
"What is it?" he whispered.
"Sh-h!" replied Henry Burns, clutching his bundle tight under one arm, and peering through the scattered alders, into which they had penetrated. "I heard a step."
They waited, anxiously.
It was Harvey's turn, however, to enjoy a laugh at the expense of his comrade, as the steps that the quick ear of Henry Burns had heard were continued, this time with an unmistakable crackling of undergrowth.
"There's your prowler, Henry," he said, laughing softly and slapping his friend between the shoulders. "She's got two horns, but I guess she won't hook, unless she sees through that box and gets a sight of that dress."
A look of relief overspread Henry Burns's face, as a Jersey cow stalked slowly through the brush and stood gazing inquiringly at the two boys. But, observing her for a moment, it did not escape Henry Burns that the animal suddenly gave a spring and turned and faced the other way, as though some noise behind had surprised her.
Henry Burns clutched his comrade and pointed back past the cow. Harvey's eyes followed where he pointed.
The figure of a man was plainly to be seen, stealing along in the shadows of the clumps of bushes.
They paused not another instant, but dashed forward, heedless now of the noise they made, thrusting branches aside and leaping from one knoll to another where the soil was boggy. At the same moment Farmer Ellison, brandishing a club, emerged into plain view and darted after them, crying out as he ran.
"Stop there!" he shouted. "I'll shoot yer if yer don't stop. I'll have no nets set in this stream. Just let me lay this club on your backs."
They only fled the faster.
"He won't shoot," gasped Henry Burns. "Make for the foot of the dam. We'll cross the brook."
As for Harvey, threats of a fire of infantry wouldn't have stopped him. He followed his slighter companion, who led the way, despite the incumbrance of the box he carried.
Through pasture and swamp the chase continued. The boys were fleeter of foot, but Farmer Ellison knew the ground. And once he skirted a boggy piece of land and nearly headed them off. They turned toward the brook, gained its shore and sped along to the foot of the dam. There the water, diminished by the obstruction, flowed from a little basin out on to shallower bottom, from which here and there a rock protruded.
Springing from one to another of these, slipping and splashing to their knees, aided here and there by a bit of half decayed log or drift-wood, they got across and scrambled up the opposite bank just as Farmer Ellison, out of breath, appeared on the nearer shore.
"You poachers!" he cried, "Ye've got away this time. But look out for the next. Remember, it's a shotgun full of rock salt and sore legs for yer if yer come again."
He seated himself by the foot of the dam, nursing a bruised shin, and watched them disappear through the fields.
"Scared 'em some, anyway, I reckon," he remarked. And was most assuredly correct in that. The two boys had not stopped in their flight, and were a mile above the crossing before Farmer Ellison turned himself homeward.
Safe from pursuit at last, Henry Burns threw himself down at the foot of a tree and laughed till he nearly choked for want of breath.
"How we did scoot," he said. "Did you see old Ellison slip once and go into the bog?"
"I didn't see anything," replied Harvey, "but a pair of legs in front of me, cutting it through the mud and brush. How's the dress?"
"Oh, it's all right," said Henry Burns. "Come out if you've got your wind. We'll leave it and get home."
They were at a point above Grannie Thornton's cottage, and they proceeded now cautiously, making a circuit to bring them to the brook some way above the house, pausing now and then to look and to listen. But no one disturbed them. Farmer Ellison had had enough of the chase and had gone home to nurse his shin.
They came down to the old house. It was dark, and all was still. Harvey waited on watch near the gate, while Henry Burns stole up to the door and laid the box down carefully against the front door. Then they sped away.
"Go back the way we came?" inquired Henry Burns, slyly.
"Not much," said Harvey. "Straight out to the main road. No more swamps for me."
They went out that way, then; took the main road, passed down by the old inn and the mill, and swung into a rapid stride for home. It was half past eleven o'clock when they turned into their beds.
Two days following this adventure, toward the latter part of the afternoon, Henry Burns was walking up the same road by the stream, in the direction of the camp, where he was to meet Tom Harris for a spin in the canoe. He had heard no footsteps near, and was therefore not a little surprised when a hand touched his arm and a laugh that was familiar sounded close by his side.
He turned quickly, and there was Bess Thornton.
"Hullo," she said, "I hoped I'd see somebody on the road. I'll walk along with you."
Henry Burns said "all right" in a tone that was not over-cordial; for, though not easily abashed, he was, to tell the truth, just a bit shy with girls, and wondered what Tom Harris would say if he saw him coming up the road with Bess.
Perhaps the girl's quick intuitiveness perceived this, for a mischievous light danced in her black eyes as she said, "I thought perhaps you'd like to have company. You would, wouldn't you?"
"Yes—oh, yes," responded Henry Burns. "Going home from school?"
"Yes," she answered. "But I didn't want to go this morning, a bit. Gran' made me, though."
"What's the matter?" asked Henry Burns.
"Well," said the girl, "I had to wear this new dress, you see. And when you wear a new dress they always say things, don't you know? Danny Davis hollered 'stuck up' once, but I punched him."
"Good for you," said Henry Burns, laughing. "I'd like to have seen you—that a new dress?"
"Course it is," she answered, with a touch of half-offended pride. "Can't you see it is?"
Henry Burns made a quick survey of the trim little figure, clad in the dress that had cost him and Harvey the hard scramble of the recent night. It was surprising what a difference the pretty suit made in the appearance of the girl. He made a mental note of the fact that it seemed just the right size for her, and that she certainly looked very nice in it. Its dark red set off the black of her glossy hair, and she wore a neat straw hat that went well with the dress. At least, it looked all right to Henry Burns.
"You don't look stuck up," he ventured. "You look first rate."
He felt the colour come into his cheeks as he said it. It was the first time in his life that he had ever complimented a girl. They were passing a dingy little store, with its windows filled with farming tools, odds and ends of household stuff and some fishing tackle, and he thought it a good chance to get away.
"Got an errand in here," he said. "Good-bye."
Some ten minutes later he emerged, looked sharply up the road and pursued his journey. He had gone scarcely a rod or two, however, when the girl's voice brought him to a halt, much taken aback. She was seated by the stream, close to the water.
"I thought you'd be along," she said. "I've been watching the pickerel. There's one sunning himself close to the top of water now, just by the lily pads. See me hit him."
She picked up a stone as she spoke, and threw it with surprising ease and accuracy. It struck the water about six inches from the dark object to which she had pointed. Henry Burns's chagrin at this second meeting was lost in admiration.
"Good shot!" he exclaimed. "How'd you know 'twas a pickerel?"
"Oh I catch 'em," she answered. "And once in a while I show one to Benny Ellison so he can shoot it. I don't like him much, though. He's mean and—fat."
Henry Burns chuckled.
"He can't help that," he said.
"No, but he's always stuffing himself with candy and things," said the girl. "And he won't ever give you any. I like people that give away things once in a while, don't you?"
Henry Burns came the nearest to blushing that he ever had, as he answered that he guessed he did. There was something in the girl's voice and manner and in her beaming countenance, telling of her happiness in the possession of her new finery—though she had feared the ordeal of wearing it to school, perhaps because of the contrast it made to her usual garment—that he felt a queer feeling in his throat. But relief was at hand for him in his embarrassment, for the path that led down to the camp was in sight, and he bade her good-bye.
He struck off along the path, through the bushes and thin growth of woods; but had gone only a little way when the sound of voices, one sharp and angry, made him pause. He retraced his steps, hurrying as he recognized the voice of Bess Thornton, the tone of which indicated grief.
He emerged into the road in time to see the girl scramble out of a clump of brakes and burdock plants by the roadside, the tears standing in her eyes as she picked the burs from the latter out of the new dress. Just in front of her, noting her distress with satisfaction, stood Benny Ellison.
"That's what you get for being so proud," he said bluntly. "You needn't get so mad, though. I was only in fun."
The girl's eyes blazed, angrily; but it was not the Bess Thornton of every day that now faced the youth. Some of her fearlessness and dash seemed to have departed, with the taking off of the old dress.
"Let me past," she said, stepping forward; but the boy blocked her way.
"Let me look at the new dress," he demanded. "Where'd you get so much?"
He caught her by an arm, as she attempted to brush past him. Greatly to his surprise, however, he felt his hand cast off and, at the same time, he was nearly upset by a vigorous push. The youth who had done this, apparently not the least excited, stood facing him as he recovered himself.
"Let the girl alone," said Henry Burns. "Let her go past."
One could hardly have noted a trace of anger in his voice, but there was a warning in his eye that Benny Ellison might have heeded. The latter, however, was no longer in a mood to stop at any warning. His flabby face reddened and his fist clenched.
"You'll not stop me!" he cried, taking a step toward the girl. "I'll push both of you in there, if you don't get out."
"Just try it," said Henry Burns, quietly.
Benny Ellison, larger and heavier than the youth who thus dared him, hesitated only a moment. Then he rushed at Henry Burns and they clinched. The struggle seemed over before it had hardly begun, however, for the next moment Benny Ellison found himself lying on his back in the road, with Henry Burns firmly holding him there.
"Let me up!" he cried, squirming and kicking. "You don't dare let me up."
By way of answer, Henry Burns relinquished his hold and allowed his antagonist to regain his feet. Again Benny Ellison, wild with anger, made a rush for Henry Burns, aiming a blow at him as he came on. Dodging it, and without deigning to attempt to return it, Henry Burns closed with him once more, and they reeled together to and fro for a moment.
If Benny Ellison had but known it, he had met with one whom Tom Harris and Bob White, who prided themselves on their athletics, and even stalwart Jack Harvey, had often found to be their match in wrestling. Slight in build, but with well-knit muscles, Henry Burns was surprisingly strong. And, above all, he never lost his head.
The contest this time was a moment more prolonged; but again Benny Ellison felt his feet going from under him, and again he went down—but this time harder—to the ground. He lay for a moment, with the breath knocked out of him.
"Want another?" inquired Henry Burns, calmly. He had not even offered to strike a blow.
Benny Ellison, picking himself up slowly from the dust, hesitated a moment; then backed away.
"I'll have it out with you again some time," he muttered. "I'll get square with you for this."
Henry Burns's eyes twinkled.
"Why not now?" he asked.
Benny Ellison made no reply, but went on up the road.
Bess Thornton's face, radiant with delight as Henry Burns turned to her, suddenly clouded.
"Guess I'll have to look out now," she said. "He'll give it to me, if he catches me."
Henry Burns's face wore an expression of mingled perplexity and embarrassment. Then, as one resolved to see the thing through, he replied, "Come on, I'll get you home all right."