Joe Hinman, with his crew of three, composed of George Baker, Allan Harding, and little Tim Reardon, did not intend to be idle during the absence of the yacht Viking. The yacht Surprise, when it should be patched up, cleaned, and once more floated, and equipped with a spare set of sails that had been left in the Viking when she came into the possession of Harvey and Henry Burns, was to become the property for the summer of Joe and the rest of the crew. The morning after the Viking had left the Thoroughfare, in company with the Spray, the boys set to work in earnest upon the hull of the Surprise, with the tools that had been left for them.
It was hard work, for the barnacles and sea-grasses had covered the yacht everywhere, not only below, but on deck and even in the cabin. They got some pieces of joist that had been cast up ashore with a lot of other riffraff and shored the yacht up on an even keel, so they could work to better advantage, without getting in one another’s way.
They worked industriously to the noon hour, only Little Tim knocking off work an hour before the others, in order to go down on the rocks and catch a mess of cunners for their dinner. He had these cleaned and cooking by the time the other three were ready, and they ate the meal heartily, in sight of their labours. Then they were at it again shortly, and worked hard till sundown. The yacht had begun to have a different appearance.
The next three days they made even better progress, and had the most of the deck scraped down, so that it began to look bright again, as Harvey and his crew had always kept it.
“She’ll be the fine old boat she was before,” exclaimed Joe Hinman, joyfully, as they stood that next evening eying their work approvingly. “Jack won’t know her when he gets back.”
But the following morning, when Joe had arisen and dressed and taken a peep out of the old shed in which they had found shelter, he could scarce believe his eyes. His first thought was, however, when he had begun to think at all, that the yacht Spray had returned, and that the Warren boys had surprised them by coming to lend a hand, and that they had begun work early.
Then he saw that the yacht that lay anchored close in shore was not the Spray, but a strange boat; and furthermore that the four persons who were busily engaged at work upon the hull of the Surprise were not the Warren boys, but larger youths, and strangers.
No, they were not all strangers, either. For there was one with whom they had a slight and brief acquaintance. It was Harry Brackett. What had happened was this:
When Harry Brackett had ventured finally to return to his father’s home, he had not received that fond welcome that one might expect from an indulgent parent. In fact, Squire Brackett was so incensed at having been led to make the exhibition of himself in the store before his fellow townsmen that he stormed roundly at his son, and he made some remarks about having wasted his money for the last few years in sending young Brackett to the city to school, an assertion which perhaps Harry Brackett knew the full truth of even better than the squire.
“Now,” said the squire at length, “let’s see if you can’t make yourself of some use, instead of just spending my money. You get Tom Dakin and Ed Sanders and John Hart, and take the Seagull and get down there in the Thoroughfare and see if you can’t raise up that yacht that those young scamps wrecked there last fall. She’s abandoned, and she belongs to anybody that can get her. I’d just like to fetch her back here and rig her up handsome, and let them see what they might have done. I’ll show them a thing or two.
“Now you work smart,” continued the squire, “and get that boat, and I’ll give her to you to use while you are at home; and I’ll get John Hart to teach you how to sail her. And see here, don’t you go fooling around with the Seagull any. You let John Hart sail her. That was a pretty story you told me about winning races around Marblehead! Now clear out and see what you can do.”
It might be said that if young Harry Brackett had had any knowledge of boat-sailing he could not have gained it from the squire, for, whereas that gentleman had property interests in several sailing-craft, by way of business, he knew nothing of seamanship himself, and was invariably seasick when he went out in rough water.
Harry Brackett was not wholly disinclined to the task imposed upon him, although he had certain misgivings as to how it would coincide with the commission imparted to him by the man, Carleton, whom he had met at Bellport. He figured, however, that the Surprise, if she could be floated, would be worth vastly more than the promised two hundred dollars. So he went about the village hunting up the youths his father had named. These three were rough fellows, whose worth the squire had well in mind in selecting them. They were strong and able-bodied, older by some years than Harvey and his companions; youths who went alternately on short fishing-voyages and hung about the village at other times, ready equally for work or mischief.
The four accordingly embarked at evening and sailed down to the Thoroughfare that night. Great was their surprise to find, on coming to anchor, that the yacht they had expected to see deep under water lay out on shore, with evidences of having been worked upon.
Not to be defeated so easily, however, they resolved, on the spur of the moment, to lay claim to the yacht, especially as they saw no boat of any description anchored anywhere in the Thoroughfare. They would take possession of the Surprise and, if it should prove that a party of the campers had raised her,—and not any of the villagers,—they would swear that they themselves had found her in shoal water and had dragged her out.
As to the future possession of her, they would trust to the squire to fight a lawsuit, if necessary, to retain her. It was a lonely place, down there in the Thoroughfare, and there could be no outside witnesses.
Therefore, before the sun was up, they had rowed ashore and begun work upon the yacht. They began differently, however, than the boys had done. They realized that the first thing for their purpose was to get the Surprise afloat. Once in possession of the yacht, afloat and towed back to harbour, whoever should claim it then might have trouble in making their claim good.
John Hart was something of a shipwright in a small way, and they had brought carpenter’s and calking tools along.
They, in turn, busily engaged at their work, were taken by surprise all of a sudden at the appearance of Joe Hinman and his crew, tearing down upon them, half-dressed, and their eyes wide with amazement and indignation.
“Here, that’s our boat,” cried Joe, rushing up to them, panting for breath. “You’ve got no right to touch it. We raised it.”
“‘HERE, THAT’S OUR BOAT,’ CRIED JOE, ‘YOU’VE GOT NO RIGHT TO TOUCH IT.’”
John Hart, with sleeves rolled up, displaying a pair of brawny arms, looked at the crew sneeringly. They were certainly not formidable as against himself and his two comrades, to say nothing of young Harry Brackett.
“You raised it!” he exclaimed, roughly. “That’s a likely story. What did you raise her with—your hands? You’re a fine wrecking-crew. Why, we had this boat out on shore two days ago. What are you interfering with us for?”
“Now, see here,” said Joe Hinman, “that won’t work, so you better not try it. There are too many on our side.” And he narrated, rapidly, the history of the raising of the Surprise by the Warrens and Henry Burns and Harvey and himself and crew.
John Hart and his comrades seemed a bit nonplussed at this. It did put a different phase upon the matter. They looked at one another inquiringly for a moment. But they were rough fellows, not given to weighing evidence critically. Might was right with them if it could be carried through.
“That’s a lie!” exclaimed John Hart, suddenly, advancing toward Joe Hinman. “You think you can fool us with your city ways, but you’d better look out. Where are all these fine youngsters that you say raised the boat? This boat is ours, because we saved her. You get out and don’t come around bothering, because we won’t stand any nonsense.”
There was no present hope for Joe and his crew. They were clearly outmatched. They withdrew, therefore, to the shed, cooked their breakfast and ate it with diminished appetites.
“What will Jack say,” remarked Little Tim, ruefully, “if he gets here and finds the boat gone? We can’t get away to give the alarm, either. We’ve got to stay here till he comes back.”
“Never mind,” exclaimed Joe, bitterly. “They can’t keep it long. We’ll prove in the end that we saved her.”
“Yes, but that means half the summer wasted in fighting over it,” said George Baker, despondently. “You see, when one person gets hold of a thing, that gives him some advantage. They will have that boat afloat, and rigged, before they can be sued.”
The task of making the Surprise tight enough to float was, however, not to be so easy as it might appear at first glance. It was a nice and particular job fitting in new planking where the hole had been stove. It took a good part of the day, though John Hart and his comrades worked industriously.
Then it was apparent that the yacht had strained all along her bilge badly and about the centreboard, so that it would require all of another day to calk her and set the nails that had been wrenched loose. By evening of the next day, however, she was ready for hauling off, in the opinion of John Hart; and they would do that in the morning and tow her back to Southport.
But they had not reckoned wholly with Joe and his crew. Finding themselves outmatched in strength, these youngsters had wandered disconsolately about the little island for the last two days, fishing and swimming and passing the time as best they could; watching eagerly out through the Thoroughfare, in hopes that Harvey and Henry Burns and the others might put in an appearance; and all the while keeping sharp watch of the progress of work upon the Surprise.
Hart and the other three, fearing no interruption from the boys, had ignored them. At night they went out aboard the Seagull, where they had provided temporary quarters for all four of them by stretching the mainsail over the boom for a shelter, and tying it to the rail at the edges.
“They’re all ready to haul her off in the morning, I think,” said Joe Hinman, as the boys sat gloomily by the door of the shed on the evening of the second day after the arrival of the men. “I heard them singing and laughing out aboard, and saying something about ‘to-morrow’ and ‘Southport.’ Oh, if there was only another day’s work on her, the boys might get here in time yet.”
“Then I’ll keep her here another day,” exclaimed Little Tim, “if they beat me black and blue for it.”
“You can’t do it,” said Joe.
“Can’t I, though?” responded Tim. “Well, watch me and see. Will you fellows help?”
The boys assented, not to be outdone in courage by the smallest one of them.
“We can do it,” said Little Tim. “They leave their tools aboard the cabin of the Surprise at night. I saw John Hart put the box in there before he went out aboard. He said another hour’s work would fix something or other. I couldn’t hear what. But we’ll fix her so it will take longer than that, I reckon.”
“O-o-oh!” exclaimed George Baker. “But we’ll catch it, though, when they find it out.”
“All right,” said Tim. “I’ll take my share if the rest will.”
Again the others assented somewhat dubiously.
Toward midnight, the four lads stole cautiously down to the shore, and climbed noiselessly aboard the Surprise. As Little Tim had described it, there, tucked away in the cabin, was a box of carpenter’s tools.
“Here’s what we want first,” said Little Tim, softly, producing a big auger from the box. “We’ll use this for awhile, because it doesn’t make any noise.”
“Great!” exclaimed Joe Hinman, whose imagination was now fired with the idea of mischief. “Let me have the first turn at it.”
Little Tim yielded him the precedence.
Climbing out of the yacht again, Joe Hinman proceeded to bore into the planking of the Surprise, on the opposite side from the shore. This served to hide their operations and also to deaden what little sound it made. He went laboriously along the length of one plank, and then turned the auger over to Little Tim, who went to work with a subdued squeal of delight.
“Keep to the same plank,” said Joe. “We don’t want to ruin the whole bottom of the boat.”
They bored the holes in turn, close together, all around one plank, and then began on another. It was tiresome work, but they served three long pieces of planking the same way.
Then they brought out a great chisel and pried off the planking, fearful of the noise it made. But they had done their work well, and the sound of the tearing wood was not sharp. No one stirred out aboard the yacht.
“That’s enough,” said Joe, as the third plank came away. “They’ll have hard work to match that up in two days. They’re short of wood now, by the way they patched the other place.”
“We’ll take away the pieces of planking we’ve cut out, to make sure, and bury them in the sand up alongshore,” suggested George Baker.
“Why not take the box of tools, too?” said Little Tim, whose blood was fired, and who would have stopped at nothing.
“Not much!” exclaimed Joe. “We’re in for it enough as it is. Tim, I didn’t know you had so much pluck.”
“I wish it was over with,” said Tim, looking apprehensively toward the Seagull.
They stole softly away again, back to the shanty. But it was long before they dropped off to sleep.
When Tim Reardon awoke, the next morning, he was dreaming that he had jumped up suddenly in the cabin of the Surprise and had bumped his head against the roof of the cabin. It was a hard bump, too. Then it seemed as if the boat was turning upside down, and jumping out of water, and the floor rising up and hitting him. The next moment, however, he realized that he was in the shanty, where he had gone to sleep, but that a strong hand held him fast, and was shaking him roughly, while another hand was cuffing him over the head and ears.
He let out a lusty yell for mercy, and the others jumped up, fearful of what was coming.
Little Tim, in the grasp of John Hart, was receiving the soundest cuffing and mauling that had ever fallen to his lot in a somewhat varied experience with the world. It had been his misfortune, lying nearest the entrance, to be the one on whom John Hart’s heavy hand had fallen, as he entered, followed by the other three, Harry Brackett bringing up the rear.
“Oh, I’ll larn ye to scuttle other people’s boats!” cried John Hart, wrathfully. And he cuffed young Tim again, whereat that youngster howled for mercy.
“You’re a coward!” cried Joe Hinman, hotly. “Licking a boy half your size.”
“Well, you’re nearer my size,” exclaimed John Hart, dropping Little Tim and making a rush for Joe. They clinched, but the younger boy was no match for Hart, who was, too, reinforced by his three companions. Though it was noticeable that Harry Brackett discreetly held aloof until one of his companions had overpowered an adversary, when he essayed to put in a blow or two.
There was no help for them. The boys got what they had expected—and worse. They were soundly thrashed when John Hart and his companions had satisfied their vengeance.
“Now, see here,” said John Hart, wrathfully, shaking a rough fist at the boys. “What you have just got is like a fly lighting on you compared to what you’ll get the next time, if you lay another hand on that boat.”
“We won’t,” blubbered Little Tim.
And he meant it.
“Ouch!” groaned Allan Harding, as he tried to rub a dozen places at once with only one pair of hands. “You got us into a nice mess; that’s what you did, Tim.”
“Yes,” wailed Little Tim. “But, o-o-h, it’s over now. And,” he added, sniffling and chuckling at the same time, “the boat stays, doesn’t it? You knew we’d catch it, so what’s the use blaming me?”
“I didn’t think it would be such a dose,” said Joe Hinman. “But I’ll stand it all right, if Jack only gets here in time. Let’s have something to eat. We’ll feel better.”
The yacht Surprise did, sure enough, stay. They had done their part well. Try as best they could, the workers could not fasten her up again before sundown. They finished the job, however, by the aid of a lantern-light, and, taking no more chances, got some pieces of old spars for rollers and dragged the yacht down into the water, where they moored her close to land, a few rods away from the Seagull.
There was no sleep for the boys that night. They were stiff and sore, for one thing. But it was the last chance for rescue. It was the seventh day since the Viking had sailed away. They took turns watching, away down on the point of the little island, an eighth of a mile below where the Seagull and the Surprise lay. Nor did they watch in vain. Along about eleven o’clock, Little Tim saw the moonlight shining on a familiar sail away down the Thoroughfare.
With the return of daylight, following their narrow escape, Henry Burns and his friends, wide awake, had begun fishing early. It proved a record morning for them. They filled their baskets with cod, and piled the cockpit deep with them, and only hauled in their lines finally, about the middle of the forenoon, when they had exhausted the supply of herring which they had purchased for bait of the trader. They had about six dollars’ worth of fish when they weighed in their catch at the trader’s dock.
It had been a satisfactory trip, on the whole, and had showed them what they could do. Deducting the money they had paid out for bait and for some provisions, they had netted nearly eighteen dollars, having fished a part of five days. The division of this gave six dollars to Tom and Bob and left twelve dollars to the two owners of the Viking. True, they would have a new anchor and some new line to buy out of this; but that was, in a way, an incidental of yachting, and might have happened in some other manner.
There was a southwesterly blowing, with some prospect of its holding on late. So, after clearing up accounts with Mr. Hollis, the trader, and having an early supper in the harbour, where they were free from the pitching of the sea outside, they got under way and stood up once more for Grand Island, running free before a good breeze. It was about five o’clock in the afternoon, and, if the wind held, they would make the foot of Grand Island by nine o’clock. They were impatient to be back at Southport, and were willing to sail at night if need be.
And yet it was a mere chance that should bring them in to the Thoroughfare on time; for, just north of North Haven, and before they had come to the group of islands beyond, some one suggested that they stand on for Southport and go down to the Thoroughfare the next morning. Harvey half-assented, and then, with a fondness that still lingered for his old boat, was doubtful.
“What do you say, Henry?” he had asked of Henry Burns. “I’ll do as you think about it.”
“Oh, better go down to-night and relieve the crew,” said Henry Burns. “They’re probably sick of staying there by this time, all alone. At any rate, we’ll leave them a new supply of food.”
But Henry Burns himself would rather have gone to Southport.
The wind held on for all of the eighteen miles they had to run; but it dropped away to a very light breeze just at sundown, then freshened a little soon after. It was not until near eleven o’clock, however, instead of nine, as they had expected, that they entered and sailed up the Thoroughfare.
Tom Harris, as lookout forward to watch the shoaling of the channel, saw, all at once, something that made his flesh creep. A stout, wholesome lad was Tom Harris, too, with no superstition about him. Yet he had heard sailors’ yarns of ghostly things in the sea—and he might almost have been warranted in thinking he now beheld something of that sort.
There, off the port bow, about an eighth of a mile from shore, was something that did look strangely like a human head bobbing along; and if there wasn’t an arm lifted again and again from the water, as of some one swimming a side-stroke, why, then Tom Harris was dreaming, or seeing some seaman’s phantom. He had to believe his own eyes, though; and yet how could it be, away down at this end of the island, where there were no cabins of any sort—and the crew up beyond?
“Jack, Henry, Bob,” he whispered, excitedly, “there’s a queer thing swimming just ahead there. It may be a big fish or a seal, but it looks different to me.”
“That’s no fish,” cried Harvey, springing to his feet. “It’s some one swimming. I’ll bet it’s one of the crew. Little Tim Reardon, most likely. Just like the little chap to try to surprise us. He’s the best swimmer I ever saw. Learned it around the docks up the river before he was seven years old.”
If there was any doubt in their minds it was dispelled by a faint halloo from the swimmer, accompanied by a warning cry for them to make no noise.
“That’s queer,” said Harvey. “Something’s up when Tim doesn’t want a noise. I wonder if anything has gone wrong.”
Little Tim, climbing aboard a few moments later, and telling his story in excited tones, quickly apprised them that things were decidedly wrong up the Thoroughfare. Wrong indeed! The yachtsmen were thunderstruck.
Jack Harvey brought the Viking into the wind as near shore as he dared.
“Bully for you, Tim!” he exclaimed. “Now take the dory and get ashore quick, and bring the rest of the crew down here.”
Tim was away for shore in a twinkling. A few minutes later the four could be seen coming down on the run. They piled aboard the Viking in a heap, and the yacht stood along up the Thoroughfare once more.
“Well, what are we going to do, Jack?” inquired Henry Burns, as they turned a bend of the shore and came in sight of the mast of the Seagull.
“I’m going to fight for that boat!” cried Harvey, angrily. “I’ll die for it, but they sha’n’t get it away from me.”
“Of course we’ll fight for it if we need to,” said Henry Burns, calmly. “We will all stand by you, eh, fellows?”
“Yes, sir,” exclaimed Tom and Bob together, feeling of their muscles, developed by canoeing and gymnastics.
The crew also assented, less warmly. They had had their taste of it already.
“All the same,” said Henry Burns, “it would be a huge joke on them, after they have gone to work and patched her up and floated her for us, to sail in and tow her out without their knowing it. Just imagine them waking up in the morning and finding the boat and the crew both gone.”
“Yes, and we’ll catch it for that, too, I suppose,” groaned George Baker.
“No, we’ll stand by you,” said Henry Burns. And he added, “Let’s try the easiest way first, Jack. We’ll run in as quietly as we can, come up alongside the Surprise and take her in tow. If they wake, we’ll stand by you and fight for the boat. But I think we may get away with her. They’re bound to be sound sleepers.”
Carefully stowing away every pail or oar or stick that could be in the way at the wrong time and make a noise, the yachtsmen brought the Viking close in upon the dismasted Surprise. Then, as Harvey made a wide sweep to bring the Viking about into the wind, Henry Burns and Tom Harris dropped astern in the dory and picked up the line with which the Surprise had been moored. They were ready for Harvey when he had come about. Throwing the line aboard as the Viking rounded to, close in, they rowed quickly alongside and sprang over the rail. The line had been caught by Bob, who made it fast astern.
The Viking had not even lost headway, so skilfully had the manœuvre been carried out. Standing away on the starboard tack, the Viking’s sails filled and the line brought up. The wind was fairly fresh and the weight of the unballasted Surprise did not stop the Viking. The Surprise, its long, lonely stay down in the Thoroughfare ended, had at last begun its homeward journey toward Southport.
“I don’t see but what your friends on the Seagull did us a good turn in trying to rob you of the Surprise,” said Henry Burns, smiling. “They seem to have made the old boat pretty fairly tight. They’ve saved us time.”
“Oh, yes, we owe ’em something for that,” exclaimed Little Tim, feeling around for a sore spot, “but I hope they don’t try to collect any more of the debt from me.”
“Tim, you were a brick to do what you did!” cried Harvey. “And the rest of you, too. You had the real pluck. But Tim suggested it, and he’s first mate of the Surprise after this, and next to Skipper Joe. That’s fair, isn’t it?”
George Baker and Allan Harding agreed.
“What do you think,” asked Harvey, as they sailed on up the bay, “will they keep up the fight for the boat? Will the squire take it to court, or will they quit, now they find themselves outwitted?”
“They’ll give it up,” said Henry Burns. “They would have tried to lie it through if they could have got the boat away from here. But now that we have it, they will look at it differently. They’ll find, when they get back to the village, too, that the Warren boys were down here, and that will settle it.” Henry Burns was right.
John Hart and his comrades, astounded, on awakening, to find the Surprise nowhere to be seen, had jumped to the conclusion that the crew had stolen down and cut her loose.
“We’ll take it out of them!” he had cried, fiercely; and, followed by his no less irate comrades, had dashed up to the old cabin. Another disappointment. And still another, when they had searched all the shores of the Thoroughfare and examined its waters, and realized that the boat was gone.
“Well, we’ll get it yet, if they have carried it off,” young Brackett ventured to suggest.
“We’ll do nothing of the kind,” cried John Hart, angrily. “You idiot! Can’t you see we’re beaten? Some one has been down in the night and helped them. That must have been true, what they said about the other chaps. The best thing we can do is to keep quiet about what we have done, or we’ll have the whole town laughing at us for working on their boat.”
Young Harry Brackett looked pained.
Southport, albeit not a place of great hilarity, took a night off once a fortnight or so, and enjoyed itself in rollicking fashion. Up the island, about a mile and a half from the harbour, there was a small settlement, consisting of a half-dozen houses clustered together, overlooking a pretty cove that made in from the western shore. They were a part of the town of Southport, though separated from the rest. It had been, in fact, the original place of settlement, and there was a church and town hall there.
This town hall, bare and uninviting in appearance for the most of its existence, brightened up smartly on these fortnightly occasions, putting on usually some vestments of running pine and other festoons of trailing vines, and adorned with wild flowers in their season.
A glittering array of lamps, some loaned for the occasion, made the hall brilliant; while a smooth birch floor, polished and waxed as shining as any man-o’warsman’s deck, reflected the illumination and offered an inviting surface for dancing.
Overhead, on the floor above, it was often customary to serve a baked bean supper before the dancing, with its inevitable accompaniment of pie of many varieties.
Everybody took part in the dances, from Benny Jones, who had one wooden leg, but who could hop through the Boston Fancy with amazing nimbleness, to old Billy Cook, who arrayed his feet, usually bare, in a pair of heavy boots that reached to his knees, and in which he clattered about the hall with a noise like a flock of sheep. Even the squire consented to unbend from his dignity on some of these occasions, stalking through a few dances stiffly, as a man carved out of wood.
As for young Harry Brackett, he would have been welcomed, also, and indeed had formerly taken part in the festivities. But, since his return from Boston and from some of the livelier summer resorts, he had referred to the island dances contemptuously as “slow.”
The campers usually went up to see the fun; and Henry Burns, who was a favourite about the island, and George Warren were usually to be seen among the dancers.
By far the most important functionary of all, however, was a quaint, little, grizzled old man, who was not a resident of the island, but lived six miles away, over across on the cape. “Uncle Bill” Peters, with his squeaking fiddle and well-resined bow, was, in fact, the whole orchestra. He was the one indispensable man of all. He had a tireless arm that had been known to scrape the wailing fiddle-strings from twilight to early morning on more than one occasion, inspiring the muse now and then with a little tobacco, which did not hinder him from calling off the numbers in a singsong, penetrating voice.
Early in the day, when a dance was arranged, it was the duty of some one to sail across to the cape and fetch “Uncle Billy” over, his arrival being the occasion for an ovation on the part of a selected committee.
“You’re goin’ up to the dance, I see,” remarked Rob Dakin to Billy Cook, one evening shortly following the adventures down in the Thoroughfare, just narrated.
“Well, I reckon,” answered Billy, reaching into a cracker-barrel and abstracting some odds and ends of hardtack.
It was easy enough for anybody to see, for Billy’s boots occupied a large part of the store doorway, as he seated himself in a chair, and crossed one leg over the other.
“I just saw Uncle Bill Peters go by,” continued Billy Cook. “I should think he’d be scared to fetch that ’ere fiddle clear across the bay here. Jeff Hackett says it’s one of the best fiddles this side er Portland. Cost seven dollars, I hear.”
Just then a crowd of boys, including Henry Burns and Harvey, Tom and Bob and the Warrens, went by the door, coming up from shore, where they had been at work on the hull of the yacht Surprise.
“Hello, Billy!” cried young Joe, spying the biggest pair of boots of which the island boasted, filling up the doorway. “Are you going up to the dance, Billy?”
“Yes, I be,” responded Billy, rather abruptly.
“Hooray!” cried young Joe. “So am I.”
“Well, I don’t know as I’m so overpowering anxious to have yer go,” asserted Billy; “at least, unless you mend your ways. You boys have got ter quit your cutting up dance nights, or there’ll be trouble.”
Young Joe grinned.
“I didn’t fill up your boots, Billy,” he said. “Honour bright, I didn’t.”
He might have added that the reason why was because somebody else thought of it first.
Billy Cook’s memory of the preceding dance was clouded by one sad incident. It seems that, by reason of his habit of going barefoot at other times except funerals and dances, and of dispensing with the conventionality of socks when he did wear boots, it was a relief to Billy to step out-of-doors, once or twice during the evening, remove the cumbersome boots, and walk about for a few moments barefoot.
It fell out that, at the previous dance, after one of these moments of respite, Billy had returned to find his boots filled with water, and that young Joe’s deep sympathy had directed suspicion against him.
“No, sirree,” said young Joe now, in response to Billy’s rejoinder. “We didn’t have anything to do with that. And we didn’t put the lobster in the squire’s tall hat, either. ’Twas some chaps from down the island that did that. You know how they like the squire down there, Billy.”
“Guess I know how some folks up here like him, too,” muttered Billy.
Early that evening, the lights glimmering from the well-cleaned windows of the town hall shone out as so many beacons to guide the islanders from far and near. They came from up and down the island, rattling along the stony road in wagons that must have been built at some time or other—though nobody could remember when they were new. Moreover, whereas a boat must be painted often to keep it sound and at its best, the same does not apply to farm wagons. Hence, the conveyances that came bumping along up to the town hall shed were certainly not things of beauty.
But each carried, nevertheless, its load of human happiness and merriment. There sprang out rosy-cheeked, buxom island girls and sturdy young fishermen, healthy, hearty, and full of life, eager for the first weird strains of Uncle Billy’s seven-dollar fiddle.
He was soon in action, too. Seated on a high platform at the end of the hall, resining his bow, was Uncle Billy, smiling like a new moon upon the company. For the hall was used, likewise, by troupes of wandering theatrical companies; and, on this very stage where Uncle Billy was now seated, the villagers had gazed upon the woes of Little Eva and Uncle Tom, and had beheld Eliza Harris flee in terror, with a lumbering mastiff (supposed to be a bloodhound) tagging after her, crossing the little stage at two heavy bounds, and yelping behind the scenes, either from innate ferocity or at the sight of a long-withheld bone.
Uncle Billy was off now in earnest, with a squeaking and a shrieking of the catgut. Captain Sam Curtis, his hair nicely “slicked,” and wearing a gorgeous new blue and red necktie, led the grand march as master of ceremonies, with Rob Dakin’s wife on his arm. Rob Dakin, escorting Mrs. Curtis, followed next. The squire was somewhere in line, leading a stately maiden sister of his wife. Billy Cook clattered along, with a laughing damsel from down the island. Henry Burns and George Warren, with comely partners, were also to be seen, entering heartily in the fun.
At the end of the hall nearest the doorway stood a group of islanders who didn’t dance, or hadn’t partners at present. Included in these were the other two Warren boys and the most of the campers. Included, also, was young Harry Brackett, scowling enviously at a youth from the foot of the island, who led to the dance a certain black-haired, bright-eyed, trim little miss, who smiled at her escort sweetly as they promenaded past the entrance where Harry Brackett stood.
It had happened that this same young lady had been invited by Harry Brackett to accompany him to the dance as his partner; but that she had coolly snubbed him, with the remark that he was “stuck-up,”—an unpardonable offence in the eyes of a resident of Southport, as elsewhere.
So it came about that Harry Brackett, after glaring malevolently upon the general merriment for a few minutes, took his departure.
If any one had followed this young man, they would have observed him footing it up the main road of the island for about half a mile, at a surprising pace for one no more energetically inclined than he. Then, at a certain point, Harry Brackett left the road, crawled through some bars that led into a pasture, and made his way by a winding cow-path into a clump of bushes and small trees, some distance farther.
Harry Brackett evidently was not travelling at random, but had some fixed destination. This destination, shortly arrived at, proved to be a large, cone-shaped, grayish object, hanging from the branch of a tree, near to the ground. The boy approached it cautiously, pulled a cap that he wore down about his ears, tied a handkerchief about his neck, turned up his coat-collar, and put on a pair of thick gloves.
If any one had been near, they might have heard a subdued humming, or droning sound coming from the object on the branch. It was a wasp’s nest of enormous size.
Harry Brackett next proceeded to take from his pocket a small scrap of cotton cloth and a bottle, from which, as he uncorked and inverted it, there issued a thick stream of tar and pitch, used for boat calking. Having smeared the cloth with this, he was ready for business.
He stole quietly up to the nest, clapped the sticky cloth over the orifice at the base of it, dodged back, and awaited results.
A sound as of a tiny windmill arose within the nest—an angry sound, which indicated that the fiery-tempered inmates were aware of their imprisonment and were prepared for warfare. But Harry Brackett had accomplished his design, unscathed. A few tiny objects, darting angrily about in the vicinity, showed that some of the insects still remained without the nest, and were surprised and indignant at finding their doorway thus unexpectedly barred.
Somewhat uncertain as to how these might receive him, Harry Brackett screwed up his courage and dashed up to the nest, which he severed from the tree by cutting off the branch with his clasp-knife. His venture proved successful, and, swinging his hat about his head to ward off any chance wasp that might come to close quarters with him, he emerged triumphantly from the thicket, bearing his prize, and without paying the penalty of a single sting.
“My! but that’s a mad crowd inside there,” he exclaimed. “Sounds like the buzz-saw over at Lem Barton’s tide-mill. Guess they’ll liven things up a bit at the dance. Perhaps some other folks will be stuck-up to-morrow.”
The furious buzzing quieted, however, after he had gone about a quarter of a mile, and he reflected that perhaps the wasps, cut off from a fresh supply of air, might die on the way. So he took out his knife again and stabbed several holes in the nest, with the thick blade; whereupon the angry remonstrances of the prisoners was resumed, to his satisfaction.
This time, however, he did not venture along the highway, but made his way slowly back to the town hall through the woods and pastures. After a time he came to where the lights of the hall gleamed through the bushes, and the thin but vigorous scraping of Uncle Billy’s fiddle sounded from the stage. He put down his burden and made a stealthy reconnaissance as far as the rear sheds of the hall. Some men were about there, so he waited for a favourable opportunity.
This opportunity did not present itself for some time, as now and again some one would come out to see if his horse was standing all right, and possibly suspicious that some prank might be played with the wagons; for the young fishermen of Southport were not above playing practical jokes of their own on these occasions. So it was not until Harry Brackett had waited fully a half-hour that he fancied the coast clear.
It was then half-past nine o’clock, or when the dancing had been in progress about an hour, that Harry Brackett, bearing his burden of pent-up mischief, stole slyly up to the rear of the hall, where a window, opened to give a circulation of air through the place, afforded him an entrance back of the stage.
It happened, not all opportunely for the young man, however, that some of the islanders came to these dances, not for the dancing itself, but because of the opportunity it offered to meet socially and discuss matters. Of this number, long Dave Benson, who lived on the western shore, and Eben Slade, commonly called Old Slade, who lived across from the harbour settlement on the bluff, had withdrawn from the hall to talk over a dicker about a boat.
After a friendly proffer of tobacco on Dave Benson’s part, the two had adjourned to one of the sheds at the rear of the hall, to get away from the noise of the music and the dancers, and had seated themselves in an old covered carryall, from which the horse had been unharnessed.
From this point of vantage, they presently espied a solitary figure emerge from the dark background and go cautiously on to the rear window.
“S-h-h!” whispered Dave Benson to his companion, “what’s going on there? Some more skylarking, I reckon. Well, there won’t be any wheels taken off from my wagon to-night.”
“Why, it looks like that ’ere young good-for-nothing of the squire’s,” said Old Slade. “Thinks he’s a leetle too good for dancing, perhaps, but don’t mind takin’ a peek at the fun from the outside. Seems to be carrying something or other, though. What do you make that out to be?”
“Looks like a big bunch of paper to me,” replied Dave Benson. “But I allow I can’t see in the dark like I used to—however, it don’t matter, I guess. Now as to that ’ere boat of mine, she’s a bit old, I’ll allow, but you can’t do better for the money.”
Harry Brackett, all unconscious of his observers, vanished through the open window. When he reappeared, a few moments later, he was minus the object he had carried. Moreover, that object no longer bore upon its base the piece of tarred cloth. Harry Brackett had snatched that away as he made his hasty departure, after depositing the nest among the faded scenery stored behind the stage. Then, from a side window, he watched the effect of his plan.
The dancing was in full swing. Uncle Billy, warmed to his task, and keeping time with his foot, was calling off the numbers.
“Balance your partners! Gentlemen swing! All hands around!” sang out Uncle Billy.