The Rival Campers Afloat; or, The Prize Yacht Viking

by Herbert Strang

  CHAPTER IX. HARRY BRACKETT PLAYS A JOKE

  Southport, albeit not a place of great hilarity, took a night off once afortnight or so, and enjoyed itself in rollicking fashion. Up the island,about a mile and a half from the harbour, there was a small settlement,consisting of a half-dozen houses clustered together, overlooking apretty cove that made in from the western shore. They were a part of thetown of Southport, though separated from the rest. It had been, in fact,the original place of settlement, and there was a church and town hallthere.

  This town hall, bare and uninviting in appearance for the most of itsexistence, brightened up smartly on these fortnightly occasions, puttingon usually some vestments of running pine and other festoons of trailingvines, and adorned with wild flowers in their season.

  A glittering array of lamps, some loaned for the occasion, made the hallbrilliant; while a smooth birch floor, polished and waxed as shining asany man-o'warsman's deck, reflected the illumination and offered aninviting surface for dancing.

  Overhead, on the floor above, it was often customary to serve a bakedbean supper before the dancing, with its inevitable accompaniment of pieof many varieties.

  Everybody took part in the dances, from Benny Jones, who had one woodenleg, but who could hop through the Boston Fancy with amazing nimbleness,to old Billy Cook, who arrayed his feet, usually bare, in a pair of heavyboots that reached to his knees, and in which he clattered about the hallwith a noise like a flock of sheep. Even the squire consented to unbendfrom his dignity on some of these occasions, stalking through a fewdances stiffly, as a man carved out of wood.

  As for young Harry Brackett, he would have been welcomed, also, andindeed had formerly taken part in the festivities. But, since his returnfrom Boston and from some of the livelier summer resorts, he had referredto the island dances contemptuously as "slow."

  The campers usually went up to see the fun; and Henry Burns, who was afavourite about the island, and George Warren were usually to be seenamong the dancers.

  By far the most important functionary of all, however, was a quaint,little, grizzled old man, who was not a resident of the island, but livedsix miles away, over across on the cape. "Uncle Bill" Peters, with hissqueaking fiddle and well-resined bow, was, in fact, the whole orchestra.He was the one indispensable man of all. He had a tireless arm that hadbeen known to scrape the wailing fiddle-strings from twilight to earlymorning on more than one occasion, inspiring the muse now and then with alittle tobacco, which did not hinder him from calling off the numbers ina singsong, penetrating voice.

  Early in the day, when a dance was arranged, it was the duty of some oneto sail across to the cape and fetch "Uncle Billy" over, his arrivalbeing the occasion for an ovation on the part of a selected committee.

  "You're goin' up to the dance, I see," remarked Rob Dakin to Billy Cook,one evening shortly following the adventures down in the Thoroughfare,just narrated.

  "Well, I reckon," answered Billy, reaching into a cracker-barrel andabstracting some odds and ends of hardtack.

  It was easy enough for anybody to see, for Billy's boots occupied a largepart of the store doorway, as he seated himself in a chair, and crossedone leg over the other.

  "I just saw Uncle Bill Peters go by," continued Billy Cook. "I shouldthink he'd be scared to fetch that 'ere fiddle clear across the bay here.Jeff Hackett says it's one of the best fiddles this side er Portland.Cost seven dollars, I hear."

  Just then a crowd of boys, including Henry Burns and Harvey, Tom and Boband the Warrens, went by the door, coming up from shore, where they hadbeen at work on the hull of the yacht _Surprise_.

  "Hello, Billy!" cried young Joe, spying the biggest pair of boots ofwhich the island boasted, filling up the doorway. "Are you going up tothe dance, Billy?"

  "Yes, I be," responded Billy, rather abruptly.

  "Hooray!" cried young Joe. "So am I."

  "Well, I don't know as I'm so overpowering anxious to have yer go,"asserted Billy; "at least, unless you mend your ways. You boys have gotter quit your cutting up dance nights, or there'll be trouble."

  Young Joe grinned.

  "I didn't fill up your boots, Billy," he said. "Honour bright, I didn't."

  He might have added that the reason why was because somebody else thoughtof it first.

  Billy Cook's memory of the preceding dance was clouded by one sadincident. It seems that, by reason of his habit of going barefoot atother times except funerals and dances, and of dispensing with theconventionality of socks when he did wear boots, it was a relief to Billyto step out-of-doors, once or twice during the evening, remove thecumbersome boots, and walk about for a few moments barefoot.

  It fell out that, at the previous dance, after one of these moments ofrespite, Billy had returned to find his boots filled with water, and thatyoung Joe's deep sympathy had directed suspicion against him.

  "No, sirree," said young Joe now, in response to Billy's rejoinder. "Wedidn't have anything to do with that. And we didn't put the lobster inthe squire's tall hat, either. 'Twas some chaps from down the island thatdid that. You know how they like the squire down there, Billy."

  "Guess I know how some folks up here like him, too," muttered Billy.

  Early that evening, the lights glimmering from the well-cleaned windowsof the town hall shone out as so many beacons to guide the islanders fromfar and near. They came from up and down the island, rattling along thestony road in wagons that must have been built at some time orother--though nobody could remember when they were new. Moreover, whereasa boat must be painted often to keep it sound and at its best, the samedoes not apply to farm wagons. Hence, the conveyances that came bumpingalong up to the town hall shed were certainly not things of beauty.

  But each carried, nevertheless, its load of human happiness andmerriment. There sprang out rosy-cheeked, buxom island girls and sturdyyoung fishermen, healthy, hearty, and full of life, eager for the firstweird strains of Uncle Billy's seven-dollar fiddle.

  He was soon in action, too. Seated on a high platform at the end of thehall, resining his bow, was Uncle Billy, smiling like a new moon upon thecompany. For the hall was used, likewise, by troupes of wanderingtheatrical companies; and, on this very stage where Uncle Billy was nowseated, the villagers had gazed upon the woes of Little Eva and UncleTom, and had beheld Eliza Harris flee in terror, with a lumbering mastiff(supposed to be a bloodhound) tagging after her, crossing the littlestage at two heavy bounds, and yelping behind the scenes, either frominnate ferocity or at the sight of a long-withheld bone.

  Uncle Billy was off now in earnest, with a squeaking and a shrieking ofthe catgut. Captain Sam Curtis, his hair nicely "slicked," and wearing agorgeous new blue and red necktie, led the grand march as master ofceremonies, with Rob Dakin's wife on his arm. Rob Dakin, escorting Mrs.Curtis, followed next. The squire was somewhere in line, leading astately maiden sister of his wife. Billy Cook clattered along, with alaughing damsel from down the island. Henry Burns and George Warren, withcomely partners, were also to be seen, entering heartily in the fun.

  At the end of the hall nearest the doorway stood a group of islanders whodidn't dance, or hadn't partners at present. Included in these were theother two Warren boys and the most of the campers. Included, also, wasyoung Harry Brackett, scowling enviously at a youth from the foot of theisland, who led to the dance a certain black-haired, bright-eyed, trimlittle miss, who smiled at her escort sweetly as they promenaded past theentrance where Harry Brackett stood.

  It had happened that this same young lady had been invited by HarryBrackett to accompany him to the dance as his partner; but that she hadcoolly snubbed him, with the remark that he was "stuck-up,"--anunpardonable offence in the eyes of a resident of Southport, aselsewhere.

  So it came about that Harry Brackett, after glaring malevolently upon thegeneral merriment for a few minutes, took his departure.

  If any one had followed this young man, they would have observed himfooting it up th
e main road of the island for about half a mile, at asurprising pace for one no more energetically inclined than he. Then, ata certain point, Harry Brackett left the road, crawled through some barsthat led into a pasture, and made his way by a winding cow-path into aclump of bushes and small trees, some distance farther.

  Harry Brackett evidently was not travelling at random, but had some fixeddestination. This destination, shortly arrived at, proved to be a large,cone-shaped, grayish object, hanging from the branch of a tree, near tothe ground. The boy approached it cautiously, pulled a cap that he woredown about his ears, tied a handkerchief about his neck, turned up hiscoat-collar, and put on a pair of thick gloves.

  If any one had been near, they might have heard a subdued humming, ordroning sound coming from the object on the branch. It was a wasp's nestof enormous size.

  Harry Brackett next proceeded to take from his pocket a small scrap ofcotton cloth and a bottle, from which, as he uncorked and inverted it,there issued a thick stream of tar and pitch, used for boat calking.Having smeared the cloth with this, he was ready for business.

  He stole quietly up to the nest, clapped the sticky cloth over theorifice at the base of it, dodged back, and awaited results.

  A sound as of a tiny windmill arose within the nest--an angry sound,which indicated that the fiery-tempered inmates were aware of theirimprisonment and were prepared for warfare. But Harry Brackett hadaccomplished his design, unscathed. A few tiny objects, darting angrilyabout in the vicinity, showed that some of the insects still remainedwithout the nest, and were surprised and indignant at finding theirdoorway thus unexpectedly barred.

  Somewhat uncertain as to how these might receive him, Harry Brackettscrewed up his courage and dashed up to the nest, which he severed fromthe tree by cutting off the branch with his clasp-knife. His ventureproved successful, and, swinging his hat about his head to ward off anychance wasp that might come to close quarters with him, he emergedtriumphantly from the thicket, bearing his prize, and without paying thepenalty of a single sting.

  "My! but that's a mad crowd inside there," he exclaimed. "Sounds like thebuzz-saw over at Lem Barton's tide-mill. Guess they'll liven things up abit at the dance. Perhaps some other folks will be stuck-up to-morrow."

  The furious buzzing quieted, however, after he had gone about a quarterof a mile, and he reflected that perhaps the wasps, cut off from a freshsupply of air, might die on the way. So he took out his knife again andstabbed several holes in the nest, with the thick blade; whereupon theangry remonstrances of the prisoners was resumed, to his satisfaction.

  This time, however, he did not venture along the highway, but made hisway slowly back to the town hall through the woods and pastures. After atime he came to where the lights of the hall gleamed through the bushes,and the thin but vigorous scraping of Uncle Billy's fiddle sounded fromthe stage. He put down his burden and made a stealthy reconnaissance asfar as the rear sheds of the hall. Some men were about there, so hewaited for a favourable opportunity.

  This opportunity did not present itself for some time, as now and againsome one would come out to see if his horse was standing all right, andpossibly suspicious that some prank might be played with the wagons; forthe young fishermen of Southport were not above playing practical jokesof their own on these occasions. So it was not until Harry Brackett hadwaited fully a half-hour that he fancied the coast clear.

  It was then half-past nine o'clock, or when the dancing had been inprogress about an hour, that Harry Brackett, bearing his burden ofpent-up mischief, stole slyly up to the rear of the hall, where a window,opened to give a circulation of air through the place, afforded him anentrance back of the stage.

  It happened, not all opportunely for the young man, however, that some ofthe islanders came to these dances, not for the dancing itself, butbecause of the opportunity it offered to meet socially and discussmatters. Of this number, long Dave Benson, who lived on the westernshore, and Eben Slade, commonly called Old Slade, who lived across fromthe harbour settlement on the bluff, had withdrawn from the hall to talkover a dicker about a boat.

  After a friendly proffer of tobacco on Dave Benson's part, the two hadadjourned to one of the sheds at the rear of the hall, to get away fromthe noise of the music and the dancers, and had seated themselves in anold covered carryall, from which the horse had been unharnessed.

  From this point of vantage, they presently espied a solitary figureemerge from the dark background and go cautiously on to the rear window.

  "S-h-h!" whispered Dave Benson to his companion, "what's going on there?Some more skylarking, I reckon. Well, there won't be any wheels taken offfrom my wagon to-night."

  "Why, it looks like that 'ere young good-for-nothing of the squire's,"said Old Slade. "Thinks he's a leetle too good for dancing, perhaps, butdon't mind takin' a peek at the fun from the outside. Seems to becarrying something or other, though. What do you make that out to be?"

  "Looks like a big bunch of paper to me," replied Dave Benson. "But Iallow I can't see in the dark like I used to--however, it don't matter, Iguess. Now as to that 'ere boat of mine, she's a bit old, I'll allow, butyou can't do better for the money."

  Harry Brackett, all unconscious of his observers, vanished through theopen window. When he reappeared, a few moments later, he was minus theobject he had carried. Moreover, that object no longer bore upon its basethe piece of tarred cloth. Harry Brackett had snatched that away as hemade his hasty departure, after depositing the nest among the fadedscenery stored behind the stage. Then, from a side window, he watched theeffect of his plan.

  The dancing was in full swing. Uncle Billy, warmed to his task, andkeeping time with his foot, was calling off the numbers.

  "Balance your partners! Gentlemen swing! All hands around!" sang outUncle Billy.

  The dancers were in great fettle. Billy Cook, boots and all, was doinggallantly. Captain Sam's laugh could be heard clear to the woods beyondthe pasture. Squire Brackett was actually breaking out in a smile. HenryBurns and his friends were gathered near the doorway, watching thesurprising play of Billy Cook's boots.

  But at this happy moment something happened to Uncle Billy Peters. Hisfiddle-bow, scraping across the strings in one wild, discordant shriek,dropped from his hand. His half-articulated call for a position of thedance blended into a startled yell, that brought the dancing to an abruptstop; while Uncle Billy, his fiddle discarded, had leaped from his seatand was now dancing about the stage and describing the most extraordinarygyrations, waving his arms in the air and slapping at his face and theback of his neck, as though his own music had driven him stark, staringmad.

  "What on earth!"--ejaculated Billy Cook. He got no further. Somethingthat felt like a fish-hook, half-way down his boot-leg, occupied hisattention; and the next moment a dozen or more of the same animatedfish-hooks were buzzing about his head.

  Billy Cook made one frantic clutch at his boot-leg; and, failing to findrelief, yanked the boot off. Swinging this wildly about his head, onefoot bared and the other clattering, poor Billy fled from the hall.

  The squire's expansive smile faded away in an expression of anguish andwrathful indignation. Slapping madly at the bald patch at the crown ofhis head, and uttering fierce denunciations upon the author of themischief, he ignominiously deserted his partner of the dance and likewisefled precipitately.

  The campers had already scuttled before the storm, and in a twinkling thehall was cleared. The angry, buzzing swarm was in complete and undisputedpossession.

  "I'll give five dollars to any one that will discover who did thisoutrage!" cried Squire Brackett, dashing across the road to where a groupof dancers had gathered. "Where's that Burns boy and that Harvey--andthat little Warren imp? He had a hand in it, I'll take my oath. Whoeverthey are, they'll get one horsewhipping that they'll remember for therest of their lives. Get those horsewhips out of the wagons! We'll teachthe young rascals a lesson."

  The squire had not observed that still another group of stalwartfishermen had had a word
with Dave Benson and Old Slade and had already,of their own accord, provided themselves with horsewhips.

  The squire only knew, at this time, that a party of the men were off downthe road, with a hue and cry. He did not know that his own son wasfleeing before them on the wings of fear, and being fast overtaken by hispursuers, themselves borne onward on the wings of pain and wrath.

  What the campers, joining in the pursuit, saw shortly, was the figure ofyoung Harry Brackett, fleeing down the highway toward the harbour,bawling loudly for mercy, as first one whip-lash and then another cutabout his legs; and receiving no mercy, but, instead, as sound andthorough a horsewhipping as the squire himself had recommended for theguilty wretch.

  Some time later, there limped into Southport village a sadder, if notwiser youth, stinging as though the whole nest of wasps had broken looseand settled upon him.

  On the following morning, this same saddened youth, walking painfully,and somewhat dejected in mind, resulting from an interview with the elderBrackett, turned the corner where the main street was intersected by theroad leading up to the Warrens' cottage, and came most unexpectedly uponJack Harvey. It was his first face-to-face meeting with Harvey since theepisode out in the bay, and the subsequent accusation he had made againstHarvey and Henry Burns.

  It was disconcerting, but Harry Brackett resolved to put on a bold face.

  "Hello there, Harvey," he said, eying the other somewhat sheepishlydespite his resolution.

  "Hello, yourself," replied Harvey, grinning at the doleful appearancepresented by the other. Secretly, Jack Harvey had promised himself thathe would thrash him at the first opportunity; but he had seen that doneso effectively, only the night previous, that he was fully satisfied. Hecouldn't have done it half so well himself.

  "Say, you had a lot of fun last night, didn't you?" said Harvey. "You didthat in fine style. But say, what did you want to keep all the fun toyourself for? Why didn't you let us in on it?"

  Harry Brackett flushed angrily at the bantering, but, realizing he couldnot resent it, made no reply.

  "How'd the squire like it?" continued Harvey.

  "Look here, you wouldn't think it any fun if you got what I did,"exclaimed Harry Brackett.

  "No, but I think it good fun that you got it," said Harvey; "and I'lltell you right now that it saved you one from me."

  Harry Brackett eyed Harvey maliciously; but he had a mission to perform,and he was bound to go through with it.

  "Say, I know it wasn't the square thing to lay that upset out there inthe bay to you fellows," he said, with an effort. "But, you see, I knewfather would be furious about the boat--and, well, I told him the firstthing that came into my head about it. I didn't think he would try tomake trouble for you, though."

  "No?" replied Harvey, skeptically. "Probably you don't know him as wellas some of the rest of us do."

  "Well, here, don't go yet," said Harry Brackett, as Harvey started tobrush past him. "I've got something I want to talk to you about."

  Harvey paused in surprise.

  "It's about the boat," explained Harry Brackett. "You fellows don't needtwo boats--and two such good ones as the _Viking_ and the _Surprise_--"

  Harvey's wrath broke forth again at the mention of the _Surprise_.

  "That was a fine trick you tried to play on us, stealing the _Surprise_after we had her up," he said.

  "I didn't want to do it," said Harry Brackett. "I told John Hart youfellows must have floated her in there, but he wouldn't believe it."

  "Any more than I believe you," sneered Harvey.

  Harry Brackett twisted uneasily. He was making poor progress.

  "Say, Harvey," he said, abruptly, "I want to buy that new yacht of yours,the _Viking_."

  "You mean you want to steal her if you get a chance, don't you?" retortedHarvey.

  "No, I don't," cried Harry Brackett, the perspiration standing out on hisforehead. "I mean just what I say. I want to buy her, in dead earnest.You've got the _Surprise_ back, and you don't need the other one. I'llpay you fifteen hundred dollars for the _Viking_. Come, will you sellher?"

  "Who wants to buy her?" asked Harvey.

  "I do, myself," replied Harry Brackett. "I tell you I'll pay you fifteenhundred dollars in cash for her."

  Harvey winked an eye, incredulously.

  "You must be a millionaire," he said.

  "Well, I can afford to pay that much for a good boat," said HarryBrackett, with a well-feigned air of indifference as to money matters.

  "And have you talked it over with the squire since last night?" inquiredHarvey, whose curiosity was now aroused.

  "I haven't talked it over with anybody," replied Harry Brackett,impatiently. "I don't have to. It's my money."

  Harvey gave a whistle denoting surprise. "Well," he said, "the _Viking_is not for sale. Besides, Henry Burns owns half of her. You'll have totalk with him. He won't sell, though, I know, because the boat was a giftto us."

  "Perhaps he would, if you urged him to," suggested young Brackett.

  "Well, I won't urge him," said Harvey, abruptly. "But I tell you what Iwill do," he added, "I'll sell you the _Surprise_. She's a grand goodboat, too; and she'll be as good as ever when she is put in shape.--No, Iwon't do that, either," he exclaimed, after a moment's thought. "That is,not this summer. I've promised her to the crew, and I won't go back onit. No, I won't sell you the _Surprise_, either."

  "Would you let me hire either of them for the season?" ventured HarryBrackett.

  Harvey hesitated for a moment, with visions of the money it would bringtemptingly before his mind's eye. But the remembrance of the loyalty ofhis crew was still fresh in his mind.

  "No," he said, determinedly. "I won't do it."

  Which was a lucky determination, if he had but known it.

  "See here," said young Harry Brackett, lowering his tone, and making onefinal desperate effort to shake Harvey's resolution, "I'll make you abetter offer than that. I'll pay you and Henry fifteen hundred dollarsfor the boat between you. You can get him to do it if you only try. AndI'll give you seventy-five dollars for yourself, and you needn't sayanything about it."

  A moment later, Harry Brackett was picking himself up off the ground andrubbing one more sore spot.

  "Hang it all!" exclaimed Jack Harvey, as he strode away, "I needn't havehit him--but he made me mad clear through. I owed it to him, anyway."

  And so Harry Brackett, eying the other angrily, swore a new resolve ofrevenge on Harvey and all the crowd of campers and cottagers.

  "Why, Jack," said Henry Burns later that day, when he and Harvey weretalking it over, "don't you suppose it was some kind of a queer joke onHarry Brackett's part? What does he want of the _Viking_? He couldn'tsail her if he had her, and in the second place, I don't believe he everhad so much money in all his life."

  "That's just the queerest thing about it," replied Harvey. "He wasn'tjoking and he was in dead earnest. He either wants the boat, or knowssomebody else who does. It is queer, but he meant it."

  "Well, I can't guess it," said Henry Burns. "Let's go and catch a mess offlounders for supper."