Jim Adams pointed, as he spoke, to where there showed the low sand spit of Roaring Point on the right as they sailed, with some trees growing, back from the shore. A landing made out from the south bank of the point, and a thin sprinkling of houses was scattered here and there in the vicinity. The vessels sailed noiselessly and darkly past these, and went up the river, turning the point.
Not long after, the order given by Haley for all hands to make ready told that the business of the night was about to be begun in earnest. On the eastern bank of the river were extensive oyster beds, private property, carefully planted and nursed, and rich in their yield.
Hamilton Haley, engaged in his favourite pursuit of poaching, was in rare good humour. Moreover, he had cause for self congratulation in that he had regained his man, Sam Black, from Captain Bill’s bug-eye, and yet another man, Captain Bill having taken on two men from Hooper island.
Soon the cry of the winch and the clank of the dredging chain broke the stillness of the night, as the Brandt, with sheets started, drifted slowly in a zig-zag course along the river bank. The other vessels worked likewise. There was no rest for anyone then. They worked like galley slaves under the whip. The dredge was hardly down before the command came to wind. It came up heavy with the ill-gotten spoil from the beds. Henry Burns found no favour in the eyes of Haley this night. He toiled with the others, now turning wearily at the winch, now helping to drag aboard the dredge, now sweating in the foul hold, stowing away the plunder.
Some time in the night, as he turned, with back and arms aching, at the handle of the winder, a strange humming, singing sound filled his ears. It was like an angry wasp darting about his head. Then a sharp report came from the neighbouring bank. It was followed by others. The sound as of wasps filled the air as a dozen bullets passed harmlessly over the heads of the crew of the Brandt.
Haley gave a cry of surprise and anger.
“They’ve found us,” he said, and ran for the cabin. He reappeared quickly, carrying a rifle in either hand.
“Here, you, Sam Black,” he called, “take this wheel, smart now. Let those sheets run way off there—no skulking into the forecastle, you men, or you’ll get a shot from me. Jim, here’s a gun; you’re a good shot. Give ’em an answer. Let her go along easy, Sam. We’ll show ’em we can play at shooting as well as they.”
Haley, issuing his commands in short, angry sentences, and seeing the vessel running as he wished, called to the crew to lie flat on the deck, but to be ready to jump at his word. Then he and the mate, reinforced by the cook, likewise armed with a rifle, proceeded to return the fire from the shore from the shelter of the after-house.
The other craft had swung into line of battle, similarly, and one of them, Captain Bill’s bug-eye, had already opened fire on the party ashore.
A running fight now ensued. The dredgers, emboldened by their numerical strength, had no thought of quitting the reefs. The attacking party, on the other hand, seemed to be constantly recruited in numbers, and the fire from the river bank grew in volume. The dredgers, with booms far out, kept barely under steerage way, following one another closely.
Coming up under the lee of a promontory of the river bank called Ragged Point, the leading vessel headed into the wind; the sheets were hauled aft and the craft came about, heading down stream once more, to return into better range of the enemy. The others followed, in turn.
An unexpected thing happened, however, just as the Brandt was swinging into the wind, with Haley hauling on the main sheet. A chance bullet, whistling across the stern, clipped the sheet fairly in two; Haley, straining at the rope as it parted, was sent sprawling on the deck, rolling over and over.
He sprang up in a great fury, but equal to the emergency. Still holding the end of the sheet in one hand, he darted to the stern, untied the painter of the skiff that was towing and drew the skiff alongside.
“Here you, youngster,” he called to Henry Burns, who happened to be nearest, “jump in there! Take this sheet and make it fast around the end of that boom. Lively now!”
Henry Burns obeyed, in lively fashion, as ordered. Making the end of the rope fast to the thwart in front of him, he sculled the skiff a few strokes, seized hold of the swinging boom, loosed the sheet again, took a clove hitch around the boom and was back on deck in a twinkling. Haley growled an approval, as he hauled the boom aft and the bug-eye went off the wind a little to make headway so as to come about.
The accident, however, had caused the vessels to separate for the time, the three other bug-eyes having already gone down stream some little distance. With this a new peril confronted the Brandt. Seeing the craft thus cut off from its allies, the party ashore had resolved on a bold venture. A half-dozen small boats suddenly darted out from the shadow of the bank, making straight for the Brandt, rowed by strong arms.
The situation was one of danger to the Brandt. The leading row-boat, propelled by two oarsmen, and with two other men crouched in the bottom, armed with rifles, were already near. Yet the Brandt must keep on its course for a minute longer, to enable it to come about, and not mis-stay. To do so, brought it still nearer the approaching boat.
Hamilton Haley, leaping down into the cabin and emerging with a horn in one hand, gave several blasts with it. Then he sprang to the wheel and took it from the hands of Sam Black. His eyes twinkled with cunning, as he threw the bug-eye still further off the wind, directing it now full against the approaching boat. The manœuvre was all unexpected. The rowers vainly tried to swing their boat out of the way. They were too late. Striking the small craft with its sharp bow, the bug-eye smashed it clean in two, riding over the halves and submerging the occupants. The next moment, the Brandt had swung into the wind, come about and headed down stream.
The fleet of row-boats paused to rescue the struggling and half-drowned men from the icy water; the other bug-eyes, alarmed by Haley’s signal, had turned and come up to meet the Brandt. The four vessels opened fire on the row-boat fleet, even as they were engaged in the work of rescue. Defeated in their plan to cut off the single bug-eye, the rowboats put back to shore and the party scrambled into hiding.
Warned by this attempt, however, the captains of the poaching fleet now resolved to make sure against any similar boarding party. Taking a position in the river where the fire was hottest, and the owners of the oyster beds seemed to be gathered in greatest numbers, judging by the fire, the bug-eyes drew close together, side by side; an anchor was dropped from the one farthest down-stream, Captain Bill’s vessel, and lashings were passed to hold them together. This position, as the decks were flush, would allow the united crews of the four to concentrate on any single deck to resist boarders.
Hitherto, the dredgers had escaped serious harm; but now a rifle bullet, landing in a number of men bunched on the second dredger, wounded two of them and they fell to the deck, uttering cries of pain. Another bullet cut the cheek of Sam Black, who had resumed the wheel of the Brandt; but he held to his post, with a handkerchief bound about his head. The party on shore gave no evidence of the injuries they may have received.
That the attacking owners were being driven from their position by the concentrated fire from all four vessels was apparent, however. Gradually the fire from shore grew less and less. The dredgers, after discharging a few more volleys and waiting for a quarter of an hour, without being fired on, cast loose once more and resumed their dredging.
But they were not suffered to work unmolested for more than an hour. At the end of about that time, the river bank was illumined again with a line of flashes, and the crack of rifles smote upon the air. But now the fight was even more uncertain and the firing still more a matter of chance. For the wind was drawing around to the southward and a fog was slowly drifting up the river, blown at first in detached patches which blotted out the shore one moment, then left it partly cleared.
The dredgers resumed their position, lashed together and at anchor, so as not to lose sight of one another in the fog, and directed their fire more by the sound of the enemy’s firing than by sight. The weird, uncertain battle made a strange picture, with the streams of rifle fire penetrating the fog and the smoke of powder arising through the fog banks.
And then, amid a momentary lull in the firing, there came suddenly out of the fog in the direction of down the river, the unmistakable jingle of a bell. They knew the sound. It came from an engine-room. Some steamer was approaching. The captains waited apprehensively. There could be little doubt of the nature of the craft.
If doubt there was, however, it was soon dispelled. There came a flash in the mist, a ball from a one-pounder hummed through the rigging and tore away a main-mast shroud. The report of the piece, mounted in the bow of the police steamer, followed. Then a voice came through a megaphone, “Ahoy there! I’ll give you captains just two minutes to launch your skiffs and come aboard here, or I’ll sink you.”
Captain Hamilton Haley, raising his rifle to his shoulder, aimed deliberately and fired in the direction of the voice. The bullet must have gone close to the captain of the steamer, for there came a sound as of shattered glass. The shot had hit the window of the pilot-house.
There ensued a silence of a moment, and then there came a heavy rifle fire from the steamer, mingled with the heavier crash of the one-pounder. The bug-eyes took up the firing; and the air was alive with bullets. Moreover, the party ashore, jubilant at the reinforcement through the strong arm of the navy, sent up an exultant shout and poured a volley from their ambush.
For a half-hour the battle waged, the steamer alternately drawing near enough to be clearly seen through the fog, and then backing water as it was met by a staggering fire from the four vessels. It seemed as though the fight might even be won by the sailing captains, outnumbering as they did the crew aboard the steamer.
Hamilton Haley, aroused to fury by the desperate position in which he found himself, no longer sought concealment behind house or mast. His craft lay farthest up-stream in the line of vessels, but he had crossed decks to that of the nearest bug-eye and stood boldly erect, firing steadily whenever a flash from the fog gave indication of a possible mark.
Again, he was not unmindful of the fate of his own vessel; and, as the fire slackened for a time, he returned to the deck of the Brandt. Perceiving his advantage at the end of the line, he ordered the lashings made ready for easy slipping.
“Here, you youngsters,” he said to Henry Burns and Wallace Brooks, who were lying flat on the deck, “you get aft there, ready to give Sam Black a hand if he needs it. He’s hit, and may peter out. You jump on to that wheel if I call, or I’ll know why. And one of you be ready to tend sheet.”
Haley brandished his rifle as he spoke, and the two youths made haste to obey, taking up their positions aft. The captain returned to the side of Jim Adams on the deck of the bug-eye of Captain Bill.
Again the firing from the steamer ceased abruptly and the sound of the engines was stilled. The captains and their mates ceased firing also, and waited for action on the part of the steamer. They were wearied by the strain of the conflict and were glad of the respite. They were making a successful fight, however, it seemed, although they had had by this time six men wounded in some way or another.
“We’re beating him off, I reckon,” said Captain Bill, seating himself on the deck, with his rifle laid beside him. “We’re too many for him; but it gravels me how we’re going to get out of this ere river, with him below us.”
“We’ll get out,” declared Haley, confidently. “Only wait till the wind blows up a bit more. It’s coming around square to the south’ard, and the fog’s getting thicker every minute. We’ll slip past him by and by, when he gets enough of trying to shoot holes through the sky—hello, there’s a bell. He’s coming up again, I guess.”
A single bell in the engine-room of the police steamer had given the signal for her to move ahead slowly. They knew the steamer was coming toward them, although as yet she was not visible. Then, to their astonishment, there came the jingle of another bell.
Hamilton Haley and Captain Bill called to their men to be ready.
“He means business sure enough this time,” muttered Haley. “He’s given him the speed bell. He’s coming on the run.”
The words were hardly uttered when the steamer rushed forth into view from the fog. She was, indeed, coming on at full speed, without firing a gun. Not until she was almost upon them did the bug-eye captains realize what was intended. They had sent a volley at her, to which she paid no heed, but was coming silently and swiftly on.
Gathering speed as she came, the smoke pouring in black clouds from her funnel, the steamer rushed directly at the nearest bug-eye which lay broadside in her path.
“Get back! Jump, boys! The rascal’s going to ram us!” shouted Haley, darting back across the decks to his own vessel.
The crews scattered, and the deck of the bug-eye was cleared. They were not a minute too soon. On came the steamer, tearing through the fog, with the sparks flying from its stack, lighting up the black smoke. There was a crash that could be heard far ashore as its iron bow splintered the side of the bug-eye, buried itself in the yielding planks and cut the craft half in two.
The bug-eye reeled under the shock and groaned as if in mortal agony. The steamer’s bell jangled twice and the craft backed away, leaving a great hole through which the water poured in a torrent. Another bell, and the steamer was going astern at full speed. Some distance away she reversed again, and once more came on. Into the same gap she steered; her iron bow once more rent and tore the planking asunder. Again she backed away.
The vessel, rapidly filling, broke from the lashings that held it to its companion and sank to the bottom of the river.
Thrown into the utmost confusion and dismay at this unexpected turn of affairs, the captains now thought only of safety in flight. The seamen of the foundered vessel scattered through the three remaining ones; there was a frantic rush to lashings and halyards; knives were drawn and lashings cut when that was easier and quicker. Sails were run up and orders shouted hoarsely amid the confusion. The two anchors were slipped, and left. There was no time to get them aboard.
There seemed to be no escape, however, for at least one other of the bug-eyes—the one that lay nearest the steamer. The latter craft was even now manœuvring to reach a point from which to ram the bug-eye, only the sunken vessel that lay between preventing her from repeating her success at once. Tom Noyes, in command of the imperiled vessel, was driving his men to their utmost to get sail on before he should be cut down.
But for the fog he would have had little chance. The steamer worked cautiously out into the river and turned, heading for Tom Noyes’s bug-eye just as she began slowly to make headway, under foresail and jib. The steamer gave the signal to go ahead, slowly, then another for full speed. The bug-eye was standing slowly in toward the bank, endeavouring to put the wreck once more between itself and its foe.
At this critical moment, Hamilton Haley, whose craft was already under weigh and standing across to the opposite shore, could not resist taking a parting shot at his enemy, even though it might imperil his own chances. He raised his rifle and fired in the direction of the steamer’s pilot-house. It was a chance shot, for he was even then losing sight of the steamer in the fog. Yet, with the report, there came a cry of pain from the steamer. Haley bawled exultantly. He knew not what he had done, but the sound told him of some success of his shot. It had, indeed, struck the arm of the pilot, inflicting a wound that caused him to drop the wheel and fall back, fainting.
The steamer, now at full speed, veered in its course. Before the captain could signal for the engines to slow down or could right the steamer on its course, the police boat had run afoul of the wreck and had become entangled, its bottom resting on the after-house of the sunken bug-eye.
The next moment, Haley passed exultantly down stream. Tom Noyes, rounding the wreck inshore, went on his way; the other bug-eye slipped past the steamer, and the fog hid them from view.
Yet they were not to get off scot free. Even as he stood, chuckling at their success, a bullet from the farther shore grazed the head of Jim Adams; and, stunned, he lurched and went overboard. Henry Burns, seeing him fall, and springing to the side as the negro’s body was swept astern, caught a hand in his clothing and held on. Haley, running to the rescue, seized the mate’s arm, and, together, they dragged him aboard. Jim Adams had had a close call. The bullet had stunned him. An inch more and it had gone through his head. He came to, a half-hour later as they went down stream, groping their way in the fog; and, in half an hour more, was able to “feel” the way, as he called it, out to the mouth of the river.
The escape was made. They were free. But Captain Bill had lost a vessel.
Jack Harvey and Tom Edwards, standing in the middle of the road that extended drearily northward before them through St. Mary county, on the cold winter morning of December 28, gazed at each other ruefully. They were aching from the exertions of their escape and of the night spent without sleep, wandering across country. They were lame, foot-sore, and hungry, and the cold now began to penetrate their garments, unprotected, as they were, for lack of oil-skins or heavy coats. The discovery that they were also now almost penniless, and in an out-of-the-way and sparsely settled section of Maryland, was well-nigh appalling. They cast anxious glances over the fields and low rolling hills, to see if they could discover shelter.
Off to the left of the highway, there wound a thin ribbon of frozen stream, going down to the southwest, through some irregular ridges; twenty rods away, on the southern bank of this stream, the roof of a small house showed, with a chimney sending up a light coil of smoke. Harvey and his companion left the road and made their way toward the house.
The occupant of this dwelling, whoever he might be, would not be taken unawares by their coming, surely, for there bounded out toward them three dogs, barking. Harvey and Tom Edwards halted, then proceeded slowly. The dogs did not offer to molest them, but ran close by their side, as a sort of escort.
A man appeared in the doorway, warned by the dogs, and called to the three to come away. Then he gave a greeting to the two travellers.
“Don’t mind the dogs,” he called; “they’re not savage. We’re not accustomed to seeing travelers often, though, and it makes them excited.”
The speaker was a middle-aged, well-built man, of medium height, bronzed by sun and wind, with an expression and bearing that told of a condition in life above that of the poor settler. He spoke, too, in accents different from what they had been accustomed of late to hear. He eyed them shrewdly, as they came to the door.
“THE SPEAKER WAS A MIDDLE-AGED, WELL-BUILT MAN.”
“Come inside,” he said, holding the door ajar for them. “You’re fishermen by your dress—and you’re not. Am I right? If I were to guess, I’d take you to be northerners, though what you’re doing away down in this lonesome place is what puzzles me. You’ve been on the bay, perhaps, but you don’t look like bay men.”
All the while he spoke, his keen, brown eyes were bent critically upon them, as if the two afforded him an interesting study.
“You’re right, sir,” answered Tom Edwards, “we have been fishermen, but we’re not now; and what’s more, I hope we never shall be again. We’ve escaped from a dredger. And, sir, if you will allow me, you don’t look like a man that toils hard for a living. You’ve got a business hand.”
The man smiled and nodded. “You and I are regular Sherlock Holmeses,” he said. “Sit down by the fire. No, I’m not a resident here. I’m an invalid. Do I look it?”
He threw out his chest and laughed heartily.
“You certainly do not,” answered Tom Edwards.
“Well, I was,” continued the stranger. “My name is Phillips, and I live in New York. I’m a lawyer, and I’m taking a year off for my health. I had spent many vacations, shooting and fishing about the Chesapeake, and when I had to give up work for a year, I came down here with my dogs and gun and rod. I hired this old house and set up as monarch of all I survey—including an old darkey servant who does my work and cooking. I’m a pretty lusty invalid, I can tell you. Now where did you come from?”
“It’s a long story,” said Tom Edwards, stretching out comfortably in his armchair before the hearth fire, “but I’ll make it brief.” And he sketched rapidly the adventures that had befallen himself and Harvey since their captivity aboard the dredger. Their host listened intently.
“That’s a strange story, sure enough,” he said, when Tom Edwards had finished; “but I’ve heard of cases like it before. It’s a bad state of affairs. I’d like to help prosecute that man, Haley. What a rascal he must be!”
Mr. Phillips arose, stepped to a closet and produced from a shelf a bottle and a glass.
“Mr. Edwards,” he said, “I won’t offer this to your young companion, but you look played out. I keep it on hand, for cases just like this.”
So saying, he poured the glass partly full and handed it to Tom Edwards. The latter took it, arising from his chair as he did so, and started to raise it to his lips. To his utter astonishment, and that of the host, Jack Harvey stepped to the side of his elder companion, drew back his right arm and planted a blow on Tom Edwards’s shoulder that nearly sent him off his feet, knocked the glass from his hand and sent it crashing to the floor.
Tom Edwards recovered his balance, flushed angrily and turned on Harvey, who stood, chuckling at the effect of his unexpected blow.
“Look here,” cried Tom Edwards, confronting his friend, threateningly, “what kind of tom-foolery do you call that? What’s the matter with you? Have you gone crazy?”
Mr. Phillips, seeing the fate of his liquor and his glass, had also flushed with resentment and stood glaring at Harvey. Harvey laughed.
“You asked me to do it, Tom,” he said.
“What’s that!”
“I did it just to oblige you,” insisted Harvey. “Don’t you remember the first night we met in that beastly old forecastle of the Brandt? You said if I ever saw you try to take a drink again to punch you good and hard. Well, I did the best I know how. Truly, though, Tom, I’m sorry if you’re angry. I just happened to remember it, and I did it for fun, right off quick. Say you’re not mad, will you?”
Tom Edwards, thus confronted with his own words, stood, open-mouthed with surprise. Then a smile overspread his face. He turned to his host, somewhat embarrassed; the expression on his face became serious.
“Mr. Phillips,” he said, “the boy is right. I asked him to do it. And what’s more—though I owe you an apology, sir—I’m glad he did it.”
He turned to Harvey and extended his hand.
“Jack, old chap,” he said, “you did just right. Upon my word, I forgot. I meant that, when I said it aboard the Brandt, and I did intend to stick to it, upon my word. The fact is, Mr. Phillips, if it hadn’t been for that stuff, I never should have been caught in this plight. I swore I’d never touch another drop; and if you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll start all over again. Jack, here’s my hand on it. I’ll stick to it this time, as long as I live.”
Mr. Phillips, seating himself in his chair, doubled up with laughter.
“Excuse you, why, of course,” he roared. “Bless me, if that wasn’t the most effective temperance lesson I ever saw in my life. Young fellow, if you can convert ’em as quick as that, you ought to go into the business.”
“I was only in fun,” said Harvey, apologetically. “I thought it would surprise Tom, to give it to him, just as he said.”
“Surprise!” roared Mr. Phillips, “I never saw such a surprised man in all my life.” And the lawyer leaned back in his chair and roared again.
“Well,” he said, finally. “I’ll try you on the food question. You’re both hungry enough, I dare say. Just make yourself comfortable and I’ll have my man start breakfast.”
Harvey and Tom Edwards settled back in their chairs, warm and grateful. It seemed too good to be true, to be comfortably housed and with the prospect of a good breakfast, after the hardships they had gone through. And when they sat down to the table some time later, with coffee and eggs and bacon and hot rolls and crisp fried potatoes arrayed appetizingly before them, they could hardly believe they were not dreaming. Hope and courage grew anew within them, and already their troubles seemed at an end.
They were glad enough, when they had finished, to accept the proffered hospitality of a bed; and they went off to sleep, wearied and worn but vastly content in the consciousness that they were safe, and might rest unmolested. They slept the most of that day, and roused up at evening only, to partake of a bit of supper and then turn in again, for a long night of sleep and rest.
The next day, the easterly storm blew up that had made life miserable aboard the dredger, Brandt, away across the bay on the eastern shore. How far from their minds was the thought that, while they sat, comfortably sheltered against the snow and sleet, the youth, Artie Jenkins, who had brought all their troubles upon them, was, himself, toiling miserably and wretched, at the winch aboard the Brandt. By no stretch of the imagination could Harvey have pictured his friend, Henry Burns, under bondage to Haley, as he himself had been.
Harvey and Tom Edwards, urged to remain until they were fully refreshed, and until the weather softened to admit of their travelling without danger or great hardship, gladly accepted. They remained that day and the next under the roof of their good host. He, on his part, was glad of their company, and would have had them remain even longer.
On the fourth day, however, the weather moderating and not enough snow having fallen to make the road impassable, Harvey and his companion determined to set out. They were in high spirits, for their generous host had lent them money for their passage to Baltimore and to purchase what they might need on the way. Moreover, he had given them the name of a man at a small settlement called Trap, a mile or two up the road, who owned a horse, and who, he thought, would drive them northward. In the forenoon, then, they started, with a cordial farewell and wishes for good luck.
Lawyer Phillips had been a generous and thoughtful friend. The shabby, sea-worn clothing that the two had worn on their arrival at his home had been replaced by garments from his own wardrobe—second-hand, to be sure, but far better and warmer than what they had. Over his shoulder Harvey carried a small sack which contained half a boiled ham, two loaves of bread, some corn biscuit and a big bottle of coffee. They were rested and had been well fed; and they went along the icy road in high spirits.
In a little more than an hour they had reached the settlement to which they had been directed, consisting of some three or four houses. They went in to the door of one of these, and knocked. A man opened the door.
“We are looking for Mr. Stanton,” said Tom Edwards.
“That’s my name,” responded the man; “what’s wanted?”
They told him Mr. Phillips had sent them, and informed him of their errand. The man shook his head.
“I’d do anything for Mr. Phillips,” he said, “but my horse can’t travel clear to Millstone and back over this road, this time of year. But I tell you what I will do; I’ll take you by water. My canoe is down at the creek yonder. We can run up in four hours, I guess; and I’ll put you up with friends of mine when we get there, and you can stay till the boat comes. How will that suit you?”
“Suit us!” exclaimed Tom Edwards, “nothing ever suited us half so well in this world. When can you start?”
“Right away, as soon as I throw a few things into a bag.”
Five minutes later, the three were going along a road that led off from the highway to the right, diagonally toward the shore. Their guide and new acquaintance, a small, undersized man, led the way at a brisk pace. The entrance to the creek, a quite extensive sheet of water, bordered by salt marshes, was about two miles distant. When they had come to within a quarter of a mile of this, a small cabin could be seen, squatted down among the reeds by the shore.
Suddenly their guide stopped short, gazed off to the side of the road, and uttered an exclamation of surprise. Then he pointed to an object a short distance away, and ran toward it. Harvey and Tom Edwards followed. What they saw was the figure of a man, or youth, lying on a little patch of underbrush, where he had evidently fallen.
The heavy breathing of the person told the three, as they bent over him, that he still lived; but he seemed to be in a sort of stupor. Mr. Stanton turned him over and looked at his face.
“I knew it,” he said. “He’s a stranger; some poor chap from a dredger, sure as you live. He’s not the first one that’s been put ashore down here. We’ve got to get him into the cabin and give him something hot pretty quick, or we won’t save him.”
“Lift him up on my shoulders, and I’ll carry him,” said Harvey. “It isn’t far, and he doesn’t weigh much.”
They lifted the youth up and Harvey started toward the cabin, carrying him over his shoulder, while the others steadied the swaying figure. He was, as Harvey had said, not heavy—a youth of about twenty, perhaps, slender and sickly looking. His face seemed swollen, as though from blows or from being frost-bitten. As Harvey, strong and athletic, carried him over the uneven ground, he groaned and muttered something unintelligible. The jolting had roused him partly from his stupor.
The cabin proved to be a rough affair of boards—with wooden bunks on either side, and a sheet-iron stove in one corner—used merely as an occasional shelter by tong-men. Harvey laid his burden down and made haste to start a fire. Tom Edwards produced the coffee from the bag, and poured some into a tin can that he found in one corner of the cabin, in order to heat it on the stove. The man, Stanton, began untying the shoes and loosening the clothing of the unknown youth, who now stirred slightly and half opened his eyes. There were two tattered blankets by the doorway, and Mr. Stanton spread these by the stove, where Harvey soon had a fire roaring, and they laid the youth down on them.
“It’s just as I thought,” exclaimed Stanton, indignantly, turning down the youth’s coat and shirt, so that a part of his bare shoulder was exposed; “he’s been beaten with a rope’s end. It’s a disgrace, the way they treat men.”
Harvey’s face flushed, as he looked.
“We know how to sympathize with the poor fellow,” he said. “We know what dredging is like, eh, Tom?”
“Well, I rather think we do,” responded Tom Edwards. “We’ve got some scores of our own to settle with a few men, when we get back to Baltimore.”
Tom Edwards advanced now with the coffee.
“Hold him up, Jack,” he said. “This will warm him.”
Harvey put his hand under the youth’s head, raised him to a sitting position, and Tom Edwards held the tin to his lips. The youth opened his eyes and looked them in the face. As he did so, Harvey fairly gasped and nearly let him fall back.
“Tom,” he exclaimed, “look! See who it is!”
Tom Edwards set the tin down on the floor.
“Why, I’ve seen him before,” he cried. “He’s the chap I met in Baltimore, or his twin brother. How can that be, though? Jack, what do you say? Who is he?”
“Artie Jenkins!” exclaimed Harvey. “I’d know him, no matter where he was. He’s the chap that trapped me—and of all places to find him! Say, you’re Artie Jenkins, aren’t you?”
He looked the youth in the eyes and shook him. The youth nodded, feebly.
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Well,” said Tom Edwards, lifting the tin again, “you get the coffee, just the same—but hang me if I ever thought I’d do that much for you. Hold him up, Jack. Here, drink this.”
Artie Jenkins, choking and breathing hard between his efforts, drank the tin-full of hot coffee, and they laid him down again. They rubbed his legs and arms till they were warmed with renewed vitality. Then they rolled him in the blankets and let him lie by the fire.
“He’s all right, I guess,” said Stanton, “but he had a close call. Another hour out there in the cold and he never would have waked up. It’s funny, though, that you know him; how did it happen?”
“Yes, he’s an old friend of ours,” said Tom Edwards, smiling; “we’re sort of old Johns Hopkins chums, he and Harvey and I. We went to school with him—on the Baltimore water front.” And he narrated the story of their acquaintance with Artie Jenkins. “Jack and I had a score to settle with him,” he said in conclusion; “but it looks to me as though someone had settled it for us. Judging by the looks of our friend, I guess he’s had enough, eh, Jack?”
Harvey nodded.
“I guess we’ll call it even,” he replied. “But what puzzles me is, what are we going to do with him?” Harvey looked at Mr. Stanton, inquiringly. The latter did not answer, but started suddenly toward the door.
“There’s a sloop coming to anchor just outside,” he said. “Perhaps they know something about him. Just keep close, now. There’s a skiff coming in, with two in it. I’m a justice of the peace. I reckon this revolver will be a good argument for them to stop. I’ll hold them until that chap, Jenkins, is able to sit up again. If he identifies them as the ones that brought him in here, I’ll put them under arrest. Have you got a weapon?”
Harvey produced Haley’s revolver.
“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Stanton, “keep it handy and stand by. When I step out, you follow.”
Peering through the doorway, they saw the skiff come in to shore and two persons step out—one a large, powerfully built man, the other a youth of about Harvey’s age. The two came up a path leading from the shore, toward the cabin. Their boots crunched the ice just outside the door when Mr. Stanton, motioning to Harvey, stepped quickly outside. Harvey followed.
“Hold up there,” cried Mr. Stanton, “I put you two under arrest till I find out—”
He stopped abruptly and jumped with surprise when Jack Harvey, uttering a whoop and a yell, darted past him.
“George Warren!” bawled Harvey, rushing up to the astounded youth; “where did you come from? How in the world did you ever get here? Any more of the fellows with you? Is Henry Burns out aboard? I was right. I saw you weeks ago through Haley’s telescope. Tom, come on out. They’ve come for us. Hooray!”
Mr. Stanton, wide-eyed with wonder, lowered his weapon and bowed to the man with George Warren.
“The arrest is off,” he said. “I apologize, sir. Come inside and I’ll explain.”
George Warren, embracing his friend Harvey, was almost too dumfounded to speak. But Harvey continued to ply him with questions.
“How did you happen to come to look for me?” he asked.
“We didn’t,” replied George Warren, while an expression of anxiety overspread his face; “we are looking for Henry Burns.”
“For Henry Burns!” repeated Harvey. “Why, what’s become of him—you don’t mean he’s been carried off, too? Say, it’s making my head swim. Come in and explain.”
The four entered the cabin where Artie Jenkins lay sleeping by the fire. George Warren introduced his companion as Will Adams. Then he turned to Harvey.
“Who’ll explain first, you or I?” he asked.
“Why,” replied Harvey, “you know about us, or you wouldn’t be here—you got the note I sent ashore, I suppose. It’s a long story, all that’s happened. I want to know about Henry Burns. Is he lost?”
George Warren recounted the events leading up to the disappearance of their friend; and then, how they had discovered, on the morning of the 27th of December, that Henry Burns was missing; how they had found the skiff adrift in the Patuxent; how they had learned, by questioning the river men, that Haley’s bug-eye had been seen that night in the Patuxent; and how they had set out in the sloop, Mollie, to hunt for him, after notifying the authorities. There were, out aboard the sloop, the other two Warren boys and Edward Warren, their cousin.
“And you’ll have to make room for two more,” cried Jack Harvey. “Tom Edwards and I can tell Haley’s old bug-eye a mile away. You won’t find him on this shore, though. He’s on the Eastern shore, among the islands.”
“That’s what we thought most likely,” said Will Adams, “but we thought we’d clean up this side first, to make sure. We saw your smoke and ran in to inquire—”
He stopped abruptly and turned to Tom Edwards.
“Say, was it you two that slept in Warren’s barn?” he asked.
“I guess it was his barn, sure enough,” replied Tom Edwards; “and wasn’t it a piece of hard luck that he didn’t catch us? We’d all be home by this time,—and they wouldn’t have lost the other boy. What a shame!”
“Things do happen queerly, sure enough,” said Will Adams. “But who’s this man asleep here?”
Tom Edwards turned and pointed to Artie Jenkins, shaking his finger at the sleeping figure.
“That chap,” he said, “is the cause of it all. Isn’t it a queer situation, that he should be here too?”
He told the story of their experience with Artie Jenkins.
“And what are you going to do with him?” asked Will Adams.
Tom Edwards knelt by the sleeper and turned down his shirt collar.
“Take a look here,” he said, pointing to the red marks upon the youth’s shoulder. “When I was out aboard Haley’s bug-eye,” he continued, “I used to spend hours thinking what I’d like to do to this fellow, if I ever found him. I had nine hundred and ninety-nine different ways all thought out of making him pay for my troubles. But”—Tom Edwards arose and folded his arms—“I think he’s had his punishment. Somebody put him just where he put us—aboard a dredger; and he must have struck a Tartar as bad as Haley. I think we’ll let him go. That is, if we can. Mr. Stanton, what do you say? We shall not need your help now, to get to Millstone. We’re going with this sloop to the Eastern shore; but we can’t leave this fellow, Jenkins, here, deserted.”
“Leave him to me,” replied Mr. Stanton. “He won’t be the first one we’ve had on our hands. I’ll go back and hitch up the horse and take him to the settlement, and we’ll ship him up the bay the first chance we get. But you ought to prosecute him. Ten to one, if he ever gets his health again, he’ll go back to the business.”
Tom Edwards shook his head vigorously.
“No, he won’t,” he said; “I’d stake my last dollar that he’s had enough of it. He’s been beaten, and he’s had the heart all taken out of him. He hasn’t got the nerve left to try it again.”
And Tom Edwards was right.
They shook hands with Mr. Stanton, took a last look at the unhappy object by the fire, and went down the path to the landing. Soon the sloop Mollie, with her new recruits aboard, was standing away from the creek, tossing the spray as the search for Haley’s bug-eye and for Henry Burns was resumed.
There was a warm welcome for Harvey aboard the sloop, although Arthur and Joe Warren could hardly believe their eyes at first, when they saw him step over the rail on deck. When they did recognize, in the weather-beaten, bronzed and rough-looking figure, their comrade of Benton, they fell upon him and dragged him below into the cabin, followed by Tom Edwards and Will Adams.
And as they sailed across the Chesapeake a little later, on their long course, east by north in the direction of Hooper strait, Harvey recounted his adventures—assisted by Tom Edwards, who filled in the parts which Harvey omitted, recounting in glowing terms how Harvey had stood by him through thick and thin, refusing to desert his friend when the opportunity had offered for him to escape, alone.
Edward Warren looked serious, as Harvey described the life aboard the Brandt, and the treatment of the men at Haley’s hands.