by Morgan Scott
CHAPTER XII.
THE STORY OF THE HERMIT.
The boys had listened with deep interest to this story, told by Grangerin a manner which seemed to indicate that he had it well by heart. Afterthe tale was ended there was silence for a moment or two, broken byPiper, who observed with no small amount of sarcasm:
“Talk about imagination! I call that going some! Who ever polished upthat gem of a yarn certainly put in some fancy touches.”
“The story is said to be true,” said the visitor, with a touch ofwarmth.
“Perhaps it is,” returned Sleuth; “as true as the illuminated fictionsomeone politely sneered at a short time ago. If I had read it in abook, I’d taken it for just what it doubtless is, pure romance. Toromance I have no objection whatever, but I certainly hate for anyone totry to cram it down my throat as truth.”
“Evidently you’re a doubting Thomas,” said the narrator of the legend,who was greatly surprised that, of them all, Piper should be the onepromptly to brand the tale as fiction.
“No,” said Sleuth, “I’m a doubting William; Billy is my first name. It’sscarcely necessary for me to bring my penetrating and deductivefaculties to bear upon that yarn in order to point out the ragged holeswith which it is riddled. Who recorded this wonderful legend? Who knewall about the very thoughts of the beautiful Indian princess as she laya captive in the lodge of the great war chief, her father? I haven’tanywhere read that the North American Indians could record things by anyother method than that of picture writing of the crudest sort. And theold guy of a brave who recorded _thoughts_ in that manner would beobliged to hump himself some. I wonder who faked up that yarn?”
“You seem inclined to take everything too literally,” said Granger,seeking to repress his resentment over Sleuth’s attitude. “Perhaps ithas been touched up a bit and filled out in complete narrative form, butdoubtless, in the main, the story is true.”
But Billy shrugged his shoulders and elevated his eyebrowssignificantly.
“It makes little difference whether _you_ believe the story or not,”said the annoyed visitor. “A great many people do believe it.”
“There are always suckers ready to swallow anything,” retorted Sleuth.“Why, I suppose there are some people who actually believe this lake, orthat island out yonder, in particular, to be haunted.”
A queer look passed over Granger’s face, and for a few moments hescrutinized Piper in a perplexed manner. At first he had imagined thatof the young campers this lad would be the most ready and eager toaccept such fanciful tales as truthful, or as containing a certainamount of truth, at least. It now seemed that this sentimental,imaginative boy was the most skeptical fellow among them.
“You may believe as much as you like,” he finally said; “or as little;it makes no difference to me. The story of Lovers’ Leap, as a story,sounds very well.”
“And you tell it fluently,” murmured Piper.
Disdaining this remark, Granger went on.
“As for the other matter, it is scarcely strange that some superstitiouspeople should fancy the lake haunted. I believe it got its name in thefirst place through the tale that regularly, once a year, upon theanniversary of the tragedy, the spirits of the Indian lovers appear uponthe cliff, from which they leaped, clasped in each other’s arms.”
Sleuth smothered a snicker, upon which, unable longer to keep still,Crane, who had been deeply absorbed in the legend as related, turnedupon him savagely, snapping:
“What’s the matter with yeou, anyhaow? Can’t yeou be half perlite ifyeou try? Yeou don’t haf to listen; yeou can go off somewhere all byyour lonesome.”
The visitor flashed Sile a glance of thanks.
“There’s another reason,” he stated, “why the lake is supposed to behaunted. Almost everyone around here has heard the story of Old Lonely,the hermit whose deserted hut still stands on Spirit Island.”
“Yep,” nodded Crane eagerly, “I know abaout that yarn.”
“Perhaps the rest of us have never heard it in full,” said Grant. “I’mright sure I haven’t.”
It immediately became apparent that Granger was fully as ready to tellthis story as he had been to relate the Indian legend.
“In midwinter some ten years ago,” he began, “it was reported that therewas an old man living on Spirit Island. First his smoke was seen risingfrom the island, and then some men who came here to fish through the icesaw the recluse himself. Their curiosity aroused by the sight of thesmoke, they approached the island. But when they drew near a bearded,bare-headed man in tattered garments appeared on the shore with a gun inhis hands and a growling dog at his heels, and ordered them away. Theyattempted to talk with him, but, save to warn them of personal violenceif they persisted in intruding, he would make no conversation. All thatwinter he remained on the island, seen at rare intervals, though theringing of his axe and the report of his gun were sometimes heard.Naturally, people wondered who the stranger could be, and when thespring fishing came on some sportsmen made a second attempt to land onthe island.
“Again the hermit made his appearance with the vicious looking dog ashis companion, and warned them to keep off. They attempted to parleywith him, but the effort was discouraged, as that of the winterfishermen had been.
“For almost five years Old Lonely, as he was dubbed for want of anothername, lived there with his dog on Spirit Island. Two or three times ayear, silent and unapproachable, he appeared in Pemstock and boughtcertain absolutely necessary essentials of life that could be obtainedin no other manner. Clothing, ammunition for his gun, fishing tackle, alittle hardware and a few simple cooking utensils, together with salt,sugar, coffee, flour and tobacco made up, in the main, all of hispurchases, which were paid for with spot cash. Where he got it no onecould surmise, but the hermit always seemed to have enough money in hispocket to pay for what he bought. He engaged a man regularly to deliverthe stuff at the foot of the lake, where Old Lonely received it, loadedit into his crude flat-bottomed boat and rowed away.
“Upon every occasion when seen he was accompanied by his dog, asnarling, tooth-threatening creature, who seemed even less friendlytoward human beings in general than did his master. There were fakestories and surmises afloat concerning the hermit of Spirit Island, butnone of these hints or tales when followed up seemed to have any realfoundation of truth. All were apparently the figments of somespeculative or imaginative mind.”
At this point Piper smothered a cough, but the narrator did not evenglance in Sleuth’s direction. Absorbed in the story he was relating, hecontinued without a break.
“Naturally, some of these speculative ones were inclined to picture OldLonely as having a dark and terrible past. Others said he was a man whohad been betrayed by a friend and deserted by his wife. The latterdeclared that, having watched him when he came into Pemstock, they hadobserved that he always turned his eyes away whenever a woman drew near.At any rate, living that lonely life, the man swiftly aged. When firstseen there had been no sign of gray in his long hair or his raggedbeard, but soon the white began to show, and on his last visit to townboth hair and beard would have been almost snowy white only for the factthat they seemed soiled and dirty through the general negligence whichmarked his entire person. His clothing he wore patched again and again,until it almost dropped from his body.
“Once, having watched the island a long time and finally seen Old Lonelyleave it in his boat, two men went on and saw his crude clay-chinked loghut; but, fearing his return and believing he might make good his threatto shoot any who trespassed, they did not linger long.
“Late in the autumn, something like five years ago, some hunters heardOld Lonely’s dog howling dolefully on Spirit Island. The howlingcontinued for two full days, although it grew less frequent in itsoutbreaks and seemed to become weaker, as if the dog was losingstrength. And during those two days not a sign of smoke was perceivedrising from the island. That something had happened to Old Lonely becamethe c
onviction of the hunters, but the man’s reputation prevented themfrom making haste to investigate. Finally, however, they ventured to putout and land upon the island. The hermit did not put in an appearance tooppose them.
“Approaching the hut by way of a path made by the feet of the recluse,they beheld the door standing ajar. About the dismal place there was asilence and desolation that bespoke tragedy. When they peered in at thedoor two gleaming eyes met their gaze, and the warning snarl of a doggreeted their ears. In that inner gloom they saw the animal, gaunt andweak, lift itself upon its trembling legs to stand glaring at them, itsteeth exposed. More than that, upon a dirty bunk they perceived thesilent figure of Old Lonely, his ghastly, stony face framed in a tangleof white hair and whiskers. They called to him repeatedly, but he didnot answer and he made no move. Then they knew he was dead.
“The dog, however, weak and starving though he was, would not let thementer the hut, and finally, in order to perform what they believed to betheir duty to the dead, they shot the creature. In its dying throes ithowled once in such a terrible manner that the listeners shuddered andturned cold.”
“Ge wilikens!” breathed Crane. “I’ve heard the story before, but yeousartainly can put in the fancy touches and thrills.”
“The dog,” pursued Granger, “was buried on the island. The body of OldLonely was taken to the pauper’s plot in Pemstock cemetery. In an oldleather pocketbook upon the hermit’s person were found some newspaperclippings and other papers, which revealed the identity of the man. Inthat pocketbook there was also a small, faded photograph of a woman, andthis, it was eventually learned, was the likeness of the hermit’s wife.Old Lonely’s true name was John Calvert. Years before, in a distantstate, he had plundered a bank, for which crime he had been arrested,tried, convicted and sent to prison for twenty years. Within twelvemonths of his conviction his wife died of a broken heart. How he secureda picture of her after breaking prison, as he eventually did, can onlybe surmised.
“As an escaped convict he was hunted relentlessly, until the body of aman believed to be that of John Calvert was cast ashore by the waters ofLake Michigan. Thinking the bank looter and prison breaker dead, theauthorities quite naturally gave over the hunt. How he came to SpiritIsland and why he chose to make his home there for the remainder of hisdesolate days is likewise a matter of speculation.
“And now comes the strange, and, doubtless you will say, the improbable,part of the story. The island is said to be haunted by the ghosts of OldLonely and his dog. Venturesome ones, entertaining the belief thatCalvert had, ere his arrest, hidden a portion of his plunder, which herecovered after escaping from prison, have searched for the loot onSpirit Island, and half a hundred holes that they have dug in the groundmay be seen by anyone who cares to take the trouble and has the courageto do so.”
“Courage!” scoffed Piper, with a laugh, “Who’s afraid? Of course nosensible person believes the island is really haunted.”
Granger smiled. “You’re a brave young chap, I perceive,” he saidsarcastically. “I don’t presume you fear ghosts or anything else?”
“Nothing but cuc-cougars,” chuckled Phil Springer. “Brave as he is,Sleuthy has a certain amount of respect for cuc-cougars.”
“I’m not advertising myself as one who believes in spooks,” smiled theentertaining visitor; “but, nevertheless, even though you may feelinclined to ridicule me, I will say that I’ve seen and heard somestrange things around Spirit Island, and I’m not the only one, either.Many people have seen vanishing lights flashing there at night. Theyhave heard the weird howling of a dog. They’ve even seen white, ghostlyfigures upon the shores of the island. When Calvert’s body was found asmall eight day clock sat ticking upon a shelf above the man’s bunk, andsome of the loot hunters, venturing by day into that desolate hut, havevowed that they plainly heard the ticking of a clock coming from someunknown place. They have likewise heard strange tappings, like theknocking of ghostly fingers. Every little while people from the hotelvisit the island, but they always do so in numbers, and it would be anervy person who would go there alone, especially at night. Perhaps ourbrave friend, the doubter, would not hesitate to make such a visit, evenafter nightfall.”
The bare idea, however, was enough to cause the other boys to laughheartily, whereupon Piper rose to his feet, crying:
“I’m not chump enough to go prowling around anywhere alone at night; butI’ll tell you what, I’d just like to visit that old island in thedaytime, and I don’t take any stock in this fine, well polished ghoststory.”
