“Did you two see me take the tumble?” he questioned, with a weak attempt at a smile.
“I saw you,” answered Andy. “You didn’t come all the way over the cliff. You struck a ledge and hung there, and we got you down and brought you here.”
“I see.”
“We were afraid some of your bones were broken,” put in Chet. “Are they?”
“I don’t know.” Slowly the man moved his arms and his legs. He winced a little.
“All right but my left ankle,” he announced. “I reckon that got a bad twist. Beats the Dutch, doesn’t it?” he added, with another attempt at a smile.
“It’s too bad,” returned Andy.
“No, you don’t understand. I mean my coming to Maine to do a little quiet hunting, and then to get knocked out like this. Why, I’ve hunted all over this globe,—the West, India, Africa, and even in the Arctic regions—and hardly got a scratch. I didn’t think anything could happen to me on a quiet little trip like this.”
CHAPTER VI—A WORLD-WIDE HUNTER
The two boys listened to the man’s words with keen interest. He had hunted in the wild West, in India, Africa, and even in the Arctic regions! Surely he was a sportsman out of the ordinary.
“You’re like old Tom Casey,” said Andy. “He fought the forest fires here for years, and never got singed, and then went home one day and burnt his arm on a red-hot stove. I hope the ankle isn’t bad.”
“I can’t tell about that until I stand on it. Give me a lift, will you?”
Both boys helped the man to his feet. He took a couple of steps, and was then glad enough to return to the pine couch.
“It’s no use—I can’t walk, yet,” he murmured.
“Do you think you need a doctor?” asked Chet.
“Hardly—although I’d call him in if he was handy. I’m pretty tough, although I may not look it. Who are you?”
“My name is Chet Greene, and this is a friend of mine, Andy Graham.”
“I am glad to know you, and very thankful for what you have done for me. I’ll make it right with you when I’m able to get around. My name is Dawson—Barwell Dawson. I’m a traveler and hunter, and occasionally I write articles for the magazines—hunting articles mostly.”
“Oh, are you the man who once wrote a little book about bears—how they really live and what they do, and all that?” cried Andy.
“Yes, I’m the same fellow.”
“I’ve got that book at home—you once gave it to my father, when I was about eight years old.”
“Is that so? I don’t remember it.”
“My father was up on the Penobscot, lumbering. He went out with you into the woods and you found a honey tree. You gave him the book for his little boy—that was me.”
“Oh, yes, I remember it now!” cried Barwell Dawson. “So that was your father. How is he?”
“My father is dead,” answered Andy, and his voice dropped a little.
“Indeed! I am sorry to hear it. And your mother?”
“She is dead, too.”
“Then you are alone in the world? Do you live near?”
“I live two miles from Pine Run, with an uncle. It was I who told you how to get to Moose Ridge, when you were driving on the wrong road.”
“Oh, yes, I thought I had seen you somewhere.”
Here the conversation lapsed, for Barwell Dawson was still weak. He lay back and closed his eyes, and the boys did not disturb him.
It continued to snow, until the fresh fall covered the old to the depth of several inches. The boys kept the campfire going, and cooked such game as they had brought along.
“We are booked to stay here for a while, that’s certain,” observed Chet. “No Lodgeport today.”
After a while Barwell Dawson sat up again, and gladly partook of the food offered to him. His injuries consisted of a hard shaking up, a bruised ankle, and several cuts on his head.
“I am thankful that no bones are broken, and that I did not get killed,” he said, and then he requested them to give the details of the rescue from the ledge. The boys related their story, to which he listened closely.
“It was fine of you to get me down,” he declared. “Fine! I’ll have to reward you.”
“I don’t want any reward,” answered Andy, promptly.
“Nor do I,” added Chet.
“Well, you ought to let me do something for you,” persisted the one who had been rescued.
“You might tell us of some of your hunting adventures,” said Andy, with a smile. “I’d like to hear about hunting in the far West and other places.”
“So would I,” added Chet. “If I had the money, I’d like to do like you have done, travel all over the world and hunt.” And his eyes glistened with anticipation.
“What do you do now?”
“Nothing at present. We can’t get an opening at any of the lumber camps.”
“I understand business is very dull this season.”
After that Barwell Dawson asked for more particulars concerning the boys, and they told him how they were situated. He was surprised to learn that Chet was practically alone in the world.
“It is certainly hard luck,” he said, kindly. “You must let me do something for you.”
Then, after his ankle had been bathed in hot water, and bound up, the hunter and traveler told them of his trips to various portions of the globe, and how he had hunted deer and moose in one place, bears and mountain lions in another, and tigers and other wild beasts elsewhere. He had two very interested listeners.
“It must be great!” murmured Chet. “Oh, that would suit me down to the ground—to go out that way!”
“I have made one trip to the north,” continued Barwell Dawson, “and I am soon going to make another.”
“You mean to Canada?” queried Andy.
“Not exactly. I am going to Greenland, and then into the polar regions. I want to hunt seals, polar bears, and musk oxen.”
“You’ll be frozen to death!”
“Hardly,” answered the hunter. “On my previous trip I stood the cold very well, and this time I shall go much better prepared. Somehow, I like hunting in the Arctic Circle better than hunting anywhere else. Besides, I wish to—But never mind that now,” and Barwell Dawson broke off rather abruptly. Then he told a story of a hunt after polar bears that made Chet’s eyes water.
“That’s the stuff!” whispered Chet to Andy. “That beats a deer hunt all hollow!”
“Yes, provided the polar bear doesn’t eat you up.”
“Huh! I’d not be afraid. I don’t believe a polar bear is any more dangerous than a moose.”
“I saw a moose just before I had the tumble,” said Barwell Dawson. “I climbed up the cliff after him, but I couldn’t get very close. I took two shots at him, but he got away.”
“If we are going to be snowed up here we ought to try for some game,” said Chet. “Maybe I can stir up some rabbits, or something.”
It was decided that he should go out, leaving Andy to look after Mr. Dawson and the campfire.
“But don’t go far,” cautioned Andy. “The snow is coming down so thick that you may get lost.”
“Oh, I’ll take care of myself,” answered Chet.
He knew it would be a bad move to go out into the open, so he kept to the timber, blazing a tree here and there as he went along. He knew very little game would be stirring.
“If I get anything it will be more accident than anything else,” he reasoned. “No animal is going to stir out in this storm.”
He was just passing under a big spruce tree when, chancing to glance up, he saw a sight that quickened his pulse. On a limb close at hand were several wild turkeys, huddled together to keep warm.
With great caution he moved to one side, to get a good aim. Then, raising his gun, he blazed away. There was a whirr and a flutter, and two of the turkeys came down, one dead and the other wounded. Rushing forward, Chet caught the wounded bird by the neck, and soon put it out of its misery.
“That’s a good start,” he told himself, with much satisfaction. “I hope my luck continues.”
Placing the game in his bag, he went forward again, looking for more signs of birds, and also for signs of squirrels and rabbits.
It was growing dark, and Chet began to think it was time to turn back, when he saw some rabbits in a thick clump of bushes. He sprang in after them, and they leaped out into the snow and across a small opening. Then, before he could fire, they were out of sight again.
“You shan’t get away from me as easily as that,” the youth muttered to himself, and ran out into the opening. Here the snow was so thick he could see but little, yet he kept on, and soon reached more brushwood. He saw some branches close to the snow move, and blazed away in the dark.
His aim proved true, for when he came up he found one rabbit dead. Another had been wounded, as the blood on the snow showed. In all haste he made after the limping game. But the rabbit had considerable life left in it, and dove deep into the brushwood. But at last it had to give up, and Chet secured the additional game without much trouble.
It had grown dark rapidly, and in some anxiety the young hunter turned back, in an endeavor to retrace his steps. This was no easy matter, for the snow was coming down as thickly as ever, and he could scarcely see two yards ahead of him.
“It won’t do for me to get lost out here,” he reasoned. “If I don’t get back, Andy will be worried to death.”
Bending to meet the snow—for the wind was now blowing briskly, Chet pushed forward until another clump of trees was gained. Walking was becoming irksome, and he panted for breath. Under the trees he paused to get his bearings.
“I must be right,” he thought. Yet, try his best, he could not locate any of the trees he had blazed a short while before.
Any other lad might have become frightened at the prospect, but Chet was used to being alone, and he simply resolved to move forward with increased caution.
“If the worst comes, I can fire three shots in succession. Andy will know what that means,” he reasoned. On previous trips to the woods the boys had arranged that three shots meant, “I am lost. Where are you?” A single shot was to be the answer—repeated, of course, as often as necessary.
Another hundred feet were covered, and Chet was looking vainly for one of the blazed trees, when an unexpected sound broke upon his ears.
It was an unusual and uncanny noise, and he stopped short to listen. It came from a clump of spruces to his left.
“Now, what can that be?” he asked himself. “I never heard a noise like that before.”
He listened, and presently the sound was repeated. To him it seemed as if some unseen giant were in deep distress.
Chet was not superstitious, or he might have thought he heard a ghost. He knew there must be some rational reason for the unusual noise, and he resolved to investigate.
“Anybody there?” he cried, as he raised his gun in front of him, and tried to peer through the snow-laden air.
There was no answer, nor was the peculiar sound repeated. With cautious steps he advanced toward the clump of spruces. Underneath all was now as dark as night could make it.
Again he paused, something warning him to be extra cautious. His nerves were now at a high tension, for he felt something unusual was coming.
An instant later it came. Through the snow and darkness Chet caught a momentary gleam of a pair of eyes shining like two balls of fire. Then a bulky form shot out of the darkness, and bumped up against him, hurling him flat. Ere he could arise, the form leaped over him, and went limping off, puffing and snorting as it did so.
“A moose!” gasped Chet, as he felt in the snow for his gun. “And wounded! It must be the one Mr. Dawson tried to get!”
He thought the big beast was retreating, but soon found out otherwise. The moose was badly wounded, and ugly in the extreme. Around he wheeled, and then came straight for Chet. The lad could not locate his gun, and, feeling his peril, darted for the nearest tree and leaped high up among the branches.
CHAPTER VII—CHET AND THE MOOSE
“Phew! that was a narrow escape!”
Such were Chet’s words as he drew himself higher up into the tree. The big beast below had come up, and struck the tree a blow that made it shiver from top to bottom. Had he not been holding on tightly the boy would have been hurled down, and at the very feet of the moose.
The animal was full-grown, powerful, and with wide and heavy antlers. He had been wounded in one of the forelegs, but was still able to stand. Now he stood under the spruce, on three legs, gazing up at Chet speculatively.
“Like to smash me, wouldn’t you?” murmured the youth. “Well, I guess not—not if I know it!”
Chet wished with all his heart that he had his gun. But the weapon was out of sight under the snow, and the moose was standing over the spot.
What to do next, the lad did not know. The moose did not show any inclination to leave. He breathed heavily, as if his wound hurt him, but Chet was certain that there was still a good deal of fight in the creature.
“Perhaps he’ll keep me here all night,” thought the boy, dismally.
Presently an idea came to him to call for help. Andy might hear him, and come up with his gun.
“That shelter is a long way off, but it won’t do any harm to try it,” Chet reasoned, and expanding his chest, he let out a yell at the top of his lung power. He repeated the cry several times, and then listened with strained ears. No answer came back but the gentle sighing of the rising wind, as it swept through the woods.
“Huddled inside the shelter, I suppose, to keep warm,” Chet murmured, dismally. “I might yell my head off and it wouldn’t do a bit of good. I’ll have to try something else.”
What that something else was to be was not clear. He moved from one branch to another to investigate, then a thought struck him, and he resolved to act upon it.
With caution, so as not to attract the attention of the moose, he climbed far out on a branch of the spruce, and thus gained a grip on the wide-spreading limb of another tree. He swung himself to this, and crawling along and past the trunk of the second tree, moved to the end of a branch on the opposite side.
He was now a good twenty-five feet from where the moose was standing. Would it be wise to drop down in the snow and make a dash for liberty?
“If he catches me, he’ll kill me—he’s so ugly from that wound,” Chet told himself. “If it wasn’t so awful cold, I’d stay here till morning.”
Cautiously he lowered himself toward the snow below. He was on the point of dropping when he heard the moose move. The animal came on the rush, and in drawing up into the tree again, Chet had one foot scraped by the moose’s antlers.
“No escape that way,” he told himself, and lost no time in pulling himself still higher into the tree.
Thus far he had managed to keep warm, but now, as he sat down to rest, and to study the situation, he became colder and colder. Occasionally the wind drove in some of the snow, to add to his discomfort.
Presently Chet thought of another idea, and wondered why it had not occurred to him before. He knew that all wild animals dread fire. He resolved to make himself a torch, and try that on the moose.
Making sure that he had his matches, he got out his jackknife and cut off the driest branch that he could find. Then, holding it with care, he struck a match, shielding it from the wind as best he could, and lit the end of the branch. At first it did not ignite very well, but he “nursed” the tiny flame, and soon it blazed up into quite a torch.
“Now we’ll see how you like this,” Chet muttered, and started to climb to the lower branch once more.
With eyes that still blazed, the moose had watched the flaring up of the light. At first he was all curiosity, but as the flame grew larger he gave a snort of fear. Far back in the past he had felt the effects of a forest fire, and now he thought he saw another such conflagration starting up. As Chet swung down he turned and limped off, moving faster at every step.
“Hurrah! that did the trick!” cried the boy, in deep satisfaction, and then, as he saw the moose plowing off through the deepening snow, he jumped to the ground and rushed off to where he had dropped his gun. Perhaps he could lay the beast low after all.
As luck would have it, Chet did not have to look long for the firearm. The moose had kicked the snow from part of the barrel, and the glare of the torch lit upon this. In a trice the youth had the gun in his hand. The moose was disappearing in the snow and darkness, but taking hasty aim, he fired.
The animal went on, but Chet felt certain his shot had gone true. Hastily reloading, so that he might have both barrels ready in case he wanted them, he set off after the game as fast as the now heavy fall of snow would allow. He was a true sportsman, and made up his mind that now he had his firearm once again, the moose should not escape him.
As is well known, although a moose is one of the swiftest of wild animals on clear ground, or even on the rocks and in the woods, the creature is at a disadvantage in soft snow, because of its small legs and hoofs. Its weight causes it to sink to the very bottom of every hollow.
Chet had advanced less than two hundred feet when he saw the moose floundering in the snow behind some bushes over which it had leaped.
“Now I’ve got you!” cried the boy, and advancing fearlessly, he took careful aim and blazed away. The animal went down, thrashed around, sending the snow in all directions, and then lay still.
Not to be caught in any trap, Chet reloaded once more, and then came up with caution. But the big creature was dead, and the heart of the young hunter bounded with delight. It was an event to lay low such a monarch of the forest as this.
“As big a moose as I’ve seen brought in from these parts,” he mused. “Won’t Andy be surprised when he sees the game! But Mr. Dawson deserves some of the credit—he hit the moose first.”
What to do with his prize Chet did not know. To haul it to the temporary camp alone, and through such deep snow, was impossible. And if he left it where it was, some wolves or other wild beasts might get at it.
“I’ll kick the snow over it, and let it go at that,” he finally decided. “It’s time I got back. It’s so dark it won’t be long before I can’t see a thing.”
Sticking his torch in the snow, he made a mound over the game, and on top stuck a stick with his handkerchief tied to it. Then he retraced his steps to the clump of spruces, and searched once again for the blazes he had made on the trees.
At last, just as he was about to shoot off his gun as a signal of distress, he found one of the blazes, and a minute later discovered another. He now had the proper direction in mind, and set off as rapidly as his weary limbs and the ever-increasing depth of snow would permit.
“Hullo, Chet! Where are you?”
It was a call from Andy, sounding out just as the young hunter came in sight of the campfire. Andy was growing anxious, and had come forth from the shelter several times in an endeavor to locate his chum.
“Here I am,” was the answer. “Christopher, but I’m tired!”
“Any luck?”
“A little. How are those for wild turkeys?”
“Fine! Now we’ll have a good breakfast, anyway.”
“How is Mr. Dawson?”
“He says he feels pretty easy. But his ankle is badly swollen. Say, he’s a splendid man, and one of the greatest hunters you ever heard of, Chet. And he’s rich, too—he owns a ranch out West and a bungalow down on the Jersey coast, and a yacht, and I don’t know what all.”
“You can tell him I brought down the moose he wounded.”
“What!” And Andy’s eyes showed his astonishment.
“It’s true. The moose almost laid me low first, but I got the best of him after all.”
“Where is the animal?”
“About a quarter of a mile from here. I covered him with snow, and put a stick and my handkerchief over the spot.”
“Did he attack you?”
“He certainly did,” answered Chet.
Both boys entered the temporary shelter. Barwell Dawson was awake, and he and Andy listened with keen attention to the story Chet had to tell.
“It must have been the moose I hit,” said Barwell Dawson. “But I think he’s your game anyway, Chet.”
“Well, we can divide up,” answered the young hunter, modestly.
The tramp in the snow, and the excitement, had made Chet weary, and he was glad enough to lie down and go to sleep. During his absence, Andy had cut more pine boughs and piled them around the sides and on top of the shelter, so it was now fairly cozy, although not nearly as good as a cabin would have been.
In the morning Andy was the first to stir. He found the entrance to the shelter blocked by snow, and the campfire was all but out. The snow had stopped coming down, but the air seemed to be still full of it.
“We’ve got to get out of here, or we’ll be snowed in for certain,” he told Chet, and then kicked the snow aside and started up the fire, and commenced to get breakfast. They cooked one of the wild turkeys, and it proved delicious eating to the lads, although Mr. Dawson thought the meat a trifle strong.
The man who had had the tumble over the cliff declared that he felt quite like himself, aside from his ankle, which still pained him. The swelling of the member had gone down some, which was a good sign.
“I guess your uncle will wonder what has become of you,” said Chet to Andy. “I suppose he’ll hunt all over the village for you.”
“Let him hunt, Chet. I am not going back until I find out about that timber land, and about what sort of man that Hopton is. The more I think of it, the more I’m convinced that Mr. A. Q. Hopton is a swindler and is trying to swindle both Uncle Si and myself.”
“Well, it’s no credit to your uncle to stand in with him.”
“Of course it isn’t—and I’ll give Uncle Si a piece of my mind when I get the chance.”
“I don’t think you’re going to get to Lodgeport today.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter much. I don’t think there is any great hurry about this business. The matter has rested ever since father died.”
This talk took place outside the shelter, so Barwell Dawson did not hear it. Inside, the man dressed his ankle, while the boys cleared away the remains of the morning meal, and started the fire afresh with more pine sticks.
“We really ought to try to get out of here,” said Andy, after an hour had passed. “I think it will snow again by night, and it would be rough to be snow-bound in such a place as this.”
“I’d like to get out myself, but I am afraid I can’t walk,” said Barwell Dawson, with a sigh. “A bruised ankle is worse than a broken arm—when it comes to traveling,” he added, with a grim smile.
“Supposing we took turns at carrying you?” suggested Chet. “I think we could do it.”
“How far?”
“Well, we might try for a cabin that is about three-quarters of a mile from here. We’d be far more comfortable at the cabin than here,—and maybe you could get some liniment for your bruises.”
“Well, I’m willing to try it if you are,” answered Mr. Dawson, who did not like the temporary shelter any better than did the boys.
Preparations were accordingly made, and half an hour later the party of three set off. It was agreed that Chet should first do the carrying of the hurt one, and Andy brought up the rear with the guns, game bags, and other things.
CHAPTER VIII—A TALK OF IMPORTANCE
The cabin for which the little party was headed was one owned by a man named Upham Jeffer. This man was something of a hermit and scientist, and rarely showed himself in the settlements of that vicinity. But on two occasions Chet had done Professor Jeffer a good turn, and he was, therefore, hoping they would get a cordial reception.
But just now, the main question was, Could they reach the Jeffer place? The boys had the way fairly well fixed in their heads, but walking was hard and treacherous. On the level, the snow was at least a foot deep, while they ran the risk of going down in deep hollows filled by the wind.
“Anyway, I’m glad the wind is on our backs,” said Andy, as they trudged along. “If it was in our faces it would be awful.”
“You must take frequent rests,” came from Barwell Dawson. “There is no use in exhausting yourselves by hurrying.”
When about one-quarter of the distance had been covered, they rested, and then Chet and Andy exchanged loads. They had now some rough ground to cover, and of a sudden Andy went down in a hollow, taking the man he was carrying with him.
“Be careful!” cried Chet, in alarm.
Andy and Mr. Dawson rolled over and over, and landed in snow up to their necks. Fortunately the fall was a soft one, or both might have been seriously injured.
Chet threw down his load, and aided the pair to get out of the hollow. Andy came out with a neck full of snow, and his coat half off his back.
“Say, I don’t want any more of that!” he panted, digging the snow from one ear.
In a few minutes they went on again, Chet with the outfit taking the lead. Progress was slow, and all were glad to rest when the top of a small rise was gained.
“There is the Jeffer cabin,” said Chet, pointing it out.
“I don’t see any smoke,” added Andy. “What shall we do if Professor Jeffer isn’t at home?”
“Oh, I don’t think he’s away,” answered his chum. “But even so, I guess he’ll let us use the place—in such a snow as this.”
“We can pay him for the accommodations,” put in Barwell Dawson. “I’ll take care of that.”
It was nearly noon when they gained the cabin, rather a large structure, set in a grove of pines, and on the edge of a brook that was now covered with snow and ice. Chet, who was in advance, knocked loudly on the door.
At first there was no answer. Then a low voice asked who was there.
“It is I, Chet Greene, Professor.”
“Oh! Come in—if you can get the door open.”
Chet tried the door—to find it bolted. Then he heard a movement within, and the barrier was opened.
“Oh, I thought you were alone,” said the man within. He was tall and thin, and wore a heavy beard and big spectacles.
“No, Professor Jeffer. This is my friend, Andy Graham, and this is a gentleman who fell over Moose Ridge cliff and got hurt. Can we bring him in?”
“Why, yes, certainly, of course!” cried Upham Jeffer. “Hurt, eh? Where?”
“He has a bruised ankle, and some cuts on his head.”
“I see. Well, bring him in, and what remedies I have on hand shall be at his service. I’m a bit sick myself—been making some experiments with nitrogen that didn’t agree with me. You see, I reasoned out that if nitrogen could be dissolved by means of——”
“Where can I place the gentleman?” broke in Chet, who knew Upham Jeffer’s weakness for going off into scientific discussions.
“Oh, yes, of course, I forgot. Why, place him anywhere. Make yourselves at home.” The old scientist looked around rather helplessly. “There is my medicine closet. Use whatever you can find there.”
He was really a fine old man, but so wrapped up in his scientific experiments that he paid little attention to the world at large, or what was going on around him. He was very learned, but apt to be forgetful to the last degree. He lived alone, and it was reported that he had a goodly sum in the bank. Certainly he never seemed to want for funds, although his mode of living was far from extravagant.
Barwell Dawson was placed in an easy-chair in the living apartment, and the professor busied himself in getting out some medicine and a liniment which he said would do much good.
“Shall I start up the fire?” asked Andy, who saw that the blaze had been allowed to die down.
“Why, yes, of course! I forgot all about the fire,” answered Upham Jeffer. “You see, when I get interested in my experiments, I usually——” And then he stopped talking, being busy measuring some medicine in a glass.
Andy stirred up the fire, and brought in some wood from a pile in a near-by shed. In the meantime Chet introduced Barwell Dawson to the old scientist.
“Why, I know you, sir!” cried Mr. Dawson, as he looked closely at the professor. “Weren’t you once up north—with the Welber Exploring Expedition?”
“Why, yes, of course!” answered Professor Jeffer. “And you—it seems to me your face looks familiar. Why, yes, I have it now! You were up there at the same time, on a hunting trip.”
“You’ve struck it. I am glad to meet you again, Professor Jeffer.”
“I have forgotten your name, Mr.——”
“Dawson—Barwell Dawson.”
“Ah, yes, of course! I remember it well now! Strange how I should forget. But you know I am so wrapped up in my experiments that I—but let us stop talking and attend to this ankle of yours. We’ll wash it well with hot water, and pour on this liniment, and the swelling will soon go down. You see, the curative qualities of witch hazel, when combined with wintergreen and——” And then the professor stopped and went to work.
Inside of half an hour Barwell Dawson’s hurts had all been attended to, and he felt much better. The cuts on his head had stopped bleeding, and he insisted upon having the bandages removed.
“I’m not such a baby as you think,” he said. “I’ll be all right by tomorrow, watch and see. All I want is a good smoke to cure me,” and he lit his briar-root pipe.
“I’ll be glad to hear it,” answered Andy.
“Nevertheless, don’t imagine that I don’t appreciate what you two lads have done for me,” went on Mr. Dawson, earnestly. “It was a fine thing to do, and I’ll not forget it in a hurry.”
It had begun to snow again, and all three were glad that they had exchanged the temporary shelter in the woods for the large and comfortable cabin of the old professor. The cabin was well furnished, and on the walls hung horns and skins of various wild animals. There were a good-sized table and some chairs, and in one corner stood a bookcase with a hundred volumes or more. Opening out of the living room were a kitchen and two bedrooms. It was in the kitchen that Professor Jeffer had been conducting the experiments which had made him ill. A powerful odor filled the air of the apartment, and to get rid of it, Chet opened a window for a while.
“I should have had something open when I tried the experiment,” said the professor. “But I became so interested that I forgot. If you hadn’t come when you did, I don’t know what would have happened.”
“You want to be careful in the future, Professor,” said Barwell Dawson. “Science cannot afford to lose a man like you.” And this latter remark tickled the old scientist very much. He was really quite learned, and he was glad to have it known.
“If this snow keeps on, we’ll have to stay here all night,” said Andy to Chet.
“You are welcome to remain as long as the storm lasts,” answered Professor Jeffer, who overheard the remark. “I have a well-filled larder, and with what you have brought we can get along very well.”
“We have a moose about a mile from here—if only we could bring him here,” said Chet.
“I’m afraid your game will have to wait. If you went for it now, you’d surely get lost. It is snowing furiously.”
What the professor said about the storm was true. The snow was accompanied by a high wind, which whistled loudly around the cabin. All of the party were glad enough to gather in front of the big open fireplace, for that was the one spot that was thoroughly warm.
As they sat around, Chet told in detail his story of the moose, and then the boys listened while Barwell Dawson and Professor Jeffer related some things that had happened to them when they had met in the far north.
“I should like exceedingly to take another trip to the polar regions,” said the professor. “The other trip was too short for me. I did not gain half the knowledge I desired.”
“I am going up there again,” answered Barwell Dawson, quietly.
“Ah, indeed! When?”
“As soon as my ship is ready for me.”
“Your ship? Are you equipping a ship?” demanded Professor Jeffer, while the boys listened in astonishment.
“I am. I have not said much about it as yet, for I did not want to excite public comment. But I am fitting out a ship for polar exploration.” And Barwell Dawson smiled quietly, as if fitting out such an expedition were an everyday occurrence.
“Why, really, you—you astonish me!” cried the professor. “This is most extraordinary, sir. Are you, may I ask, fitting out this ship yourself?”
“I am footing the bill, yes.”
“It will cost a large amount of money.”
“I guess I can afford it. I am fairly well-to-do, and last year an uncle died and left me several hundred thousand dollars.”
“I see—very good.” Professor Jeffer rubbed his hands together. “It is a grand thing to be able to gratify one’s wish in this manner. Now, I have a little money, but not enough to fit out such an expedition as you mention. Still, I’d like very much to go north again.”
“Could you stand the trip?”
“Me? Why, sir, I am as strong as iron,—you can ask Captain Welber about it. I withstood the cold and the hardships long after some of the others succumbed. I am a little weak just now—the effects of that foolhardy experiment,—but by tomorrow I’ll be as well and strong as ever. Why, sir, I can tramp twenty or thirty miles a day with ease, and I can go forty-eight hours without food if it is necessary.”
“Are you anything of a hunter?”
“Yes. Since I came to Maine I have done considerable shooting.”
“Indeed he has,” broke in Chet. “I’ve been with him, and I know of three first-class shots that he made.”
“Any one who is to go with me must be a good shot, and must be able to withstand great hardships,” pursued Barwell Dawson.
“How long do you expect to be gone?” asked Professor Jeffer, with increased interest.
“I don’t know exactly—perhaps two years.”
“Two years—in the land of ice and snow!” cried Andy. “That’s a pretty long trip.”
“Yes, but I have planned to do a great deal,” answered Barwell Dawson. “As I stated before, I don’t want to say too much about it yet, for if I do, I’ll have all sorts of curiosity seekers at my heels. If some folks knew what I had in mind to do, they’d be crazy to be taken along.”
“Well, I presume I am one of the crazy ones,” returned Professor Jeffer.
“With you, Professor, it is different. You have been to the far north, and know what to expect,—and besides, you are learned, and your knowledge might prove valuable.”
“Ah! then you will agree that I shall go?” demanded the scientist, eagerly.
“That depends. I have not told you all yet. I am going to the far north to hunt, but I am likewise going for something else—something of greater importance.”
“And that is?” asked the professor, while the boys listened in wonder.
“I am going to try to reach the North Pole.”
CHAPTER IX—SOMETHING ABOUT THE NORTH POLE
It was with much amazement that Andy and Chet, as well as Professor Upham Jeffer, listened to the words of Barwell Dawson.
“Going to try to reach the North Pole!” repeated Andy.
“Yes.”
“It’s never been done—at least, not by anybody who came back alive,” said Chet.
“A grand project, nevertheless,” were Professor Jeffer’s words. “A truly grand project. But have you counted the cost?—I do not mean in money. It may cost you your life.”
“I shall be as careful in my plans as possible,” answered Barwell Dawson. His eyes lit up, and he arose to his feet. “I don’t mind telling you that to reach the North Pole has been my ambition ever since I first went hunting in the Arctic regions.”
“It has been the dream of many men,” said Professor Jeffer. “I once had the dream myself—I presume all those who go to the north have it.”
“It’s a good long journey from Maine,” said Andy.
“How do you expect to get there?” asked Chet. “You can’t take a ship that far, no matter how strongly she is built.”
“I shall do as the majority of North Pole explorers do,” was Barwell Dawson’s answer. “I shall sail as far north as the ship will go, then winter in the ice, and as soon as summer comes again, make a dash over the ice for the Pole with dogs, sledges, and Esquimaux.”
“It will assuredly be a grand trip,” said Professor Jeffer. “I envy you.”
“You would like to go with me?”
“Very much, sir. I have absolutely nothing to keep me here, being alone in the world.”
“Then, perhaps, it can be arranged.”
“I have here some books and maps relating to Polar discoveries,” continued the professor. “Perhaps you won’t mind pointing out on the maps what you hope to do.”
He brought from the bookcase several books and maps, and placed them on the table. The boys, who were sitting on the floor near the open fireplace, took them down and gazed at them with interest. Here was something that was surely new and novel.
“I have a larger map in my bedroom,” went on Professor Jeffer. “I’ll get that.”
While he was gone, the two boys and Mr. Dawson pored over the books and maps, and the hunter mentioned a place on one of the maps where he had once gone hunting.
“Here is the coast of Greenland,” he said, pointing it out. “I shall take my vessel up Baffin Bay as far as Cape York, and possibly to Etah,—and maybe further, if the ice will permit. There we shall have to spend the long Arctic night.”
“How long?” asked Andy.
“From October to February.”
“What, as long as that?” cried Chet. “Won’t there be any sun at all during that time?”
“No sunshine, but I think we can look for good moonlight, especially when the moon is full.”
“And how long is it going to take to get to the North Pole from Etah?” asked Andy. “That is, what do you calculate?”
“I haven’t any idea, excepting that I shall try to carry enough food to last for the entire summer. And I shall also do all the hunting possible, so long as there is any game in sight. I do not expect to find any in the vicinity of the Pole.”
“And what do you think is at the Pole?” questioned Chet.
“Ice and snow principally,” answered Barwell Dawson, smiling. “I do not look for anything out of the ordinary. It is only the honor of having been able to reach that point.”
“And a great honor it will be,” said Professor Jeffer, as he re-entered with another map.
“I suppose a whole lot of men have tried to reach the Pole,” said Chet.
“Yes, explorers from all over Europe as well as from America have tried their hand at it,” answered Barwell Dawson.
“One of the books I have here tells of the various American expeditions,” said Professor Jeffer, thumbing over a volume rapidly. “Ah, here it is. You ought to read it—it is very interesting.”
“I have read over the accounts many times,—trying to map out a route of my own,” said Barwell Dawson.
Then he told the boys of what had been done by various explorers to lift the mystery of the frozen north.
“One of the well-known Arctic explorers was Sir John Franklin, an Englishman,” said he. “Franklin was lost somewhere up north, and when he did not return, various expeditions were sent out for his relief. The first from America was that commanded by Lieutenant E. J. De Haven, of the United States Navy, in 1851. De Haven reached 78° N. He was followed, three years later, by Elisha Kent Kane, who sailed north by way of Smith Sound, and gained 80° 35’ N. lat.”
“How far was that from the Pole?” questioned Chet, whose knowledge of degrees and latitude was rather hazy.
“The highest degree is ninety, which is at the Pole,” explained the professor. “Roughly speaking, a degree of latitude is equal to seventy miles.”
“Then Kane was still nearly seven hundred miles from the Pole.”
“About six hundred and fifty.”
“After Kane,” continued Barwell Dawson, “Commodore John Rodgers commanded an expedition that went through Bering Strait and reached Herald Island, at 71° 18’ N. lat. Then, in 1860, Isaac L. Hayes reached Grinnell Land, at Cape Joseph Goode, and from 1860 to 1869 Charles F. Hall explored the Cumberland Gulf, and reached the Polar Sea northwest of Greenland, in 82° 11’ N.”
“That was crawling a little closer,” was Andy’s comment.
“After that, explorations were made by Lieutenant P. H. Ray, Lieutenant G. A. Doane, and Commander George W. De Long, all of the government service. The latter explored the Arctic Ocean to the coast of Asia. Then followed the International Polar Expedition, under Lieutenant, afterwards General, A. W. Greely, of the United States Army. This expedition reached a point north of 83° 24’.”
“What about Peary?” asked Chet. “I know he is a great polar explorer.”
“I was going to speak of him,” answered Barwell Dawson. “Commander Robert E. Peary is the greatest Polar explorer we have had. He has been at it since 1892, and during that time he has covered the entire northern portion of Greenland, the northern portion of Grinnell Land, and a goodly portion of the Arctic Ocean. On April 21, 1906, he managed to reach 87° 6’ N. lat.,—within less than two hundred miles of the Pole.”
“It’s a pity he couldn’t make the two hundred miles—after going so far,” was Andy’s comment.
“He is now fitting out another expedition,” said Professor Jeffer. “I believe he will keep at it until he gains the Pole.”
“There have been numerous other expeditions, under Walter Wellman, Robert Stein, A. P. Low, E. P. Baldwin, and some Canadian explorers,” continued Mr. Dawson, “but nobody has been able to equal Commander Peary’s record.”
“It’s a wonder that somebody doesn’t try to reach the Pole with an airship,” said Chet.
“One explorer intends to try that. A European explorer, Andree, once went up from Spitzbergen in a balloon, and he was never heard of again. It’s a dangerous piece of business, for one cannot tell where one is going to land, and to get much in the way of supplies in that forsaken portion of the globe is out of the question.”
“Maybe somebody will reach the Pole with an aeroplane,” suggested Andy.
“Not all the exploring has been done by the Americans,” resumed Barwell Dawson. “One of the greatest foreign explorers was Dr. Fridtjof Nansen, a Norwegian. He made a memorable voyage in a vessel named the Fram, and managed to reach 86° 14’ N. lat.”
“Almost as high as Commander Peary got,” cried Chet.
“Another explorer of note was the Duke of the Abruzzi, an Italian, who sailed for Franz Josef Land and wintered at Teplitz Bay, in 1899 and 1900. The Duke managed to reach 86° 33’ N. lat., thus doing a trifle better than Nansen.”
“Good for the Duke,” said Chet.
“You certainly know a lot about the Pole,” said Andy, admiringly. “You’ve got it on your fingers’ ends.”
“Ever since I took the question up seriously I have read everything I could find on the subject,” answered Barwell Dawson. “I do not intend to go at this in a haphazard fashion. My ship is going to be fitted out with the best possible care,—reënforced throughout the entire hull to resist the ice pressure,—and I shall pick my crew from among the strongest and bravest fellows I can find. To take a weakling on board would be foolhardy, for he could never stand the cold.”
“I suppose it is much colder than here in Maine,” said Chet.
“Yes, although not always. Even in upper Greenland the weather is at times comparatively mild. The worst time is the Long Night, as it is termed. Then, it is not only bitterly cold, but darkness is apt to take the heart out of a fellow. Some men cannot stand the night at all, and nearly go crazy, but I have never been affected that way.”
“Give me a good lamp and I shall not mind it,” said Professor Jeffer. “I would spend the time in profitable reading, or in writing a book or magazine article.”
“When you were up there hunting, did you sail along the Greenland coast?” asked Chet, suddenly.
“Of course.”
“Did you ever meet any whalers?”
“Oh, yes, quite a number. Some of them go north quite a distance. They have to sail many miles to get the right kind of whales.”
“Did you—did you ever meet a whaler named the Betsey Andrews?”
“The Betsey Andrews?” mused Barwell Dawson. “Where was she from?”
“From New Bedford, Captain Jacob Spark.”
“Why, yes, I did. What do you know of her?”
“I don’t know much, excepting that my father sailed on her some years ago, and the vessel has failed to come back—so far as I know.”
“That’s too bad. So far as I can remember, the ship was all right when I saw her. If I remember rightly, however, our captain said he thought she was pretty far north for a whaler.”
“Do you think she was wrecked in a storm?”
“I don’t know. We did have some pretty fierce storms just before I landed to go hunting. I know one storm came up right after a dense fog, and it nearly ran us into a tremendous iceberg.
“Maybe an iceberg sunk the Betsey Andrews,” said Chet, and his voice quivered a little in spite of his effort to control himself.
“Have you made inquiries about the whaler lately?” asked Professor Jeffer. “You know there is a regular record kept of all marine disasters.”
“I didn’t know where to go—or who to write to,” answered Chet. “I hated to bother strangers.”
“But you want to find your father, don’t you?” asked Barwell Dawson.
“Oh, very much!”
“Then we’ll have to look into this matter—when this storm clears away, and we are able to get out of here.”
After that the hunter questioned Chet about his parent, and the youth told him how his father had shipped aboard the whaler. He did not mention that Tolney Greene had disappeared under a cloud, as it did not seem necessary, and Chet wanted to avoid anything that was so unpleasant.
Following this, Barwell Dawson told more of his proposed trip north. Now that he had revealed what was on his mind, he was very enthusiastic, and he communicated a great deal of his enthusiasm to his listeners.
“You must take me along!” cried Professor Jeffer. “I will pay my way—that is, so far as I am able,—and I will promise not to be a hindrance. You’ll certainly want one scientist on your expedition, even though it is not what you might term a scientific expedition.”
“I will give the matter every consideration,” answered Barwell Dawson, “and if I can possibly arrange it, you shall become one of the party.”
“How many will there be?” asked Chet.
“Outside of the captain and the crew, I do not expect to carry more than five or six men. Of course, up in Greenland, I shall hire a number of Esquimaux, to do some hunting for me, and to manage the dogs and sledges.”
Chet said no more just then. But he was wondering if it would aid him to find his father if he should join this expedition to the frozen north.
“I’d be willing to suffer anything—if only I could learn where dad was,” he told Andy, afterwards.
CHAPTER X—BRINGING IN SOME GAME
The snowstorm proved such a heavy one that for three days the party at Professor Jeffer’s cabin were completely stormbound. Once Andy and Chet went out—in an endeavor to bring the dead moose in, but were unable to accomplish their object.
During the time spent at the cabin, the boys became very well acquainted with Barwell Dawson, and found the hunter and explorer a person very much to their liking. Although he was rich and well educated, he did not act as if he considered himself above them. He took a lively interest in all they had to tell, and knew how to “draw them out,” so that, almost before he knew it, Andy had related the details of his troubles with his shiftless Uncle Si and with the mysterious Mr. A. Q. Hopton.
“More than likely that fellow, Hopton, will bear close watching,” said Barwell Dawson. “If he is a sharper—and it looks as if he might be—he will try to swindle both you and your uncle. It was very unwise for your uncle to try to do business with him without seeing a lawyer.”
“Uncle Si wanted to get the money without my knowing it,” answered Andy, bitterly. He was glad to open his heart to somebody who could understand him.
“I believe you—and that is not to your uncle’s credit. You say he is shiftless and lazy?”
“Very—and everybody around here knows it.”
“Then he is not fit to be your guardian.”
“I don’t believe he is, legally. He just said he was going to be, that’s all.”
“Well, that doesn’t make him so,” answered the hunter, with a grim smile.
With Andy he went over the papers the boy had brought from home. They seemed to prove that the lad’s father owned a divided interest in a large tract of timber in the upper portion of Michigan. The papers had evidently been drawn up by somebody who knew very little about legal matters, and the phraseology was highly perplexing. After poring over them for an hour, and asking Professor Jeffer’s advice, Barwell Dawson shook his head slowly.
“I think it is an honest claim, and in your father’s favor,” he said. “But it will take a skillful lawyer to unravel it. Certainly your father bought something, and paid for it, for here are the words, ‘one thousand dollars, the receipt of which from Andrew S. Graham is hereby admitted.’ The writer meant ‘acknowledged,’ but I guess ‘admitted’ is good enough.”
“I was going to take it to a lawyer in Lodgeport.”
“Is he a reliable man, Andy?”
“I don’t know—I suppose so.”
“Well, supposing you let me look into this matter with you? I am in no hurry to get away from these parts, and I feel that you ought to let me do something in return for what you and Chet did for me.”
“I’ll be very glad to have your help, Mr. Dawson—if you can spare the time.”
“I hope the claim proves of value—for I take you to be the kind of a lad who deserves to get along,” said Barwell Dawson, smiling.
During the time spent in the cabin, Barwell Dawson and Professor Jeffer discussed the trip to the far north in many details, and the hunter even traced out an imaginary route on one of the scientist’s maps. Both men were equally enthusiastic, and after Mr. Dawson had asked the professor some more questions about himself, he at last consented that the latter should become one of the exploring party.
“But remember,” he said, impressively; “if you suffer great hardships or lose your life, nobody must blame me.”
“Trust me; no one will be blamed but myself,” answered Professor Jeffer, with equal gravity. Then his face beamed. “It will be a wonderful trip, wonderful! And we shall see so many new things,—make so many interesting discoveries! I shall take along a set of the best instruments available, and make all sorts of observations. Such a record alone will be worth all it costs to get it.”
“I do not doubt it, Professor.”
“And then the fame—think of it, the fame! Why, sir, if we succeed in gaining the North Pole,—or even if we succeed in going above Commander Peary’s highest mark, latitude 87° 6’,—it will be something for the entire civilized world to know.”
“True.”
“From today on I shall go into the hardest kind of training,” continued Professor Jeffer. “I shall fit myself to withstand the most intense hunger and the most intense cold. It is the only way.”
“It is certainly a good idea,” answered Barwell Dawson. “It won’t do to go up north ‘soft,’ as they call it.”
On the morning of the fourth day it cleared, and Andy and Chet decided to go out once more after the moose. Mr. Dawson’s ankle was now well, but he did not want to try walking a long distance on it just yet.
“You can get your game today,” he said, “and we can start for Lodgeport tomorrow. There I’ll see that lawyer for Andy, and then I’ll try to return to my camp back of Moose Ridge, and see what the storm did to it.”
“If you want me to, I’ll go back to the Ridge with you,” said Chet. “I haven’t anything else to do, now that I can’t get work at one of the lumber camps.”
“Very well, I’ll be glad of your company.”
Andy and Chet were soon on their way to where the latter had left the moose. Fortunately they had been able to borrow snow-shoes from Professor Jeffer, who owned several pairs. Both lads knew how to use the articles, and glided over the newly fallen snow with ease.
“Just imagine we were bound for the North Pole!” cried Andy. “Wouldn’t it be great!”
“I’d like to look for my father, Andy,” and Chet’s face clouded.
“Oh, Chet, I’m sorry I spoke—I didn’t want to remind you——”
“Oh, it’s all right, Andy. If I don’t hear from my father soon, I’d like first-rate to go north with Mr. Dawson’s expedition.”
“I don’t think he’d want to bother with boys.”
“We are not so very young. And both of us know how to rough it—and we are pretty good shots, too.”
“I guess you’ve been thinking about it pretty strongly.”
“Haven’t you?”
“Yes, I have. Mr. Dawson seems to be such a splendid man, the trip ought to be fine, even if the North Pole wasn’t reached.”
“Just my idea. We would do lots of hunting, and riding behind the Esquimaux dogs. Just think of being on a sledge with eight or ten dogs to pull you over the ice and snow!”
“And the thermometer 50° below zero! Don’t forget it is fearfully cold up there.”
“Well, it’s mighty cold here, sometimes. Anyway, I’d like to go—if he’d take me.”
“Same here—but he doesn’t want boys, he wants men, and tough ones, too.”
So the talk ran on, as the boys made their way to the clump of spruces where Chet had had his adventure. At a distance they saw the stick, with the handkerchief, deep in the snow.
“Well, there is your landmark, anyway,” said Andy. “I hope nobody disturbed the game.”
“It looks all right,” answered his chum. “But of course the snow would cover any tracks, even if the game was disturbed.”
With eager hands they uncovered the mound, and soon brought to light the big moose with his wide-spreading antlers.
“Certainly a dandy!” cried Andy, as he surveyed the game. “You can be thankful he didn’t hit you before you reached the tree, Chet. He would have smashed you into a jelly.”
“Well, as it was, he caused Mr. Dawson a bad fall.”
The boys went back to the trees, and after a careful inspection, took a hatchet and cut a long branch for a drag. On this they bound the deer, and then started on the return to Professor Jeffer’s cabin, hauling their load behind them.
It was hard work to make progress through the deep snow, and they had to rest several times to catch their breath.
“I think we had better take the long way around,” said Chet, after half the distance had been covered. “We can’t very well get up the hill this side of the cabin, and, besides, there is a bad gully to cross this side of the brook.”
“You show the way,” answered his chum. “You know these parts a little better than I do.”
By the new route they had to pass through a patch of woods where the snow made the branches of the trees hang low. It was hard work to pass between some of the trees, and once it looked as if they would have to turn back.
“We are earning this meat,” was Andy’s comment, as he paused to pick up the cap that a branch had swept from his head.
“Looks like it,” answered Chet, laconically.
“I guess we should have waited until the weather was better.”
Now, as it chanced, Chet was as tired as Andy, and consequently his quick temper showed itself.
“You didn’t have to come for the moose if you didn’t want to,” he cried, quickly.
“Oh, I’m not complaining, Chet.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“Not at all—and there is no cause for you to get mad about it.”
“Well, then, don’t find fault. I’m pulling as hard on this load as you.”
“I know it. We made a mistake to come this way, I am afraid.”
“Oh, yes, that’s you,—blame that on me, too.” Chet now looked thoroughly angry. “I’ve a good mind to leave the old moose where he is.” And he let go of the branch on which the game rested.
“Chet!”
Andy uttered the name reproachfully, and gazed fearlessly into his chum’s eyes. There was an awkward pause. Then the face of the quick-tempered youth grew red.
“Well, I don’t care——” he began, and took hold of the drag again.
“Yes, you do care,—and I care, too. We can’t afford to quarrel, and all over nothing. Come on, we’ll get through somehow,” said Andy.
“Guess I said too much,” murmured Chet, and began to haul on the load as if his life depended upon it. “I thought——Oh, Andy, there’s a shot for us!”
The quick-tempered lad, who was equally quick-eyed, stopped and pointed to a tree some distance on their right. Andy saw something move, but could not make out what it was.
“Partridge,” announced his companion, and swung his gun around. “I’m going to take a shot when they go up.”
He glided over the snow, and Andy came behind him. Then up went four partridge with a whirr that would have startled one not accustomed to the sound. Bang! went Chet’s gun, and bang! came the report of Andy’s immediately after. Two of the partridges came fluttering down, while the two others circled around in a helpless, dazed fashion.
“We must get those, too!” cried Chet, and blazed away again, and then Andy took another shot. Down came the game, and the boys glided forward to secure the prizes. The partridges were of good size, and plump, and the lads gazed at them and turned them over in deep satisfaction.
“We’ll prove to Mr. Dawson that we can hunt,” cried Chet. His recent ill humor had completely disappeared.
In getting back to where they had left the moose, Andy struck an icy rock and rolled over and over in the snow. Chet was compelled to laugh, but quickly subsided, thinking his chum might be angry. But though he had hard work to get up and secure the game he had been carrying, Andy retained his peace of mind.
“Fortune of war,” he said, as he dug the loose snow from his clothing. “Birr! but it’s cold.”
“Want to go to the North Pole now?” said Chet, quizzically.
“This minute, if I had the chance,” was the quick reply.
The partridges were tied on top of the moose, and once again the two lads headed for the cabin. Soon they came in sight of the place, and set up a loud whistling, which brought the two men to the door.
“A fine moose!” cried Barwell Dawson. “And fine partridge, too.”
“Don’t you think we are pretty fair hunters?” asked Chet.
“First-class,” returned Mr. Dawson.