“‘Huh!’ said John, as if his faithfulness to me in every fortune were quite beyond suspicion.
“‘Yes, I know,’ I insisted, ‘but a word or two would have saved me a deal of uneasiness.’
“‘Huh!’ said he.”
CHAPTER XXI
In Which a Bearer of Tidings Finds Himself In Peril of His Life On a Ledge of Ice Above a Roaring Rapid
“We passed that night at the cabin, where a roaring fire warmed me and dried my clothes,” David’s friend continued. “My packet of letters was safe and dry, so I slept in peace, and we were both as chirpy as sparrows when we set out the next morning. It was a clear, still day, with the sun falling warmly upon us.
“Our way now led through the bush for mile after mile—little hills and stony ground and swamp-land. By noon we were wet to the knees; but this circumstance was then too insignificant for remark, although later it gave me the narrowest chance for life that ever came within my experience.
“We made Swift Rapids late in the afternoon, when the sun was low and a frosty wind was freezing the pools by the way. The post at Little Lake lay not more than three miles beyond the foot of the rapids, and when the swish and roar of water first fell upon our ears we hallooed most joyfully, for it seemed to us that we had come within reaching distance of our destination.
“‘No,’ said John, when we stood on the shore of the river.
“‘I think we can,’ said I.
“‘No,’ he repeated.
“The rapids were clear of ice, which had broken from the quiet water above the verge of the descent, and now lay heaped up from shore to shore, where the current subsided at the foot. The water was most turbulent—swirling, shooting, foaming over great boulders. It went rushing between two high cliffs, foaming to the very feet of them, where not an inch of bank was showing. At first glance it was no thoroughfare; but the only alternative was to go round the mountain, as my father had said, and I had no fancy to lengthen my journey by four hours, so I searched the shore carefully for a passage.
“The face of the cliff was such that we could make our way one hundred yards down-stream. It was just beyond that point that the difficulty lay. The rock jutted into the river, and rose sheer from it; neither foothold nor handhold was offered. But beyond, as I knew, it would be easy enough to clamber along the cliff, which was shelving and broken, and so, at last, come to the trail again.
“‘There’s the trouble, John,’ said I, pointing to the jutting rock. ‘If we can get round that, we can go the rest of the way without any difficulty.’
“‘No go,’ said John. ‘Come.’
“He jerked his head towards the bush, but I was not to be easily persuaded.
“‘We’ll go down and look at that place,’ I replied. ‘There may be a way.’
“There was a way, a clear, easy way, requiring no more than a bit of nerve to pass over it, and I congratulated myself upon persisting to its discovery. The path was by a stout ledge of ice, adhering to the cliff and projecting out from it for about eighteen inches. The river had fallen. This ledge had been formed when it was at its highest, and when the water had subsided the ice had been left sticking to the rock. The ledge was like the rim of ice that adheres to a tub when a bucketful of freezing water has been taken out.
“I clambered down to it, sounded it, and found it solid. Moreover, it seemed to lead all the way round, broadening and narrowing as it went, but wide enough in every part. I was sure-footed and unafraid, so at once I determined to essay the passage. ‘I am going to try it!’ I called to John, who was clinging to the cliff some yards behind and above me. ‘Don’t follow until I call you.’
“‘Look out!’ said he.
“‘Oh, it’s all right,’ I said, confidently.
“I turned my back to the rock and moved out, stepping sidewise. It was not difficult until I came to a point where the cliff is overhanging—it may be a space of twelve feet or less; then I had to stoop, and the awkward position made my situation precarious in the extreme, for the rock seemed all the while bent on thrusting me off.
“The river was roaring past. Below me the water was breaking over a great rock, whence it shot, swift and strong, against a boulder which rose above it. I could hear the hiss and swish and thunder of it; and had I been less confident in my foothold, I might then and there have been hopelessly unnerved. There was no mercy in those seething rapids.
“‘A fall would be the end of me,’ I thought; ‘but I will not fall.’
“Fall I did, however, and that suddenly, just after I had rounded the point and was hidden from John’s sight. The cold of the late afternoon had frozen my boots stiff; they had been soaked in the swamp-lands, and the water was now all turned to ice.
“My soles were slippery and my feet were awkwardly managed. I slipped.
“My feet shot from under me. A flash of terror went through me. Then I found myself lying on my hip, on the edge of the shelf with my legs dangling over the rapids, my shoulder pressing the cliff, my hands flat on the ice, and my arms sustaining nearly the whole weight of my body.
“At that instant I heard a thud and a splash, as of something striking the water, and turning my eyes, I perceived that a section of the snow ledge had fallen from the cliff. It was not large, but it was between John and me, and the space effectually shut him off from my assistance.
“My problem was to get to my feet again. But how? The first effort persuaded me that it was impossible. My shoulder was against the cliff. When I attempted to raise myself to a seat on the ledge I succeeded only in pressing my shoulder more firmly against the rock. Wriggle as I would, the wall behind kept me where I was. I could not gain an inch. I needed no more, for that would have relieved my arms by throwing more of my weight upon my hips.
“I was in the position of a boy trying to draw himself to a seat on a window-sill, with the difference that my heels were of no help to me, for they were dangling in space. My arms were fast tiring out. The inch I needed for relief was past gaining, and it seemed to me then that in a moment my arms would fail me, and I should slip off into the river.
“‘Better go now,’ I thought, ‘before my arms are worn out altogether. I’ll need them for swimming.’
“But a glance down the river assured me that my chance in the rapids would be of the smallest. Not only was the water swift and turbulent, but it ran against the barrier of ice at the foot of the rapids, and it was evident that it would suck me under, once it got me there.
“Nor was there any hope in John’s presence. I had told him to stay where he was until I called; and, to be sure, in that spot would he stay. I might call now. But to what purpose? He could do nothing to help me. He would come to the gap in the ledge, and from there peep sympathetically at me. Indeed, he might reach a pole to me, as he had done on the day before, but my hands were fully occupied, and I could not grasp it. So I put John out of my mind—for even in the experience of the previous day I had not yet learned my lesson—and determined to follow the only course which lay open to me, desperate though it was.
“‘I’ll turn on my stomach,’ I thought, ‘and try to get to my knees on the ledge.’
“I accomplished the turn, but in the act I so nearly lost my hold that I lost my head, and there was a gasping lapse of time before I recovered my calm.
“In this change I gained nothing. When I tried to get to my knees I butted my head against the overhanging rock, nor could I lift my foot to the ice and roll over on my side, for the ledge was far too narrow for that. I had altered my position, but I had accomplished no change in my situation. It was impossible for me to rest more of my weight upon my breast than my hips had borne. My weakening arms still had to sustain it, and the river was going its swirling way below me, just as it had gone in the beginning. I had not helped myself at all.
“There was nothing for it, I thought, but to commit myself to the river and make as gallant a fight for life as I could. So at last I called John, that he might carry our tiding
s to their destination and return to Fort Red Wing with news of a sadly different kind.
“‘Ho!’ said John.
“He was staring round the point of rock; and there he stood, unable to get nearer.
“‘Ice under,’ said he, indicating a point below me. ‘More ice. Let down.’
“‘What?’ I cried. ‘Where?’
“‘More ice. Down there,’ said he. ‘Like this. Let down.’
“Then I understood him. Another ledge, such as that upon which I hung, had been formed in the same way, and was adhering to the rock beneath. No doubt there was a pool on the lower side of the point, and just below me, and the current would be no obstacle to the formation of ice. I had looked down from above, and the upper ledge had hidden the lower from me; but John, standing by the gap in the upper, could see it plainly.
“So I had but to let myself down until my feet rested on the new ledge, and this I did, with extreme caution and the expenditure of the last ounce of strength in my arms. Then a glance assured me that the way was clear to the shelving cliff beyond.
“‘You go,’ said John. ‘I go round.’
“‘All right,’ said I. ‘And, say! I wish I’d called you before.’
“‘Ho!’ said he, as he vanished.
“When John reached the Little Lake post late that night, the tidings of the safe return of the Hudson Bay Geological Expedition were on the way south by another messenger, and the company’s physician was moving over the trail towards Fort Red Wing, making haste to the aid of the young professor, whom, indeed, he soon brought back to health. The passage by the ledge of ice had resulted in a gain of three hours, but whether or not it saved the professor’s life I do not know. I do not think it did. It nearly cost me mine, but I had no thought of that when I essayed it, so my experience reflects no credit upon me whatever. I take fewer rash and reckless chances now on land and water, and I am not so overreliant upon my own resources.
“I have learned that a friend’s help is of value.”
At that moment the Ruddy Cove mail-boat entered the Tickle.
CHAPTER XXII
In Which Billy Topsail Gets an Idea and, to the Amazement of Jimmie Grimm, Archie Armstrong Promptly Goes Him One Better
While Archie Armstrong was pursuing his piratical adventure in the French harbour of St. Pierre, Billy Topsail had gone fishing with Jimmie Grimm and Donald North. This was in the trim little sloop that Sir Archibald had sent north to Billy Topsail in recognition of his service to Archie during a great blizzard from which Bill o’ Burnt Bay had rescued them both.12 There were now no fish in the summer waters of Ruddy Cove; but word had come down the coast that fish were running in the north. So up went the sails of the little Rescue; and with Billy Topsail, Jimmie Grimm and Bobby North aboard she swept daintily between the tickle rocks and turned her shapely prow towards White Bay.
There was good fishing with hook and line; and as the hold of the little sloop was small she was soon loaded with green cod.
“I ’low I got an idea,” said Billy Topsail.
Jimmie Grimm looked up.
“We’ll sail for Ruddy Cove the morrow,” Billy went on; “an’ when we lands our fish we’ll go tradin’. There’s a deal o’ money in that, I’m told; an’ with what we gets for our fish we’ll stock the cabin o’ the Rescue and come north again t’ trade in White Bay.”
Donald and Jimmie were silent; the undertaking was too vast to be comprehended in a moment.
“Let’s have Archie,” said Jimmie, at last.
“An’ poor ol’ Bagg,” said Donald.
“We’ll have Archie if he’ll come,” Billy agreed, “an’ Bagg if we can stow un away.”
There was a long, long silence, during which the three boys began to dream in an amazing way.
“Billy,” Donald North asked, at last, “what you goin’ t’ do with your part o’ the money we’ll make at tradin’?”
It was a quiet evening on the coast; and from the deck of the sloop, where she lay in harbour, the boys looked away to a glowing sunset, above the inland hills and wilderness.
“I don’t know,” Billy replied. “What you goin’ t’ do with your share, Jimmie?”
“Don’t know,” said Jimmie, seriously. “What you goin’ t’ do with yours, Donald?”
“I isn’t quite made up my mind,” said Donald, with an anxious frown. “I ’low I’ll wait an’ see what Archie does with his.”
The three boys stowed away in the little cabin of the Rescue very early that night. They were to set sail for Ruddy Cove at dawn of the next morning.
Archie Armstrong, now returned from the Miquelon Islands and relieved of his anxiety concerning that adventure by his father’s letter, was heart and soul for trading. But he scorned the little Rescue. It was merely that she was too small, he was quick to add; she was trim and fast and stout, she possessed every virtue a little craft could have, but as for trading, on any scale that half-grown boys could tolerate, she was far too small. If a small venture could succeed, why shouldn’t a larger one? What Archie wanted—what he determined they should have—was a thirty-ton schooner. Nothing less would do. They must have a thirty-ton fore-an’-after with Bill o’ Burnt Bay to skipper her. The Heavenly Home? Not at all! At any rate, Josiah Cove was to take that old basket to the Labrador for the last cruise of the season.
Jimmie Grimm laughed at Archie.
“What you laughing at?” Archie demanded, with a grin.
Jimmie couldn’t quite tell; but the truth was that the fisherman’s lad could never get used to the airy, confident, masterful way of a rich man’s son and a city-bred boy.
“Look you, Archie!” said Billy Topsail, “where in time is you goin’ t’ get that schooner?”
“The On Time,” was the prompt reply. “We’ll call her the Spot Cash.”
Billy realized that the On Time might be had. Also that she might be called the Spot Cash. She had lain idle in the harbour since her skipper had gone off to the mines at Sidney to make more money in wages than he could take from the sea. But how charter her?
“Where you goin’ t’ get the stock?” Jimmie Grimm inquired.
“Don’t know whether I can or not,” said Archie; “but I’m going to try my level best.”
Archie Armstrong left for St. John’s by the next mail-boat. He was not the lad to hesitate. What his errand was the Ruddy Cove boys knew well enough; but concerning the prospect of success, they could only surmise. However, Archie wouldn’t be long. Archie wasn’t the lad to be long about anything. What he undertook to do he went right at!
“If he can only do it,” Billy Topsail said.
Jimmie Grimm and Donald North and Bagg stared at Billy Topsail like a litter of eager and expectant little puppies. And Bill o’ Burnt Bay stood like a wise old dog behind. If only Archie could!
CHAPTER XXIII
In Which Sir Archibald Armstrong Is Almost Floored By a Business Proposition, But Presently Revives, and Seems to be About to Rise to the Occasion
Sir Archibald Armstrong was a colonial knight. His decoration—one of Her late Majesty’s birthday honours—had come to him for beneficent political services to the colony in time of trouble and ruin. He was a Newfoundlander born and bred (though educated in the English schools); and he was fond of saying in a pleasantly boastful way and with a little twinkle of amusement in his sympathetic blue eyes: “I’m a fish-merchant, sir—a Newfoundland fish-merchant!” This was quite true, of course; but it was only half the truth. Directly or indirectly, Sir Archibald’s business interests touched every port in Newfoundland, every harbour of the Labrador, the markets of Spain and Portugal, of the West Indies and the South American Republics.
Sir Archibald was alone in his cozy office. The day was raw and wet. There was a blazing fire in the grate—an agreeable bit of warmth and brightness to contrast with the rain beating on the window-panes.
A pale little clerk put his head in at the door. “Beg pardon, sir,” he jerked. “Master Archie, sir.�
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“Master Archie!” Sir Archibald exclaimed.
Archie entered.
“What’s this?” said Sir Archibald, in amazement. “Back from Ruddy Cove?”
“On business,” Archie replied.
Sir Archibald laughed pleasantly.
“Don’t make fun of me, father,” said Archie. “I’m in dead earnest.”
“How much is it, son?” This was an ancient joke between the two. Both laughed.
“You’d be surprised if you knew,” the boy returned. “But look here, father! Please don’t take it in that way. I’m really in earnest.”
“It’s money, son,” Sir Archibald insisted. “I know it is.”
“Yes,” said Archie, with a grave frown; “it is money. It’s a good deal of money. It’s so much money, dad, that you’ll sit up when you hear about it.”
Sir Archibald looked sharply into his son’s grave eyes. “Ahem!” he coughed. “Money,” he mused, “and a good deal of it. What’s the trouble, son?”
“No trouble, father,” said Archie; “just a ripping good chance for fun and profit.”
Sir Archibald moved to the chair behind a broad flat-top desk by the window. This was the queer little throne from which all business problems were viewed. It was from the shabby old chair—with a broad window behind—that all business judgments were delivered. Did an outport merchant want credit in any large way, it was from the opposite chair—with the light falling full in his face through the broad window—that he put the case to Sir Archibald. Archie sat down in that chair and leaned over the desk. Sir Archibald stretched his legs, put his hands deep in his pockets, let his chin fall on his breast and stared searchingly into his son’s face. The rain was driven noisily against the windows; the fire crackled and glowed. As between the two at the desk there was a momentary silence.
The Sea-Story Megapack Page 40
