The Edward S. Ellis Megapack

by Edward S. Ellis

  “Suppose we don’t get the invitation,” suggested Mike.

  “I should like to see him avoid giving it, even if the dinner hour is past, which it is likely to be before we can reach his place.”

  Mike’s rugged health and sturdy strength gave him as keen an appetite as that of his companion, and a good meal would be as welcome to him-as to Hoke. Moreover, the situation was such that they could hardly hope to reach the clubhouse before nightfall. He therefore inclined to the plan of calling at the house where they were sure of welcome, but it will be borne in mind that in order to do this, they would have to give over or at least postpone the investigation they had intended to make at the point where Mike had heard voices and seen Uncle Elk the night before, since this lay to the westward of the physician’s camp.

  Accordingly the youths turned deeper into the wood, going well beyond sight of the lake, intending to approach their destination by a circuitous course. Not wishing to run against Uncle Elk and the strangers, they made sure of not doing so.

  You need not be reminded that one of the easiest things in the world is to lose your way in a wilderness. Mike Murphy seemed peculiarly subject to this misfortune, as has been shown in the previous pages. He kept in the lead, as he had done from the first, his friend quietly following and paying no attention to his own footsteps. By and by it struck Hoke that it was time they reached the doctor’s dwelling. He looked searchingly ahead and around, but saw nothing except the tall, column-like trunks, with considerable undergrowth here and there. Naught that resembled the most primitive dwelling was in sight, nor was there a sign of any person having passed that way.

  “Hold on, Mike!” he called abruptly to his friend, and the latter halted and looked back.

  “I’m doing that, and what is it ye want of me?”

  “Where are we?” asked the puzzled fellow.

  “I’m thinking we’re here, as I remarked whin I fell off the house. What do ye think?”

  “Of course we are somewhere near Gosling Lake, but I believe we have strayed off and are lost.”

  “It’s mesilf that don’t see how that can be, though I can beat any gentleman that walks on two legs in going the wrong way. The first time I started to go upstairs, I opened the cellar dure and bumped all the way to the bottom, and when I was faaling me way fur the cellar dure, I tumbled out the parlor windy. Then mither sent me on an errand to Widow Mulligan’s and instead of stepping onto the porch, I put my fut over the well curb and didn’t find out the difference till I hit the bottom of the well. So you see, Hoke, that that wakeness is my strongest p’int.”

  “Where do you think the lake lies?”

  “I’m not as far gone as that; head that way and you’ll walk straight onto the same.” Mike pointed his shillaleh to the left, whereupon his friend laughed.

  “Just what I expected; you’re away off.”

  “What do ye make it,—since you saam to think you can make no mistake?”

  “I never lose my bearings,—you can depend on me. That direction leads to the lake.”

  The joke of it was that Hoke instead of deviating more or less from the course pointed out by Mike, chose one that was the opposite.

  “Are ye in airnest?” asked Mike.

  “Never more so.”

  “I’m glad to larn that, for I don’t like such jokes, as Jim O’Hara said whin the policeman broke his club over his head. Ye are wrong.”

  “I’m positive I am not.”

  “And I’m positive ye are,—and the only way to sittle the question according to common sinse is to toss up. What do ye say?”

  “I don’t see how that can settle any question; but have it your own way.”

  Mike took a Lincoln penny from his pocket and balanced it in his hand.

  “If it comes down a hid, ye take my course; if a tail, yours.”

  Hoke nodded to signify he agreed, and the other flipped the coin aloft, each watching as it turned over rapidly and fell upon the leaves between them, but lo! it rested on its edge, being supported vertically against a pine cone. In other words it was neither a head nor tail, but a “cock.”

  Usage requires that in such a case a new toss must be made, but when Mike picked up the penny he shoved it into his pocket and shook his head.

  “The maaning of that,” he explained, “is that we are both wrong.”

  “How then shall we find the true course?”

  “Make a guess, as I used to do in answering the taycher’s questions—Hist!”

  Before the experiment could be made, they were startled by hearing the report of a gun or a pistol from some point not far off, though the direction was different from either that had been indicated.

  As they listened, a second, third and fourth report rang through the forest arches, followed quickly by two more, and all was still.

  There might be several explanations of the incident, but it was idle to spend time in guessing, when it was easy to learn the truth. Mike, followed by his friend, walked rapidly toward the point whence the reports had come, and a few minutes later everything was clear.

  Dr. Spellman was standing in a space free from undergrowth and practising with his revolver. With his knife he had gashed the bark off a sapling several feet above the ground, so as to show a white spot the size of a dollar. Standing a dozen or more paces distant, he aimed carefully and put the whole six bullets within a spot not more than two inches in diameter, three of them being bull’s eyes.

  “I couldn’t do better mesilf!” exclaimed Mike, when he understood the feat.

  “You can’t tell till you try; I am not sure you are not an expert.”

  “Nor am I, though I have me doubts.”

  Having reloaded the weapon the doctor handed it to Mike, who slowly raised his arm to a level, shut one eye, and squinted some seconds over the short barrel, while the doctor and Hoke, standing a foot or two to the rear, kept their eyes upon the little white spot in the distance. Then a sharp crack sounded and the marksman lowered the pistol.

  “Did ye obsarve where me shot landed?” he asked of his friends.

  “I think it nipped the leaves somewhere overhead,” replied Hoke.

  “I scorn to notice yer slur: what do ye say, docther?”

  The physician said nothing, but walked to the sapling, the others trailing after him. Taking out his pocket knife, he began digging with the blade into the soft wood. From the very center of the white spot, he gouged out a pellet of lead, and held it out to Mike.

  “That is yours; you made a perfect bull’s eye.”

  “Av course; did ye doubt I would do the same?”

  “Hooh! all chance! you can’t do it again,” called Hoke, uttering a truth that was as apparent to Mike as to the others.

  “It’s yer turn,” replied the hero of the exploit; “do ye make the attempt yersilf; if ye can equal me, then I’ll take me turn again.”

  CHAPTER XIII

  The Committee of Investigation

  Lightning seldom strikes twice in the same place, though I have known it to do so, and Mike Murphy was too wise to try a second shot, when there was not one chance in a million of repeating his feat. With his loftiest air he proposed that he and Hoke should take turns in displaying their skill.

  “I’ve made a bull’s eye,—do the same or betther and I’ll take a whack and beat that,—and so it will go. Am I corrict, dochther, in me sintiments?”

  “Undoubtedly; you can’t refuse Mike’s offer, Hoke.”

  The latter saw he was caught and accepted the weapon as if eager for the test, though it need not be said it was otherwise. A vague hope stirred him that the same exceptional success might reward his effort. He aimed with the care and deliberation shown by Mike, and then pulled the trigger five times in rapid succession.

  “One of the bullets will be sure to land,” was his sustaining thought, but nothing of the kind took place. Close examination by the three showed that Hoke had not so much as grazed the trunk of the sapling.

  Neithe
r Mike nor the doctor laughed, restrained from doing so by a chivalrous sympathy, for Hoke could not wholly hide his chagrin. Mike went so far as to say:

  “Hoke, it was a chance shot on me part, and I couldn’t do it agin in my life time.”

  “And now let us adjourn to dinner,” said the doctor; “it is later than usual, but the folks will wait for me.”

  No words could be more welcome, but the fun of the proceeding was that the direction taken by the man showed that Hoke and Mike were both wrong—as the former had intimated—in locating the lake. The former grinned and the latter answered with a wink. The theme was one concerning which it was best to say nothing.

  The call at the forest home of Dr. Spellman was so similar to what has been described that it need not be dwelt upon. Sunbeam showed her preference for the genial Irish youth, who certainly reciprocated her affection, as he did in the case of Nora Friestone, whom he had met the preceding summer farther up the Kennebec. The mother was always gracious and won the good opinion of every one with whom she was brought in contact.

  When the meal was finished, and while mother and child were busy setting things to rights, the doctor talked with his guests. Mike made known all that had occurred since his previous meeting with the physician. The latter was much interested in the experience of that forenoon.

  “I never saw that pile of logs, which is doubtless the remains of some fisherman or hunter’s cabin that either was never finished or has been allowed to fall into decay. I must add one thing, however,” said the doctor gravely; “I don’t like the way those tramps are acting.”

  “It strikes me that about the only thing they are doing is getting scared half to death or swimming or running for life.”

  “But why do they stay in this neighborhood? The hobo doesn’t take to the woods for long, though he may hide there when the officers make it too hot for him. What can there be in this part of the world that attracts them?”

  “They may be looking for a chance to steal from the Boy Scouts,” suggested Hoke.

  “The last persons two hobos would tackle. What chance would they have against twenty vigorous, active, fearless youths, who despite their peaceful principles are yearning for stirring adventure?”

  “Then it must be you, doctor, that they have designs upon.”

  “I half suspect as much; I have been considerate to them despite their insolence, more so than I shall be again if they annoy us further.”

  Turning upon the youths, Dr. Spellman asked a question that fairly took away the breath of the two Boy Scouts.

  “Has either of you seen Uncle Elk and those tramps together?”

  Hoke was not sure he understood the question. Mike was shocked.

  “Why should they be togither, docther, unless the spalpeens called at his cabin for food? Ye know his latchstring is always out, but I’ve niver known of their being in his company.”

  “Didn’t you hear them laughing or talking last night, along shore, and not far from this spot?”

  “Be the same token I heerd two men, but they were not the tramps.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Uncle Elk told me so.”

  There was reproof in Mike’s tones, for he resented the slightest reflection upon the hermit, whom he held in high regard. The doctor made no reply to the words of the youth, but smoked his cigar hard and seemed to be turning over something in his mind that was of a displeasing nature.

  Mike knew of course of the unaccountable antipathy that Uncle Elk showed toward the physician who was spending his outing in this part of Maine. Alvin Landon and Chester Haynes were as much mystified as the Irish youth, and the doctor himself claimed to have no theory that would account for it. The last remark of the medical man sounded as if he reciprocated the dislike of the hermit. Not only that but doubtless he mistrusted him.

  “You don’t seem any nearer the solution of the tramps’ behavior yesterday than you were at the time, and it looks to me as if you will have to wait until Uncle Elk is ready to tell you.”

  “There saams no ither ch’ice, docther, though I’m riddy to make another try for the same. Will ye jine us?”

  “No; there will be danger of Uncle Elk and me meeting, and I am no more anxious for it than he is. I don’t believe you will learn anything.”

  “We sha’n’t by standing here, as Mickey Lanigan said whin the bull was charging down upon him—whisht! what have we now?”

  Alvin Landon and Chester Haynes walked out of the wood and smilingly made the Boy Scout salute.

  “Just in time not to be too late for dinner,” was the warm greeting of Dr. Spellman, as he shook hands with the lads. They protested that they could not permit his wife to bother with preparing a meal, when the regular one had been finished a short time before, but the hospitable host would not listen, and I am compelled to say the objections of the guests were not very vigorous. All entered and crowded themselves as best they could into the limited space.

  As the two ate, Mike and Hoke told them of their experience at the western end of the lake earlier in the day, while the new arrivals had their own interesting story to relate. They had seen two strangers enter Uncle Elk’s cabin, only to depart soon after in his company, as the canoe was paddled away. The rather curious feature of this proceeding was that neither Mike nor Hoke, who had scanned the lake more than once, caught sight of the craft, and Dr. Spellman heard of it for the first time, though of necessity the canoe passed quite close to his home.

  Whatever the thoughts of the physician may have been he kept them to himself. He had already expressed his distrust of Uncle Elk to Mike Murphy, who was quick to resent it, and it would be the same with Alvin and Chester, for they held the old man in too much esteem to listen with patience to anything in the way of censure of him.

  It might have been difficult for the doctor to convince any unprejudiced person that there was the slightest understanding between the recluse or the vagrants. In fact, the only foundation for such a charge, not taking into account the mutual antipathy, was the knowledge which Uncle Elk showed of the cause of the hobos’ panic. And yet there was a reasonable explanation of such knowledge, which would have acquitted the old man of any improper motive, and it was singular that it did not occur to Dr. Spellman.

  The explorers, as they may be called, now numbered four. With warm thanks to the members of the family they bade them good-bye and set out to continue their quest.

  It will be borne in mind that the spot which they were to visit lay quite a little way to the westward of Dr. Spellman’s home. It was there that Mike Murphy had passed under the overhanging vegetation from which Uncle Elk soon afterward emerged, and where the Irish youth had detected the odor of a cigar and heard chuckling laughter. Mike and Hoke by pushing into the woods, and partly losing their way, had left this locality so far to one side that they saw nothing of it. The four now intended to make their way thither.

  “Couldn’t it be that Uncle Elk wint back, while ye were thramping to the docther’s house?” asked Mike, as they straggled forward.

  “There wasn’t fifteen minutes at a time that we were out of sight of the lake,” replied Alvin; “we surely should have seen him.”

  “He might have come back through the woods.”

  “That is true,” said Chester, “but I see no reason why he should do so.”

  “Doesn’t the same gintleman do lots of things for which we see no raison?”

  “Far more than we can understand. Now I have been wondering whether he won’t be offended by our trying to pry into matters which should not concern us.”

  “I think it is the other way,” said Alvin; “he is amused by our curiosity, and doesn’t tell us the secret because he enjoys our efforts to discover it for ourselves.”

  “And there’s no saying how long his fun will last,” commented Mike, who because of his previous visit to this section took upon himself the part of guide.

  They had tramped less than half an hour when Mike halted and looke
d about him with a puzzled air.

  “We oughter to be there,” he remarked, “but it saams we’re somewhere ilse.”

  Alvin pointed to where the undergrowth, a short distance in advance, was less abundant than in other places.

  “There seems to be a wagon track that has been traveled lately.”

  Hurrying over the few paces, they found the supposition correct. There were the ruts made by wagon wheels and the deep impression of horses’ hoofs. The greatest wonder was how any team could drag a vehicle through such an unbroken forest. Trees stood so close together that there seemed hardly room for a wheelbarrow to be shoved between, and yet a heavily laden wagon had plunged ahead, crushing down bushes and even small saplings, with the hubs scraping off the bark from large trunks, but ever moving undeviatingly in the direction of Gosling Lake.

  “It’s the trail of the chuck wagon!” exclaimed Chester; “it brings our supplies that are taken across to the bungalow.”

  “And this is the day for it,” added Alvin, who had scarcely uttered the words when a threshing of the wood was heard, accompanied by the sharp cracking of a whip and a resounding voice:

  “Gee up! Consarn you, what’s the matter with you? You’re purty near there!”

  Two powerful horses, tugging at a ponderous open wagon piled high with boxes of supplies, labored into sight, while the driver, a lean, sandy-haired man perched on the high seat, snapped his whip, jerked the lines, clucked and urged the animals to do their best, which they certainly did.

  The boys stepped aside out of the way of the team, and saluted the driver as he came opposite and looked down upon them. He nodded, but nothing more, for his animals required his attention. Our young friends fell in or followed the wagon to the edge of the lake only a brief distance away, where the driver flung his reins to the ground and leaped down. He was bony, stoop-shouldered, without coat or waistcoat, and had his trousers tucked into the tops of his cowhide boots.

  “Say, I see by your dress you b’long to the Boy Scouts,” he remarked, addressing the whole party.

  “We are proud to say we do,” replied Alvin.