by Van Reid
The sun stretched the shadows cast by Minmaneth Rock, and streaks of light penetrated the cavelike hollow beneath the massive overhang. James sat down on the slope, rested his elbows on his knees, and raised the field glasses. To the naked eye, the shore rose gently and disappeared in the gloom below the igneous formation, but his lenses revealed to him a damp, ferny place that gave no indication of human influence.
He was certain, however, that human industry had visited that forsaken place; felt sure, in fact, that his brother had stood beneath that giant rock. It was difficult, from this distance, to judge the dimensions of the granite out-crop, but he guessed that a dozen men could easily stand beneath it.
It occurred to him to investigate the perimeters of the lake; he had, after all, every indication that others were interested in the mystery surrounding his daughter’s bequest. Who was to say that those others had not followed them, or even preceded them to these acres?
“So, Mr. Underwood,” came a voice from behind him. “Do you think that your brother’s cryptic note leads to that piece of rock?”
John Benning stood several yards above him on the slope. “Yes, son, I do,” said James. He turned back to the view below them, indicating by his easy manner that John was welcome to join him.
“Have you learned anything about Mr. Scott?” asked John, plunking himself down.
“Not much. He is not a great talker. Have you?”
“Not really. But he was very quick to inform us about the name of that rock over there.”
“Yes, he was,” replied James. “And that leads me to believe that he can be trusted.” He regarded John Benning’s raised eyebrows. “If the false Charles Stimply, or the man whom you caught eavesdropping, or whoever is behind them was aware of a place named Minmaneth Rock, they wouldn’t need us here to find what they’re looking for. And if Mr. Scott knew anything about my brother’s message, or the circumstances of Cordelia’s inheritance, there would be little reason for him to point it out so quickly.”
“You’re right, of course,” said John. “It’s just that that fellow last night, spying through keyholes, has me nervous.”
James smiled. “Well, in that case, do a bit of spying yourself.” He passed John Benning the binoculars, raised himself to his feet with a minimum of creaking, and walked back up the slope in hope of finding a crackling fire and a brewing pot of tea.
When John Benning reappeared in camp, the sunset glowing behind him, Cordelia almost resented his presence. How she would have basked in the revelation of this place—the beauty of it; even the mystery presented by the presence of Minmaneth Rock could not so complicate the pleasure of discovery as the exhilarating nearness of this handsome young man.
But matters of the heart will take precedence, and Cordelia’s enjoyment was partially lost in the anxious attraction between John Benning and herself. She felt that her emotions were drawn too thin, and was exasperated, as one might be at the arrival of welcome company just as one has reached the last chapter of a good book.
The light of the campfire took over its tiny kingdom at the top of the hill, and more than one member of the party thought briefly that it was better than Morse code for announcing their presence.
Mr. Scott did not join the party, but sat on a box by the tent that he would be sharing with Ethan and John Benning. Seated beyond the brighter perimeters of the firelight, he pulled a small knife from one pocket, the beginnings of a wooden hand-carving from another, and proceeded to whittle. He seemed uninterested, even unaware, of the conversation around him, until Mercia drew him into it.
“And how long have you been a guide, Mr. Scott?” she asked.
He hesitated as he made certain that he had been spoken to, hesitated again as he calculated in his mind. “Nearly seven years, ma’am,” he said.
“And do you enjoy it?”
Mr. Scott had gone back to his work, and so he paused again. “Yes, I suppose I do.”
“But in the winter . . .”
“I have a place north of town,” he said. “Simply keeping warm and fed in those months occupies a person.”
“The woods must be beautiful in the winter,” offered Priscilla.
“They are very . . . empty,” he replied without disagreeing with her. “There are signs of life, of course—the tracks of mice and rabbit and deer, the sounds of the ravens and chickadees—but there is a particular stillness when there is only snow underfoot and the songbirds have gone.”
“It sounds lonely,” said Cordelia quietly, hardly aware that she had spoken. The proximity of John Benning had made her self-conscious, and she had said little since dinner.
“One can feel lonely in a crowd, Miss Underwood,” said Mr. Scott.
Cordelia looked up and saw his eyes shining with the firelight in her direction.
John Benning caught the subtle change of expression in her face and looked past his shoulder at the guide. “Dresden,” he said. “Did I hear that correctly?”
The guide did not respond immediately.
“Your first name?”
“Yes.”
“I have never heard it used for a person’s name before,” pressed John.
“My mother was born there, in Germany,” he specified, since in the State of Maine there is also a town called Dresden.
“But you sound a touch of the highland,” said Mercia, “which would explain your surname.”
“My father was from Edinburgh,” explained the guide. “They met on the passage over. We lived in Halifax when I was young and my mother insisted that I speak like a native.” He looked as if he had said more than he had intended and he returned to his carving.
“Are you related to Sir Walter?” asked Cordelia, with such brightness and interest in her voice that Mr. Scott smiled.
“From some distance, I am told,” he said.
“I greatly admire him,” she said.
“I won’t hold it against you,” he replied, and if this was an attempt to be wry, it was an awkward one; if it was an attempt to put paid to the conversation, it was successful. Cordelia thought that he cut himself with his knife, but she could not tell for sure in the wavering light of the fire, and he gave no indication of it as he continued to work the small piece of wood. Once the conversation had turned to other topics, however, she saw him put the edge of his thumb to his mouth.
54 Mister Walton Proves His Mettle
THUMP’S VOICE CARRIED LIKE A CRY OF “EUREKA!” OVER THE RIVER, ECHOing from the bank of ancient shell heaps on the opposite shore, and the rest of the party turned to regard him on the slope above; he did look stimulated, almost like a prophet with that magnificent beard and the light of triumph in his eye.
“That’s it!” he cried again. “I do beg your pardon,” he added. “The answer to a recent conundrum.” He appeared embarrassed.
“It is remarkable how often we find answers when we are not looking for them,” said Miss McCannon graciously. She held her hand out to Eagleton, who stood near to her. “I am Phileda McCannon.”
“Good heavens!” said Mister Walton, realizing that he had been remiss. “I haven’t introduced everyone!”
“Christopher Eagleton,” said that man, taking Miss McCannon’s hand.
“This is my brother, Jared.”
“Matthew Ephram,” continued Eagleton. “And Joseph Thump.”
And so went this mutual presentation, everyone standing upon the bank with one foot lower than the other. Mister Walton apologized for his oversight. “I don’t believe you know Sundry Moss,” he said.
“I am familiar with a moss or two, but not sundry,” said Ephram. He shook Sundry’s hand, waiting for Mister Walton to introduce the young man.
“Really,” said Mister Walton. “Are there Mosses in Portland, then?”
“Oh, yes, I expect so,” replied Ephram. “At Deering Oaks, certainly.”
“Perhaps they are related,” suggested Mister Walton, amiably.
“I suppose they might be,” said Ephram, wit
h great thought. He had never felt any noticeable enthusiasm for moss, but Mister Walton’s interest caused him to wonder if he hadn’t overlooked a subject of some fascination.
Eagleton and Thump also waited to catch Sundry’s name. Sundry, for his part, was aware of the misunderstanding and prepared to enjoy it.
“I read somewhere,” stated Eagleton, “in a book, I think, that all mosses are related.”
“How many do you suppose there are?” wondered Thump.
The conversation had taken an odd turn, and Mister Walton was about to clarify matters when Sundry himself spoke up.
“There are eleven Mosses in Edgecomb,” he said.
“In that town alone,” said Eagleton, impressed by this firsthand knowledge. “Christopher Eagleton,” he said, shaking Sundry’s hand again in hopes of gaining his name.
“I am glad to meet you,” said Sundry. “Yes.”
“I am sure that you will find various moss in most towns,” suggested Ephram.
“Actually,” said Sundry, “you will find Varius Moss in Richmond.”
The three friends digested this in silence.
“At the lumber mill there.”
Mister Walton cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should continue this conversation on the other side of the river.” The look of pure innocence on Sundry’s face made him chuckle.
“Certainly!” said Eagleton. He was thinking of Alfred Lofton’s assertion that Mister Walton had used sundry moss to protect himself and was keen on knowing how it was done.
Thump again brought up the rear, wondering who this young man was who was so knowledgeable about botany. It occurred to him, as he walked, that some inspiration had stopped him in his tracks, and it was a moment before he recalled it to mind. “Ah, yes!” he said to himself.
There it was, as Thump brought up the rear. And there it was, as they partook of the remainder of that well-stocked picnic. And it was still there when the steamboat came by on its last run of the day and picked up the increased party for the trip back to town.
Even if Thump had not cried out “That’s it!” during their descent to the river, Ephram and Eagleton would have known that something was up from the glow of Aristotelian inspiration upon his face. As they waved with the rest of the group to the dwindling figures of Jared McCannon and Professor Chadbourne, Ephram and Eagleton wondered when Thump would share his revelation with them.
“And so,” asked Miss McCannon of the members, “you haven’t told me how you know Mister Walton.”
“He is . . .” said Ephram haltingly, “ . . . our chairman.”
“Pardon me?” said Mister Walton, unsure of what he had heard.
“We have a club, you understand,” explained Eagleton.
“How nice,” said the woman. She glanced at Mister Walton, as if he might add something to this explanation.
“Have you a mission, yet, for your association?” wondered the bespectacled fellow.
“I do believe we are getting closer to that,” averred Ephram.
“What is the name of your society?” asked Miss McCannon.
“We haven’t actually got a . . .” began Eagleton, when Thump, quite uncharacteristically, interrupted him.
“The Moosepath League!” he declared bluntly.
One corner of Miss McCannon’s mouth and an eyebrow rose. Mister Walton laughed delightedly. Sundry folded his arms. Ephram and Eagleton looked astonished.
“Thump!” said Ephram.
“My good man!” said Eagleton.
“The Moosepath League!” said Thump again.
“That’s it!” shouted Ephram, echoing Thump’s earlier declaration. It was so fitting, so tied up with their club’s short history, so very rugged in its sound! “The Moosepath League!” said Ephram, trying the name in the air.
“My good man!” said Eagleton again, pumping Thump’s hand ecstatically. “The Moosepath League!” It had such a ring to it, such an implication of adventure, such a clamor of the outdoors! “That’s it!” he agreed.
“The Moosepath League,” said Thump.
“Congratulations,” said Mister Walton.
“My dear sir,” said Thump with great formality. “It was your own self who put the words together.”
“Indeed, it was!” remembered Eagleton.
“Good heavens!” cried Ephram. “It’s true! Thump has named our club, but it was Mister Walton who provided the inspiration!” And another round of hand shaking ensued.
How glorious! In one afternoon their chairman had rescued them from a wild animal, recovered the object of their quest, provided them with a delicious meal (prepared by Miss McCannon, to be sure), furnished them with transportation back to town (perhaps a matter of accident to less enthusiastic minds), and now called into play the very name by which their club would be hailed throughout its splendid history!
Tears sprung to Thump’s eyes, and Mister Walton laughed again as the bearded fellow embraced his chairman.
It is remarkable that so little remains to mark the evening of July 10th, 1896, in Damariscotta, Maine. There is a brief reference in a local journal that resounds with none of the excitement that must have been experienced by those attending the Lincoln Hall that night. There is, to be sure, Captain John Taylor’s account to his brother. Now let me tell you, he wrote, what happened that very evening at the Lincoln Hall, and you will think that things have grown rather wild hereabouts. . . .
Most important, of course, is the inscription on the wall of the dressing room, stage left, of the Lincoln Hall itself—for it marks the camaraderie of the evening’s adventures, the source of a local legend, and the beginning of a noble and long-lived tradition.
The inscription can be seen there still.
Looking from the dining room of the Maine Hotel, Mister Walton could see the town’s main thoroughfare filling with carriages and traps as people gathered for the evening’s entertainment. There was excitement and pleasantry in the dining room itself as the guests chatted over dessert.
It was in the course of dinner conversation that the term chairman was employed several times by the members of the club, and Mister Walton realized finally that they were referring to himself.
“Why, yes,” said Ephram, upon questioning. “Didn’t you know?”
“Know what, my friend?” asked Mister Walton.
“I suppose he wouldn’t know,” said Eagleton.
“We have perhaps been hasty in conferring this position without Mister Walton’s knowledge,” said Ephram to Eagleton.
“We have perhaps taken much for granted in imagining that he would accept,” agreed Eagleton.
“Good heavens!” said Thump, looking discomforted. “Have we been impertinent?”
The three took on an air of uncertainty, and Ephram stood slowly, like a student ready to take the blame for a class prank. “Sir,” he said, with great humility. “I do believe we owe you an apology.”
“Certainly not,” said Mister Walton. “Do I understand that you are offering me the chairmanship to your club . . . the Moosepath League?”
“Yes,” said Ephram, his head hanging low. “I fear we have risen to extreme heights of presumption. A man such as yourself must have more lofty institutions than ours calling upon his time and his sagacity. We greatly regret attaching your name to our organization without your express consent.”
“Ah, I would very much like to be a part of your order, but I fear I am not worthy of the honor you bestow upon me,” answered Mister Walton.
“Certainly you are!” said Eagleton.
“Nonsense!” said Ephram.
“More than worthy!” said Thump.
“I do beg your pardon,” said Ephram.
“Well then, gentlemen,” said Mister Walton, himself standing. “I must say that I quite enjoy your company, and if you will indeed have me as your chairman, I will gladly serve as such.”
Ephram’s eyes were misty and he had some difficulty speaking. “Gentlemen,” he said finally. “This is a great da
y! I take extreme pleasure in handing over my temporary captaincy of . . . the Moosepath League to our chairman, Mister Tobias Walton!” And here they stood (Sundry included) and applauded.
“How many are in your organization?” wondered Sundry, when the applause had finished and the resultant rumble from the rest of the dining room had died away.
“We are all here,” stated Ephram calmly.
“Would you care to join us?” asked a newly enthused Eagleton, leaning forward in his seat.
“Well, I’m not sure. Is it proper for the chairman’s employee to be part of the club?” Sundry questioned the chairman himself.
“What are the rules?” wondered Mister Walton.
“There are no rules!” declared Thump happily, and there in the dining room of the Maine Hotel, one of the Moosepath League’s most celebrated members was nominated, elected, and applauded.
Sundry took it all with great composure, raising one hand from behind his head to acknowledge his induction. “I do like an organization without rules,” he said quietly.
And so the first official function of the Moosepath League was to attend that evening’s concert performance. They made for a brave sight, walking the short distance to the Lincoln Hall. It was a handsome building with wide front doors and a broad staircase leading to a gas-lit lobby. Glittering chandeliers hung in the hall itself, and the five members of the club could see the crowd gathering in clumps as they purchased their tickets.
The streets grew quiet as the last stragglers hurried through the wide-flung doors at the bottom of the stairwell; and from the open windows came the strains of tuning instruments, tremoling with the sleepy songs of birds in the warm evening air.
Hardly a breeze stirred the beautiful trees that lined the main street, so that a glimpse down the length of the town might have been like a photograph, painted with the colors of life—a postcard, perhaps, with the legend on its back saying “Damariscotta, Maine; July 10th, 1896.” The sun pinked the horizon behind the buildings opposite the Lincoln Hall, and long shadows fell upon the store fronts and facades.
