Now, while it cannot be denied that Dr. Spellman and Mike Murphy were more than ordinarily brave, yet they felt a shrinking in stealing up to the spot where the tramps had dived from the other canoe. It was their ignorance of the character of the peril which affected them more than any tangible danger could have done.
The doctor dipped his paddle in the water and gently swayed it. The boat moved slowly toward the other canoe, drifting like an eggshell over the placid surface. In leaping overboard, Buzby Biggs had flung the paddle from him and it was seen floating a couple of rods distant from the boat. Very slowly the doctor advanced until Mike leaned over and lifted the implement into their craft. Then the man sheered his boat beside the other and Mike, tossing the paddle into it, held it steady, and sat down.
“Now, docther, we can manage it, I’m thinking,” remarked the youth, looking up into the face that it seemed to him had gone a little pale.
“Can you find anything to explain the fright of the tramps, Mike?”
Both peered into the clear water, whose depth was too great for them to see the bottom, but nothing rewarded their piercing scrutiny. And right here a fact must be admitted which was not discreditable to either of them. The breath of air that sighed over the lake had swept the empty canoe fully a hundred feet from whence it was at the moment Buzby Biggs dived overboard. It followed, therefore, that when Mike and the doctor peered into the pellucid depths, it was not at the spot where the tramps had descried something which unnerved them. Moreover, each of the pursuers knew such was the case, but did not try to correct it nor did either drop a hint of his knowledge until some time afterward.
It may be added that had the doctor and his young friend paddled a little farther in the proper direction they would have solved the mystery and been overcome probably by the same panic that had driven the tramps overboard.
“Well,” said the physician, “there is nothing to be gained by staying here. Let’s go to my home, have supper and spend the evening. I know my wife will be glad to have you, and I suspect that Stubby feels a little that way herself.”
“I hope so,” replied Mike feelingly; “I may as well confess that my main purpose in going thither is to meet Sunbeam, as the callers used to say regarding mesilf whin they purtended they wanted to see dad and mither.”
Paddling at a leisurely rate, they soon drew the two canoes up the bank and stepped out. Mike paused and looked back.
“Can there be any fear of thim spalpeens poking round here while we’re not in sight?”
“It seems unlikely; since they tried that sort of thing they have been scared so fearfully that I think they will avoid us.”
“Docther, what could it have been that made them jump out of their boat and swim and dive like two crazy persons?”
“I should give a good deal to be able to answer that question, but I have no more idea than you. Let us try to content ourselves with the belief that like the cause of Uncle Elk’s resentment toward me, it will be made clear sooner or later.”
Before leaving the landing, as it may be called, they scanned the surface of the lake. The doctor generally carried his binoculars and he traced the margin clear around from their right back again to their left. There stood the bungalow with the flag idly drooping from the staff and several of the Scouts were seen lounging at the front. In no other direction was a sign of life discerned.
“I cannot discover the other canoe,” remarked Dr. Spellman, passing the glass to Mike at his side. “If the boys had returned, the boat would be in sight by the bungalow; whoever used it, they are still absent.”
“They have landed and gone into the woods to look after birds or to trace out other kinds of trees. They will be back before the set of sun.”
“No doubt, unless,” added the doctor half in earnest, “they should receive the same shock that struck Biggs and Hutt.”
“In that evint, they will be home still earlier.”
“Come on; I’m beginning to feel hungry.”
“And I’m wid ye there.”
CHAPTER IV
Curious Sights And Doings
One of the incidents which made that night memorable in the life of Mike Murphy was that it brought him a compliment, the equal of which he had never received before, nor in the years to come can any similar words so touch his heart.
Ruth Spellman, or “Sunbeam” as she was coming to be called, was so interested in his fairy stories that when the time arrived for her to go to bed she was restless and the mother feared it was something in the nature of a fever that disturbed her. The father, however, assured his wife that it was due to mental excitement and would soon pass away. When Ruth had said her prayers, kissed each good night and lain down on her cot, with the thin blanket spread over her, she still fidgeted. From the next room the three heard her tossing as children will do when sleep fails to soothe them.
Suddenly they heard her pleading voice:
“Cousin Mike, won’t you please sing to me?”
“I’ll do my bist,” he replied with a laugh, as he walked back and sat on a camp stool beside her couch, where only a small portion of the light from the front apartment reached them. He began the baby song with which his mother had often lulled him to slumber in infancy. Its exquisite sweetness was beyond description, the parents sat motionless and listening as much enthralled as the little one for whose benefit it was sung. They were almost holding their breath when Sunbeam murmured during one of the slight pauses:
“I think one of the angels you told me about, mamma, is singing.”
“I don’t wonder,” whispered the father; “I never heard anything like it.”
Five minutes later the child had drifted away into dreamland and Mike came forward and joined the two on the outside. They sat silent for a few minutes. Neither referred to the wonderful treat they had enjoyed, for it would have grated when compared with the simple words of Sunbeam. Nor did Mike speak of it, but, as has been said, his heart had been touched as never before.
It was comparatively early in the evening when he bade his friends good-by, having declined their invitation to stay over night, and walked down to the water, accompanied by the doctor.
“When you next see Uncle Elk, assure him that his wishes shall be respected by me; I shall not call at the bungalow in the evening unless you signal for me, nor do I intend to go near his home.”
Mike promised to carry out the doctor’s wishes and turned the prow of the boat south, which was the most direct course home. He glanced back, and observing that his friend had gone up the path, made a change of direction, his action showing that he did not wish the doctor to notice it.
The truth was that Mike was obsessed with what he had witnessed that afternoon. There must be an explanation of the fright of the two tramps, but he could not frame any theory that would stand for a moment.
“And I’ll niver be able to do it,” he muttered, “till I larn a good deal more than I know now, which isn’t anything at all, as Ted Ryan replied whin his taycher asked him what he knowed about his lesson.”
Now, as that which terrified Biggs and Hutt seemed to have appeared in the lake near them, it would seem that there was the spot to look for the solution of the mystery, and yet it was impossible to hit upon the precise place. He and the doctor had come pretty near it some hours before, without any result.
“We agraad that what the spalpeens saw was in the water, but that couldn’t be. It must have been on the land and that’s where I’ll hunt for the same.”
There were just as strong objections to this supposition, the chief of which was that the vagrants when they went overboard swam with frantic energy toward the shore; in other words, they made for the point where the terror was awaiting them. Moreover, their actions in diving repeatedly and glancing back proved that what they dreaded was behind them.
It was useless to theorize, for the more Mike tried it, the more puzzled he became. He decided to paddle slowly and silently to the point where the tramps had landed and mak
e his investigations there. Using his eyes and ears to the utmost, he ought to learn something, provided always there was something to learn. He certainly displayed “nerve,” but no more than he had done on other occasions.
It has been shown that the youth was only an amateur in handing a canoe, but by slowly and carefully moving the paddle, he caused scarcely a ripple and was sure no one could detect him through the sense of hearing. There was no moon, but the sky was clear and studded with stars whose brilliancy enabled him dimly to see objects at a distance of a hundred yards or so. From the first, he kept so close inshore that the undergrowth and wood were in sight and served him as a guide. Even an expert in the circumstances would not have been able to decide precisely where Biggs and Hutt left the water, but Mike was sure he was not far from the spot when he ceased plying his paddle.
He decided not to land, at least not for the present, but to halt where the bow of the canoe rested directly under the dipping branches. Thus, should it become necessary, he could slip out of sight under the leafy screen, or could retreat if it should prove advisable to do so.
An overhanging bough rested on the prow of the craft and held it motionless, a very slight force serving as an anchor in the case of so delicately poised a craft. First, with his heart beating a little faster than usual, he peered round in the gloom that shut him in on every hand. To the southward he saw the lights of the bungalow twinkling like stars, one of the windows throwing the rays well out on the lake, but in no other direction could be noted a sign of life.
“Every one of the byes, not forgitting Scout Master Hall, are there, for the ones that wint out in t’other canoe must have gone back while I was at the docther’s. They know where I wint so they won’t be worrying about me, which they wouldn’t be likely to do annyhow,” he added with a touch of his natural whimsicality, “if they didn’t know anything about me at all, at all.”
No sound reached the intently listening ears, except that deep almost inaudible murmur which is never absent in a stretch of forest or near the ocean.
“I’ll try it awhile, but if Mike Murphy knows his own heart, which he thinks he do, he isn’t going to sit in this steamboat many more—whisht!”
From a point not fifty feet distant shot out a canoe, like an arrow driven from a bow. In it a single man was seated and vigorously swinging the paddle. He had emerged from under the overhanging limbs and sped southward, absolutely without any noise at all. Mike was so startled by the apparition that he stared breathless for a minute, nor did his wits fully come back until the craft and its occupant were swallowed up in the gloom.
Not only was the unexpected appearance of the canoe startling, but the recognition of the Master of Woodcraft who drove the boat forward like a skimming swallow, added to the amazement of Mike. Beyond a doubt he was Uncle Elk. He was so near when he first darted in view that there was no possibility of mistake.
“I wonder ef I’m Mike Murphy or a big fool or jest both,” muttered the youth, when able to pull himself together. “I lift Uncle Elk in his cabin studying his primer or spelling book, and now he is in this part of the world.”
After a moment’s reflection the youth added:
“Which the same may be said of mesilf, so that don’t count. It looked to me as if he was heading for the bungalow and an interisting question comes before me: being that I obsarved him, did he return the compliment and obsarve me?”
After turning the question over in his mind, Mike said to himself:
“If I kaap at this much longer I’ll go clean daft, as Jimmy Hagan did whin he tried to whirl his two hands in opposite directions at the same time. Can it be I’m mistook?”
He sniffed the air several times and was convinced that he caught the odor of a burning cigar which could not be far off, else the nose would not have detected it when no wind was blowing.
“Uncle Elk doesn’t smoke, leastways I niver obsarved him doing the same, and if he did he ain’t here, so the perfume can’t be projuiced by him.”
He now ventured to draw his canoe nearer shore, by gently pulling the overhanging bough. It was blankly dark all around him, the foliage shutting out the star gleam, so that he had literally to feel his way. Suddenly there was a slight jar, proving that the bow had touched shore. He paused to consider whether anything was likely to be gained by leaving the craft. While it seemed almost certain that Uncle Elk had come to this lonely spot to meet some one, there was no obvious way by which Mike could assure himself on the point.
He still noted the aroma of the cigar, which he judged to be a pretty fair specimen of the weed, though he was so accustomed to the pipe of his father that he was a poor judge.
“The spalpeen can’t be fur off,” concluded Mike still gently sniffing, “and begorra! he isn’t!”
The exclamation was caused by the sound of a voice, not in speaking, but in chortling, as if pleased over something. The sound was so near that had there been the least illumination Mike must have seen the one from whom it came. Then a second person—as the peculiar sound proved—joined in the ebullition, the two so near together that otherwise the listener would have thought the laugh came from one.
“It’s them tramps!” was the thought of the startled Mike; “though one of ’em wouldn’t be smoking a cigar unless he stole it or Uncle Elk had give the same to him.”
It was unpleasant thus to associate the hermit with the pestiferous vagrants with whom the youth had had much trouble already. He waited for the strangers to speak, but they did not seem to care to do so. Once he thought he saw the glowing end of the cigar, but was probably mistaken, for a second look failed to reveal it, nor did either of the men laugh again.
With a feeling akin to disgust, Mike stealthily worked his canoe from under the overhanging boughs and set out on his return to the clubhouse.
CHAPTER V
Concerning Certain American Trees
As Mike Murphy approached the landing he saw the second canoe drawn up the beach, which was proof that his friends had returned from their excursion to the western end of the lake. The bright light from the main room of the clubhouse showed that the Boy Scouts were gathered there and he decided to go in.
The night was so mild that no fire burned on the broad hearth, but the suspended lamp filled the apartment with a soft illumination which served almost as well as midday. Jack Crandall, the hero of the broken leg, sat in his invalid chair in front of the fireplace and at his side was Uncle Elk. Jack had been listening to the reports of his young friends who had been investigating trees, but were mostly interested in bird lore. The comments which Jack made on the written notes as read to him showed that he was the best informed of any of the Scouts concerning birds. He cleared up many doubts and answered questions so intelligently that the venerable Instructor in Woodcraft complimented him.
Mike came through the open door so silently that none of the boys noticed him. No chair being available, he sat down on the floor, as the majority had already done. He was near the entrance and aimed to avoid observation, but as Uncle Elk from his position faced him it was probable he noticed the lad, as did Jack Crandall, who also fronted that direction.
The reports and the comments thereon having been finished, the old man was speaking:
“To make satisfactory progress in acquiring knowledge,” said he in his low, musical voice to which all listened with alert interest, “you must do so systematically. In our tramp through the woods the other day we picked up a good deal of information, but it was haphazard. We talked of trees as we came across them, but it was fragmentary and ten times as much was left unlearned as was learned. I am glad to know that your Scout Master has followed the right course in directing your study of our native trees, not alone in Maine but as far north as Canada, westward to the Rockies and down to the northern boundaries of the Southern States. The subject is too vast for us to cover in one evening or in a dozen evenings. Let us rather summarize. We shall put our wits together and see how many families we can name, without giving
the different species under each. The first is the magnolia family, of which there are four varieties, while under the custard apple there is but one, the papaw. Now let me hear from you.”
Nearly an hour was spent during which scarcely a boy in the room kept silent. The pleased old man nodded his head and finally raised his hand for quiet.
“I believe you have mentioned about all. Now, while Isaac jots down the names at the table, let’s try to evolve something like order therefrom. Are you ready?”
Isaac Rothstein nodded and held his lead pencil over the paper. Here is the list upon which all finally agreed:
Magnolia, custard-apple, linden, rue, ailantus, holly, staff-tree, buckthorn, rose, pea, sumach, maple, horse chestnut, heath, honeysuckle, dogwood, ginseng, witch hazel, ebony, olive, begonia, laurel, mulberry, elm, plane-tree, walnut, birch, beech, willow, pine, yew and oak.
“None of you has seen all of these,” continued the old man, “but I hope you will have the opportunity of studying their peculiarities sometime. To illustrate what a rich treat is before you, we shall give a few minutes’ attention to the oak family, concerning which you may think I had considerable to say the other day. Let me show you how much was left unsaid.
“Most persons think of the oak as a slow grower. This is true of two or three species but not of the family. The majority need a hundred years to attain perfection and they rarely bear acorns until twenty years old. The acorn requires no protection in order to mature, and those that are not eaten by wild animals or trodden under foot do their work well. The quercus is one of the longest-lived trees.”
“What is the greatest age that they attain, Uncle Elk?” asked Scout Master Hall, one of the most interested in the audience.
“It is impossible to say, but there is little doubt that many of them flourish for a thousand years. There are vigorous oaks today in England that were old in the time of William the Conqueror. The famous White Oak of Hartford, in which Captain Wadsworth hid the charter two hundred and twenty-five years ago, was several centuries old at the time, and it was not until the summer of 1856 that a windstorm brought it to the ground. While it is one of the most valuable of the family, the white oak is in danger of extinction, because of its value as timber and on account of the sweetness of its nuts, which makes it a favorite with wild creatures that will not eat the bitter acorns of other oaks. You know the white oak is so called because of the color of its bark, which however is generally an ashen gray. Can any of you tell me the name of the oak that is fifty feet or slightly more in height, grows in Texas, has a fine-checked bark nearly the color of the white oak, with an awkward form and has shoots along the whole length of its branches, with the leaves coarse and rough on both sides? I shall not wait for you to guess the name, which is the post oak.
The Edward S. Ellis Megapack Page 315
