He was of a cheerful and hopeful disposition, and did not grieve about this; still, he could not help thinking what misery would have been spared if he had not trusted himself implicitly to a villain.
For the present Uncle Dick must sink into oblivion. He will be resuscitated, however, at the proper time.
Will was received by his parents with open arms. He had behaved nobly; he was a little hero. All the praise must be given to him, of course. Had he not rescued his uncle, alone and unaided? Had he not done all in his power to help that uncle when he lay helpless in his cave? Had he not stayed by him and tended him? Had he not explored the horrible place known as the Demons Cave? He had; he had done all this; and yet come off without a scratch!
Of course, Henry meant well, but he had no hand in rescuing Uncle Dick—he had not even entered the cave. Henry was a good, a manly little fellow, but in that affair he had been only a figure-head.
Will found that Stephen was recovering fast. His school-fellows crowded round him and listened eagerly while he dilated on his cousin’s and his own exploits. Now that the affair was happily over, he delighted in telling them about his “adventures” in the cave, and Marmaduke, especially, delighted in hearing them. To him, Henry was a mighty hero.
The affair with Stephen sobered the others for a time, and when the poor boy again appeared among them, nothing they could do for him was left undone. He was a martyr in their eyes, and they willingly left off their own sports to talk to him. Under these kind attentions, what wonder is it that the boy soon recovered his health, strength, and spirits?
The whole tribe of heroes kept clear of tricks and misdeeds till the following summer; but Will, of course, committed his diverting little blunders daily. But it would be foolish to chronicle them.
As for Henry, he recovered rapidly, and when Will and his uncle left he was a great deal better. He missed Will very much, but he did not suffer a relapse. He put his remaining pistol carefully away, vowing to load it himself, if he should be tempted to use it again. As for the one which Will discharged, it was lost the night of the expedition to the cave.
It is summer again. The six are enjoying themselves as usual, but are playing no tricks worthy of mention. Considering all things, it is surprising that they have kept out of mischief so long.
But the Sage was revolving a certain matter in his mind. He had been reading about Capt. Kidd the pirate, and the treasures he is said to have buried. He did not believe there were any such treasures,—at least, he thought he did not,—and to show how erroneous all those old traditions are, he resolved to make what he called an experiment.
“Look here, boys,” he said to his school-fellows, “wouldn’t it be capital to look for gold some day; some of Capt. Kidd’s gold, you know!”
“No, George, I guess we don’t know much about it; so go ahead and tell us,” Stephen replied.
“You’ve heard the stories about his buried treasures, of course. Well, let us follow the directions, and look for a stray treasure some night.”
“What directions?” Stephen asked. That day he seemed to be in a humor to persecute somebody.
“Why, the directions given in fortune-telling books for finding buried treasures,” George said good-humoredly. “I have a good necromancer’s book, and I have studied this thing all out. So, suppose we go to work and try it, just to prove how nonsensical all such stories are, and what a humbug necromancy is. Boys, it would be sport.”
“The very thing!” Charles exclaimed. “Now, tell us all about it.”
“Well, I’m glad some one can understand my meaning,” the Sage said smilingly. “We must go along the banks of some river at night, when the moon rises just as the sun sets. When the moon throws the person’s shadow four feet up into an evergreen, any evergreen tree, stop and say over some enchantment. Then shoot an arrow straight up into the air, and it will strike the water—at least it ought to strike it. Shoot another, and it ought to fall at your feet. Shoot one more, and it will light on the ground exactly over your treasure. But you must dig for it with paddles.”
“Paddles!” cried the boys.
“Yes, dig two feet with paddles, or the treasure will escape. Then you may take spades, or anything you choose, to dig with; and six feet down you’ll find it.”
“How wonderful!” Marmaduke exclaimed languidly.
“How foolish, you mean,” wise Will observed. “Really, George, I used to think you had more common sense. Who cares about paddles, and arrow’s, and necromancers, and moons, and shadow’s, and rivers, and—and—now, George, you know such tomfoolery isn’t worth listening to.”
“Of course I don’t believe it,” George replied earnestly; “I only want to expose it.”
Charles and Stephen had been whispering together and exchanging winks while the others were speaking, and the former now said, with feigned seriousness: “Certainly you don’t, George. It’s a likely story that a boy like you believes in a bald-headed, goggle-eyed, broken-nosed necromancer, that never washes his hands, nor blows his broken nose, nor combs his whiskers, nor cuts his toenails. No, George, you read too much science to believe in such a dilapidated ruin as a necromancer must be; but, as you say, it would be roaring fun to follow his directions. How right and praiseworthy to expose the superstitions of the wicked old necromancer! Boys, let us go, by all means!”
George looked at the speaker rather suspiciously; but seeing how grave and earnest he appeared, never guessed that he was laughing inwardly. He replied warmly, “You’re a true friend, Charley. You understand my motives, and see what little faith I put in the old necromancer. Now, boys, you must give in that we could get a great deal of amusement out of this. Honestly, couldn’t we?”
“It’ll be the best fun we’ve had yet!” Steve declared. “But doesn’t he give any more directions, George?”
“Oh, yes. There is a page of what you’re to do and say, and if we should conclude to make the experiment I’ll learn it, for you mustn’t take the book along with you.”
“Of course not,” Charles said promptly. “Well, you’ll go, won’t you, Will?”
“Wouldn’t miss going for anything!” Will replied with decision.
Without stopping to wonder at the sudden change in Will’s and Steve’s opinions, the sage continued, “According to the almanac, this is the very night for us to go, because the moon rises as the sun sets.”
“Exactly;” commented Stephen. “And the river is our river, of course. As for the evergreen, I know where there is a fine tall one near the river. We must start just at the right time to have the shadow according to the rule when we arrive at the evergreen. Now, boys, I’ll scare up a good bow and half a dozen arrows; and Charley, I’m sure, can bring a long-handled spade; and Will can supply us with an oar or two. If the book says anything else is needed, George, you must see to it, for you, of course, will be our leader.”
George gracefully acknowledged this tribute to his merit.
Jim now spoke for the first time. “But what has all this to do with Captain Kidd?” he asked.
Ever since Will’s experience in the cave he had been filled with lofty ideas, and now, in his wisdom, he thought this the first weighty remark that had been made.
George replied thus: “We don’t know of any other man that would be foolish enough to bury treasures, Jim, so let us suppose that we are looking for one of Kidd’s.—All in sport, of course.”
Will looked at the Sage with pity that was not akin to love, and observed, “Now, George, I haven’t been reading the history of Captain Kidd, as you have, but I know well enough that he never buried any money in these parts because it stands to reason he was never here! Perhaps he buried some along the sea-coast, but certainly none in this far-off wilderness—as it was then.”
This argument was irrefutable; the Sage was mute. With all his reading, all his knowledge, was he to be insulted thus?
In fact, he looked so woe-begone that Charles came to his relief, saying, “Never mind Mr. Kidd, boys; let us follow the necromancers orders blindly.”
All agreed to do this, and soon afterwards they separated.
All unknown to them, they had had a listener. The conversation had taken place in the school-grounds, and a great over-grown boy had seen them, and drawn near enough to hear every word. As a wood-pile was between him and the heroes, he escaped notice. This “great, hulking lubber,” as Charles called him, was the boy who had been bitten by Stephen’s dog several months before, and who, as was intimated, thirsted for revenge. Ever since that time he had dogged the six, in the vain hope of detecting them in some evil scheme.
He was a cowardly, treacherous boy, this Bob Herriman, or he would not have played the eaves-dropper on this occasion. He now resolved to precede the boys, hide himself in the evergreen, and do his best to torment them.
Most horrible revenge, truly!
“I’ll get there ahead of ’em,” he muttered, “and climb the tree Stepping Hen (the opprobrious nickname by which, in his anger, he privately knew Stephen) spoke of! I think I know the very tree. I’ll yell, perhaps, or scare ’em awful in some way, and if they do any harm to anything, I’ll tell on ’em! Oh! what fun!”
Then this embryo villain strutted away, with a mischievous look—a look that boded ill to the Sage’s experiment. He was an immoral boy, while Will and his companions were only boyish, and full of animal spirits.
The boys longed for night to come, as they imagined they could easily confute the vile and slovenly old necromancer’s errors, and find food for laughter. Some time before sunset they turned out in force, and mustered just below the falls. Everything that could possibly be made useful was on hand. George, poor boy, had freighted himself with a coil of heavy rope, but he bore up bravely, and strode onward without a groan.
When they were fairly started, Charles suddenly in-inquired of him: “What in the world have you brought that rope along for, George?”
“To draw the treasure home with,” was the somewhat startling answer, coolly given.
“The treasure!” Charles cried. “Why, I thought you ‘put no faith’ in that! and besides, you can’t draw gold and silver with a rope!”
“Don’t be foolish,” the Sage replied. “I believe in no treasure at all; but you must pretend to believe in it, or else you will never get it. As for taking it home with a rope, the book says it will be in a huge chest, bound with iron bands. Therefore, I bring this rope along to make the spirits believe I believe in their beliefs.”
Having made this logical explanation, the Sage panted for breath, but drew himself up proudly, and looked defiantly on his tormentor, crushing him beneath his eloquence and his aspect.
Charles finally uttered an “Oh!” of relief, and then the procession moved on.
As the sun sank lower and lower, the boys hastened more and more. Will had calculated the time very accurately, and said it was foolish to hurry; but his school-fellows were aware of his failing, and for fear he had made a mistake, they were too impatient to proceed leisurely.
Notwithstanding the ridicule which the boys cast upon George for his strict observance of all the “directions,” they did not wish to omit any of them in making the experiment. Accordingly, all were anxious to arrive at the evergreen just in time to have the moon throw a shadow on it four feet high.
And by some strange chance they did.
As soon as the tree came in sight, Steve exclaimed, “There it is, boys! The very same, identical, self-same tree!”
“Its very close to the water,” George growled, as he made a vain effort to ease his aching shoulders.
“It’s from two to five feet from the water,” Steve replied. “That’s plenty of room to go between it and the shore, and plenty of room to measure the fine shadow there will be.”
“Then we must draw cuts to see whether it’s the right evergreen, as the book says.”
This was done, and they found that this was the tree intended.
Again they marched on, and presently stood before the mystic tree.
The Sage halted, and threw down the coil of rope with a sigh of relief. “The coast is clear, boys,” he said, joyously. “There is no one here swimming, or out boating, or shooting squirrels, or——”
“Or fishing for water-snakes and crunching peppermint candy,” Steve put in, as a finale.
For a moment George looked vexed; but this was Stephen’s way, and he knew no insult was intended.
If the boys had known that this very evergreen, under which they stood, harbored an enemy, they would have acted differently. Bob Herriman had ensconced himself in this tree, and even while Steve spoke, he was trying to rub the gum off his hands and clothes, and glaring wickedly down at the heroic six and the equally heroic dog, Carlo.
“Well, boys,” George observed, “I must go on alone, with Steve close behind to measure my shadow. If we all go crowding along together, somebody will get shoved into the river.”
The wisdom of this was so apparent that the rest waited patiently while the other two went on.
George walked cautiously along the bank of the river, and when the rising moon threw a faint shadow of his figure on the bark of the evergreen, he halted. Stephen, however, stepped up so briskly and boldly, and so near the brink, that shovelfuls of loose earth rattled down into the water. When he reached George he whipped a homemade folding ruler out of his pocket, and applied it to the shadow.
“Just four feet!” he cried, excitedly.
George looked on complacently, and the boys in waiting, hearing Steve’s remark, uttered a shout of surprise and delight.
“Stop! stop!” George cried, angrily: “I cannot allow such a noise!”
A dead silence ensued. The four moved on till they had passed the tree, and then George and Stephen joined them.
“That tree is very thick up among the branches,” Jim observed.
“Never mind that,” Charles said. “Now, George, it’s time to go to work. Are you sure you know the verses?”
“What verses?” the Sage asked, indignantly.
“Why, the necromancer’s, of course.”
“You call it ‘verses,’ do you? Well, Charley, a boy generally does. But you should say ‘poetry.’ Now, this is genuine poetry—an ode, an—an——. Well, the book says it’s an Apostrophe, or Address to——”
“Fiddle-sticks! George, do you know it?”
The Sage made no answer, but, facing the river and the moon, he drew himself up proudly, and merely observing that he must have silence, cleared his throat for action.
The rest were all behind him, and so escaped notice. Then each one took out his handkerchief and dammed up that organ which is the seat of laughter. By this means they succeeded in choking back all their merriment, and behaved so well that poor George was highly gratified.
It must have been a comical sight to Bob Herriman in his tree. At all events, he gazed at the different actors with open mouth and ears, while the Sage delivered the following:
ADDRESS TO THE BENIGN SPIRITS OF RIVERS AND STREAMS.
George hesitated, stammered, stopped! The necromancers rhymes were too much for his already overstocked brain. He made one more desperate effort, but Charles, with his habitual promptness, cut him short, shouting:
At this, the others tore out their handkerchiefs and laughed derisively.
George wheeled round quickly, and just in time to see five handkerchiefs shoved into as many pockets. He did not know what they had been doing with their handkerchiefs, but he was angry, and he said, snappishly: “Look here, if you boys can’t behave any better than that, you had better stay at home! I didn’t come here to amuse gigglers, and I won’t do it. No; I’ll stop right here; I won’t go on with the experiment.”
Charles knew’ that this was only an idle threat, but he said, hastily: “Now, George, you’re too old and too sensible to be vexed because we laugh at what is comical. To-morrow you’ll laugh yourself. And besides, what did we come here for? To rout the necromancer, or to be routed ourselves?”
“Of course; we came here to enjoy ourselves and have some fun,” chimed in Stephen.
“Yes, but you might behave yourselves,” the Sage growled. “Now, where was I? Oh, pshaw! it’s all a muddle! Only two or three more lines, and it would have been finished. Well,” brightening up, “perhaps the charm isn’t spoilt; and, Steve, hand me your bow and arrows.”
The boy still felt aggrieved, and he now fired furiously towards the sky.
The arrow rushed into the air, and came down a moment later, striking the water fairly.
The archer’s face beamed with smiles; he spoke. “Boys, that is as it should be; and when we get warmed up in this game, it will be sport.”
“It will certainly be warm work if we dig down six feet in this dirt,” Will growled.
The boys changed their positions before George shot the next arrow, and, as luck would have it, Will took his stand near a horrible, miry hole which had been scooped out by the river in a great overflow that very spring. He threw his paddles down carelessly, and fixed his eyes on the experimentalist.
That worthy now fitted another arrow to the bowstring, and after taking deliberate aim at a star overhead, he gravely “fired.”
Every head was bent to observe the arrow’s flight, and each one was prepared to spring aside if it should come down too close to him. Each one except Bob Herriman. He, poor wretch, had placed himself in so cramped a position that he could not see it fly.
Having made this clear to the reader, surely he will guess what happened.
The arrow descended fairly in the evergreen, struck a branch, glanced, and Mr. Bob received a stinging blow on the back of the head. He wriggled and nearly fell out of the tree. His mouth flew open, and a half-suppressed ejaculation escaped him.
The arrow then struck the ground in such a manner that it ran along it, and finally ceased its wanderings within a few feet of George.
“How strangely everything is fulfilled!” he said, with evident satisfaction.
The boys grinned—even Marmaduke was amused at the Sage’s behaviour.
“I believe that tree is inhabited,” Stephen remarked. “I’m sure there was a great rumpus in it when the arrow’ struck it, and I thought I heard a groan.”
“Go to grass, Stunner!” said Charles. “You don’t know a groan from a wasp’s nest.”
“I guess you’re about right, Charley;” Will added. “I guess George’s arrow smashed an ancient and worn out bird’s nest.”
Let it be understood that none of these boys were aware of Bob Herriman’s presence. They accompanied the Sage only to see to what extremes he would go, and to while away the time. But probably they had hopes that some unforeseen incident would happen to cause merriment.
Again George fired deliberately into the air, and again the arrow was narrowly watched. This time it came down so perilously near Stephen’s dog that Stephen was grievously offended.
But as this was the last arrow to be shot upward, and as all wished the proceedings to be continued, he was soon pacified.
George looked complacently at the arrow, and at last seemed ready to make use of the paddles and spade. With some pompousness he traced a circle round his arrow, and looked so important that the boys could hardly suppress their laughter. But it seemed to them, boys though they were, that practical George was out of his sphere.
“Now, William,” he said, “bring me those paddles of yours.”
Will smiled to hear himself addressed by his full name, and turned to pick them up.
Steve, still thinking about his dog’s narrow escape from injury, snarled: “Don’t William him, or he’ll make you wilt.”
“Stop!” the Sage shouted to Will, even as Steve spoke. “I forgot. It is necessary that an arrow should yet be shot.”
“As your grammar would say,” supplemented wicked Stephen.
The Sage took no notice of these jeering words, but continued: “Yes, I must shoot an arrow through the very middle of the evergreen.”
Bob Herriman, who could hear every word, now had reason to be alarmed. Up to this time he had looked on calmly, intending to keep still till the boys should be very much engrossed, and then terrify them all in some mysterious way—how, he had not yet determined. Now, however, he lost sight of everything except his own safety, and not stopping to collect himself, he gave vent to the most ear-piercing, heart-appalling howl, shriek, and roar, combined in one, that the boys had ever heard.
Boys, imagine a deep-chested lad of sixteen mechanically drawing in a full breath, and then suffering it to escape in one long cry of mortal terror.
The effect on the boys was startling.
In the confusion of the moment, George probably took it for one of his “sprites;” and he dropped Steve’s bow, stepped on it, and broke it.
Marmaduke felt that there must be something ghostly and necromantic in such a cry, coming, in the hush of evening, from a shapely evergreen that rose beside a rolling, moonlit river.
Jim was seized with a painful attack of his chills, and ran bellowing homewards.
Stephen, impetuous and heedless as ever, picked up a stone and threw it furiously into the tree.
The reader of fiction does not need to be told that “all this happened in an instant.”
Where the stone struck Mr. Herriman is not known; but with a crash he fell headlong to the ground, rolled over twice,—roaring, meantime, with rage, pain, and terror,—and before the thunderstruck boys could recover from their stupefaction, he had disappeared in the water.
Then Stephen, with great presence of mind, exclaimed: “Boys, I told you that tree was inhabited!”
“Save him! Save him! Whoever he is, save him!” Charles cried. “Get George’s rope, and throw it out to him!”
He and Stephen made a rush for it, and stumbled over each other, but finally managed to get all but a few inches of it into the water. There their rescuing ceased.
Mr. Herriman, whose feet touched bottom, floundered and sputtered about in the water like a madman. He could easily have made his way to the shore, but apparently he had lost his wits. Every other second he gave utterance to some pithy interjection. Doubtless he would have yelled continually; but every time he opened his mouth a small cupful of water and animalcules poured down his throat, and well-nigh choked him.
A panic seized upon the boys, and although chattering and gesticulating like monkeys, they were powerless to help him. And so Bob struggled in the river, in some danger of being drowned.
But a deliverer was at hand. Carlo awoke to what was going on, and, more sensible than the boys, plunged into the river, and an instant later was beside demoralized Bob. He caught first his coat, then his pants, then his coat again, Bob insanely striking him off each time.
The truth is, it galled the boy to be rescued by Tip’s successor.
The noble dog persevered in his efforts, however, and Bob, eventually seeing the folly of resisting, suffered himself to be towed to the bank.
Then the brave boys exerted themselves, and succeeded in hauling bewildered Robert Herriman on shore.
His first act betrayed his cowardly nature.
“Get out, you brute!” he said, and struck the gallant dog which had just saved him, and which stood by, wagging his tail to express his delight.
Then, with a jeering laugh at the dog’s low growl, he darted away from the now enraged boys.
He ran a few’ steps, then halting, he picked up a stone, and heaved it among the experimentalists.
“Take that for throwing stones at me!” he said derisively, as he took to his heels again. “Look out for your dog, Stepping Hen, and good-bye till I see you again,” he shouted as he ran.
This was more than human nature could bear. With fury in their eyes, and uttering a warwhoop that electrified the flying wretch, they all broke into a run and gave chase, determined to wreak dire vengeance on him.
Bob yelled fearfully,—well he might,—and redoubled his speed.
The pursuers were gaining on him, when a wild cry, a beseeching, almost despairing, appeal for help, reached their ears.
They stopped and stared vacantly at each other. The look each one put on seemed plainly to inquire, “What next?”
“It’s Will,” Charles said. “Where on earth is he?”
“Follow the sound,” the Sage said, philosophical as ever.
The pursuit was instantly given over, for all the boys bore Will too much love to neglect him. One and all, the four ran back to the scene of their late exploits, and Herriman escaped.
“Who saw Will last?” George asked anxiously.
“The last I saw of him,” said Steve, “was when you told him to bring the paddles.”
In fact, poor Will was so startled at Bob’s appalling cry that he had tumbled backwards into the pit. He and his paddles. In the confusion that ensued he was not missed, but was left to his own resources while the others were engaged in “rescuing” and dealing with Rob.
Unhappy boy, he found himself in narrow quarters. The hole was large at the top, but small at the bottom, and he was unable to climb out of it. Soon he found himself sinking into the horrible, sickening mire, which gave way beneath him.
He heard the shouts of his companions, and struggled manfully to save himself—and his paddles.
Why didn’t he cry out for help immediately? That is very easily explained.
Will got into trouble so often and made so many egregious blunders—which invariably provoked the laughter of others—that he had fallen into the habit of keeping as many of them secret as possible. He had a preternatural horror of being made a laughing-stock, and consequently, when he found himself out of sight in a pit, he was desirous to work his way out of it before he should be missed.
Besides, after his exploits in the cave, this experiment of the Sages was but ignoble pastime, and it would ill become him, the hero who had delivered and cured his insane uncle, to come to grief in this slimy hole.
He struggled heroically to gain dry land, but the more he struggled the deeper he sank in the mire. At last, hearing his comrades chasing some one, he concluded that he should have to cry out for help, or else be left to a horrible fate.
But it grieved him to think that he was not missed and searched for.
“Whatever is the matter, among so many there might be one to think of me,” he muttered, sadly. “Don’t I amount to a button, that they don’t miss me? Or is something awful going on?”
Then, with great reluctance, he shouted for help.
When the four gathered round the hole, they beheld its tenant with wonder.
“How in this world did you get down there?” Steve asked.
“Fell down,” Will said, laconically. “I knew there was a hole in these regions, and, botheration! I found it, and tumbled overboard into it! But say, what was all that row about?”
“So you’ve missed all the fun!” Charles said, pityingly.
Then the boys told him all that had happened.
“But why didn’t you yell for us to help you at first?” Steve asked.
“Why didn’t you miss me?” Will retorted, sourly.
The boys could not be blamed for this. Probably not more than ten minutes had elapsed from Bob’s first cry of terror till Will’s cry for help; and they had been very much excited and distressed all that time.
“This is no way to get Will out!” Charles said, angrily. “Stop talking, Steve, and bring George’s rope here.”
“George’s rope!” said Will. “That will be the very thing! Get it, Steve; you’re used to hauling donkeys out of pits, you know, so show us your skill.”
The boys laughed for a full minute, and Steve said, as he darted away for the rope, “Will, that’s blunder number ten thousand seven hundred and one for you.”
The rope was found, but it was wet from end to end. However, it proved more useful than when the boys attempted to rescue Herriman with it, and Will, with considerable detriment to his clothes, was pulled out of the hole—his paddles, too.
Although coated with disagreeable slime up to his watch pocket—which, by the way, contained fish-hooks instead of a watch—he took it coolly, as became a redoubtable hero.
In order to turn the conversation from himself, he said, hurriedly, “Now, go into details about Herriman, and then I must pack off home.”
Foolish boy, he need not have been alarmed; he was an object of pity rather than of laughter.
“We told you about Herriman,” growled Steve. “I wish I could have got my claw’s on that boy; I would have made him strain his voice and his muscles!”
“You had better go home this minute, Will,” Charles said, kindly. “As for Herriman, Steve, I guess he has strained his voice and his muscles and his joints enough already. Well, Will, I’ll go home with you, and tell all about Herriman as we journey along. Stephen, I suppose you will stay here to go on with the necromancy business, which was so meanly interrupted. Be sure to bring home Will’s paddles and everything else.”
“Yes, the necromancer must be routed,” Steve replied. “I’ll see to everything; good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” said Charles and Will, as they plodded off.
“I say, Will,” Charles said, with a grin, as soon as they were out of hearing, “I say, Will, by to-morrow I guess I’ll be the only one to see any fun in this business; for Jim ran howling away, Bob got the worst of it, you robbed the hole of much mud, Steve’s dog was insulted several times, and before Steve gets through with the Sage and Marmaduke, all three will be sick of it.”
Thus let them go.
The sport seemed to have lost much of its zest after all these interruptions and departures; but George and Stephen mended the bow as well as they could, and then the former, with due solemnity, shot an arrow through the tree lately occupied by Herriman.
If the complicated plot of this and the preceding chapter has not proved too great a strain on the reader’s memory, he will probably remember that the next thing to be done was to dig.
Marmaduke came up with the paddles, and tried to make a spade of one of them; but it rebounded and jarred his hand till it ached.
“Stop!” screamed the Sage. “You’ll spoil the charm! The sods must be raised with something sharp, of course. Boys,” solemnly, “they must be raised with a knife that has slain something!”
“Slain!” Marmaduke repeated, aghast.
“Yes; and I’ve brought along a knife that once killed a deer and a lion.”
“George, this is going a little too far; what business have you to tote around a hunter’s weapon?” Stephen inquired. “Why, if you had fallen into the river with that horrible knife hitched fast to you, you would have been ruined.”
“Don’t be jealous, Steve,” George said, sarcastically. “You know there isn’t a boy in the State that owns such a knife as this; you know it has a romantic history; you know my grandfather willed it to me; you know it once saved Seth Warner’s life; you know an old Turk once——”
“Yes,” interrupted Steve, “I know; I’ve heard you talk about that knife ever since I first knew you. But if you don’t look out, it will come to grief like all your other wonderful knives—you’ll lose it.—Well, never mind, George; I was only surprised to think you could bring along that keepsake—no, relic—to dig up sods! So,” mildly, “go on, George.”
George “went on,” and soon the sods were raised, and a circle of earth exposed. Then the paddles were used very laboriously, first by one and then by another. It was hard work, but at last a hole was scooped out, and Steve, in despair, took up the spade and dug with ease.
“How do you suppose Herriman came to be in that tree?” George asked.
“That’s a mystery,” Steve replied. “Likely he was prowling around, and saw us coming, and scrambled into the tree to hide himself. Well, I never hankered to make a squirrel of myself in an evergreen.”
“Let me dig,” George now said.
Stephen handed over the spade to him, and after a vigorous attack with it, with a thud that startled the three, he struck something very hard.
Visions of gold and precious stones flashed through their mind; George trembled with excitement; Marmaduke was in ecstacy; Steve was bewildered.
George stopped for a moment, panting and eager; then he turned to digging again—so furiously that the sweat streamed from every part of his body.
Not a word was spoken.
Dirt enough was soon removed to discover—what?
An iron-bound box!
Again the Sage paused. Although Steve was as much excited as the others, he thought this a fitting time to observe: “Well, George, we have exposed the necromancer’s fable, and it is getting late; so let us pack up and go home.”
“Go home?” echoed George. “Go home—without seeing what we have found?”
“Certainly. It can’t be a treasure, you know; because it isn’t six feet down in the ground!”
George was thunder-struck. But he soon rallied, and made answer: “Well, so many queer things have happened, perhaps the spirits got demoralized, and raised the box.”
“No they didn’t,” Steve retorted; “spirits never get demoralized. And besides, I’m ashamed of you, George, for staying here any longer. You know you don’t believe a single word of it,” with cutting irony. “So, let us do what the copy-book tells us, and make the most of time while we are young. Let us hurry home.”
Whilst this talk was going on, Marmaduke—much to the secret satisfaction of both boys—was busy, trying, by using the spade and paddles as levers, to get the iron-bound box out of the hole. Not finding it so heavy as he expected, he succeeded without much effort.
Now that it was out of the ground, George, Stephen, and Marmaduke, pounced on it, pried off the lid, and found—what?
A heap of mouldy old boots, a cracked cow-bell, a worn-out vest, several broken articles, a few door-knobs, a defaced copy of the Constitution, rusty nails, the works of a clock, the rudder of a toy ship, a heavy flat-iron, the head of a medieval image, rubbish, all sorts of things.
Steve, foolish boy, laughed till he was obliged to sit down. As for the other two, they were, to use a polite expression, “deeply chagrined.”
As soon as Steve recovered himself he said, “This is some of Crazy Tom’s work! Of course you two have heard of him; he used to live in these parts, and spent all his time gathering up all kinds of trash, and the boys say he buried it sometimes. Now I know that story is true. Oh! what a treasure we have found! Our fortune is made!”
George and Marmaduke were familiar with the legends respecting Crazy Tom, and they were mute.
“Oh dear,” groaned Steve, “we must get this box back into the hole, and shovel in the dirt, before we can go home.”
This proves that there was something good in Stephen, after all. A great many boys would have gone away, leaving everything in confusion.
“There might be something valuable in it,” Marmaduke suggested.
“Yes, of course,” Steve replied. “But I don’t know who’d want to rummage among all these disgusting old things.”
George and Marmaduke thought of the bones in the woods, and with one breath, both said, “No!”
“To be sure,” Steve continued, peering into the box, “if we could find some fellow that hadn’t any respect for himself, we might hire him to handle its contents, and separate the good from the bad. Now, I’ve a good mind to take out this——Roanwer!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Matter!” roared Steve, starting back. “My gracious! That box is inhabited with some awful looking grubs!”
Without further parley the lid was laid on, the box shoved into the hole, and the dirt shoveled in.
“Steve,” said George suddenly, “I believe you knew about this. Why were you all at once so eager to go, and why did you pick out this tree, and guess the box was Crazy Tom’s so quick?”
“Now, George, don’t be foolish. I came for the fun of it, that’s all. Now, didn’t you shoot all the arrows, and didn’t I do all I could to help you? Didn’t I work hard digging? Why did I know about where Crazy Tom buried his treasures? Why, George, are you losing your wits? Come, now, be sensible; and think it’s a great joke.”
George looked full in Stephen’s honest face, relented, and said desperately, “Well, I suppose it is very funny; but I’ve made an awful fool of myself.”
Everything except the big rope was taken home. It was enough for the Sage to carry it when in excellent spirits, unruffled temper, and fired with “enthusiasm.” Now, his spirits were broken,—for the time only,—his temper was soured, he himself was sore and weary, and the rope was “forgotten.”
The three wended their way homeward in a different frame of mind. Steve was so light of heart that he chuckled to himself and his dog, and swung his arms furiously. Marmaduke was uneasy about his lessons for the next day; George was glum and miserable, full of bitterness against necromancers, sprites, and Crazy Toms.
“I’ll never meddle with nonsense again,” he muttered, as he jogged on. “And as for Captain Kidd——”
From that day, he had another name—the Necromancer. It was not much used, however.
After that, George renounced all literature that treated of the magical arts, but his reading was as varied and extensive as ever. He carefully avoided the subject of necromancy, but when his companions referred to it, he put up with their jokes and cruel remarks about “iron-bound” “treasure-chests” with the calm indifference of a true philosopher.
Charles was mistaken in saying that he would be the only one to see any amusement in the affair after it was all over, for Stephen never tired of calling up George’s look of misery when the box was opened.
“Oh, if you and Will had only waited!” he often sighed to Charles.
Stephen almost forgot the insults heaped on himself and his dog during the earlier part of the evening, and as Bob Herriman prudently kept out of his sight for a few days, he almost forgave that wretch his wickedness.
One day he asked George if he might see the book of necromancy.
At first the Sage was inclined to be vexed at such a question; but finally, pointing upwards, he said, with a peculiar smile: “Well, Steve, I guess the smoke of it is up there. And now, don’t say any more about it, please.”
“George, that night we passed through an experience instead of an experiment;” Stephen replied solemnly, looking wondrous wise. “I promise not to bother you about it any more.”
Stephen kept his word religiously.
As for Will, strangely enough he took no cold, but was minus one suit of clothes.
Bob Herriman kept out of the boys sight for a few days. He had several very good reasons for doing so. In the first place, he was sore and stiff from many bruises; secondly, his cowardly nature dreaded meeting with the boys for whom he had lain in ambush, and whom he had exasperated beyond endurance; and thirdly, he wished to avoid Steve’s dog, which he now feared.
On account of this, the boy kept quiet near home, although his parents probably thought him at school. In these “holidays” he worked out a plan for revenge.
Revenge for what?
The only answer that can be given is that the boy was so vindictive in his nature that he wished to do the boys and the dog some injury—simply because he had fallen out of the evergreen; been humiliated, stunned, and hurt; had an unpleasant struggle in the water; and generally “got the worst of it,” as Charley put it.
At last he hit on a plan that pleased him greatly.
Suppose that, in order to lend variety, animation, and dignity to these pages, we forbear giving the details of his plot, and keep the reader in a state of mild suspense and wonder? Such a course would smooth our task, and not seriously disturb the readers peace of mind.
Although a raft has not been referred to specially as one of the attractions of the river, yet, for all that, an ill-made and disproportioned, but substantial and floatable one was moored a mile above the falls. Many hours had been spent by the boys in building and repairing this raft, and many times they had sailed proudly up and down the river on it. It was a source of great amusement to them all.
Some ten days after the adventure last narrated, Bob Herriman built a little “house,” which, seen from one end looked like a hen-coop, from the other like a dog kennel, while a stupid person behind might take it for a clumsy woodbox, another equally stupid person in front might take it for a modern home-made bee-hive. One end was three feet wide, the other three feet six inches. By laying a brick underneath it, its roof was level, with the spirit-level. By placing it on a perfectly smooth floor, without the brick underneath it, it rocked gently—just sufficiently, in fact, to lull a person to sleep. Briefly, Robert was not intended for a carpenter, and this “house”—which was almost worth its weight in nails—to be still further disproportioned, was much wider than it was long. Its width has already been given; its length was two feet and two, three, four and five inches. Its height was in exact proportion to its width and length. The door of a disused cupboard was brought into use, and once more did duty as a door.
Boys, exercise your ingenuity, and draw a correct picture of that “house.” It may help you to understand Bob’s plot.
Into this building its architect put several things which he thought would be needed to carry out his schemes successfully.
Every Saturday afternoon Stephen and his dog went swimming in the river. The other boys generally, but not always, swam with him. This was well-known to Herriman, and he took his measures accordingly.
The next Saturday Bob set out immediately after dinner, getting a boon companion of his to take his contrivance in a light waggon to the falls. This boy, whose thoughts never soared above the driving of his nag, asked no questions, and scarcely noticed the “house” or its contents. At the falls Bob set it down carefully, and then the two went their several ways—the youth with the waggon turning back and going to market, the plotter getting his building laboriously up the hill by the falls. The few people near stared at him in wonder, but said nothing.
When this wicked boy got his contrivance a few rods above the falls he stopped, took out of it and stowed away upon his person whatever water might damage, and then took an enormously long and very strong cord, which had hitherto been inside, and tied one end fast to a staple in what was supposed to be the roof of the “house.”
Having done this, he shoved the unwieldy thing into the river, and eyed it wistfully.
“No, it isn’t coming to pieces,” he exclaimed, joyfully, as he saw that his work bore the strain of floating in the water.
Then he grasped the rope—which will be described presently—and towed his invention—it was an invention—rapidly up the river.
Arrived at the raft, he fastened this thing (we don’t know what else to call it) firmly on it. Then was shown the beauty and usefulness of the staple spoken of. Bob ran a strong cord through it and through some of the many staples and rings which were planted in the raft.
You perceive, gentle reader, that this boy was much better at scheming than at building.
Then he loosened the rope from the—let us call it cage—from the cage, and tied it fast to a ring in one end of the raft. This rope, or cord, was new and strong, and was actually one thousand feet in length! Bob did not believe in doing things by halves—but he had another object in view when he procured the long rope. Excepting a few yards at the end made fast to the raft, it was as yet coiled up neatly. About the middle a heavy iron ring, or sinker, was attached.
Bob arranged everything to his satisfaction, and had just set the raft afloat and made it stationery with an anchor, in the form of a sharp stick, when he espied Stephen and Carlo coming for their customary bath. He himself was screened by friendly shrubs and trees, but Stephen was in plain sight.
All that he had to do was to remain quiet and keep the raft to its anchor, and Stephen, he felt assured, would not see him.
In this belief the crafty plotter was right. Stephen hurriedly undressed a few rods below him, and plunged headlong into the river, Carlo beside him. Carlo, however, seemed uneasy, as though he suspected the presence of an enemy.
Bob examined the raft to see that it was securely anchored, and then stepped lightly ashore, an old muzzle and some pieces of rope in his hands. Unobserved, he stole along behind the shrubs, trees, and ridges, till he gained a hollow which completely hid him from Stephen, and then he stopped. Probably no boy in the neighborhood knew the lay of the land better than Mr. Bob.
Suddenly, he uttered a cry like a squirrel’s, which produced the effect he thought it would.
Both Stephen and his dog, not far away, heard it. Steve immediately stopped swimming, and said, “Sic it, Carlo! Sic it! Fetch him out!”
Bob chuckled, again uttered the cry, and was rewarded by hearing Carlo flying towards him. “Now, to keep out of the dog’s sight till he gets into this hollow,” he muttered, suiting the action to the word. “If Steve should come, too,”—and he grew pale at the thought,—“I’ll get the worst of it! But Steve won’t come.”
In this conclusion Bob was quite right; for Stephen preferred a good bath to a doubtful chase after a squirrel. Besides, he could not hunt the squirrel without dressing himself; and before that could be done, Carlo would probably have caught it, or else have given up the pursuit. Therefore, Stephen wisely determined to enjoy his bath, and let his dog hunt alone.
Crafty Bob had considered all these points, and felt quite easy in his ambush. He was wise in his day and generation.
“Sic it!” Stephen cried again; and Carlo, with his nose bent to the ground, ran hither and thither, trying to get scent of the “squirrel.”
Bob gave another encouraging squeak, and the dog plunged through the shrubbery into the hollow.
He feared the dog, and knew the risks he was running; but revenge spurred him on, and he remained collected and resolute, while Carlo, quite surprised, was taken at a disadvantage.
They grapple with each other, almost human dog and almost brutal boy, have a severe struggle, and fight desperately; but in the end, Bob slips his muzzle over Carlo’s nose, fastens it, and then binds his feet with the cords and straps.
Bob is master of the situation.
Swiftly he dragged the helpless animal by the way he had come, till he arrived at the raft. It was the work of but a minute to haul it on board, tear up the “anchor,” and shove off. When fairly afloat, the door of the cage was opened, and Carlo ignominiously thrust in.
Thus the reader perceives that this mysterious cage was to do duty as a prison. Had not its manufacturer been perusing some of the “literature” of the present day when he contrived his plot? Only, he varied the stereotyped form by abducting an heroic dog instead of an heroic fool.
Stephen gave up his whole attention to the delightful and thoroughly boyish pastime of swimming. In all probability he thought no more of his dog, believing him to be in full pursuit of the “squirrel.” But Bob had no sooner got under way than Stephen spied him.
Contrary to all the laws which regulate the actions of the heroes of romance, he engaged in conversation with the depraved youth. A hero in a book would have looked the other way in dignified silence when such a wretch came in sight, but not so Steve.
“Hollo!” he called out. “Why, Bob, I haven’t seen you since the night you yelled so bravely, and fell overboard into this very river. Have you got the plasters off your bruises yet? You ought to be as tender as pounded beef-steak after all your tumbles that night.
“But I say,” in a quarrelsome tone, “what are you doing with our raft? That raft isn’t common property; it belongs to us.”
“Who is ‘us’?” asked Bob, mockingly.
Now that he was on the raft, all his impudence returned. He knew that he could work his way into deep water before Stephen could reach him; for, unlike most rafts built by boys, this one was managed with ease, and propelled with something like swiftness.
“Who is ‘us’?” Steve echoed in amazement. “You know well enough that that raft belongs to us four—Will, and me, and Charley, and George, and Marmaduke, and myself—”
Bob could not deny the justness of Steve’s claim on the raft, so he waived the question, and cut him short, saying derisively, “Steve, I reckon you’d better stop, if you can’t count straighter’n that.”
“Well, you have no right to use it,” Steve replied. “What are you doing here anyway? Are you spying on me again?”
“Where is your dog? I thought he always followed you,” Bob observed, oaring briskly away.
“Carlo? So he does. He went after a squirrel a minute ago. ’Pon my word,” as if the thought had just struck him, “it’s very strange that I don’t hear him bark! Now, what’s the matter! Carlo, Carlo, Carlo, Carlo.”
Bob had now floated the raft down stream into deep water, and with a burst of idiotic laughter, he swung it half-way around. Up to this time, that side of the cage which looked like a dog-kennel had been toward Stephen; but the side which looked like a hen-coop was now, in turn, presented to him.
The raft had drifted down so far that it was nearly opposite to Stephen; and now, for the first time, he beheld his beloved dog, bound and helpless, in the clutches of an enemy.
An agonized cry of astonishment and horror broke from his lips.
Bob’s revenge had begun, and like all approved villains, he was destined to have a short, but brilliant, career.
“Why don’t you swim out and save your dog, Stepping Hen?” he asked mockingly, well knowing that he could soon out-strip an ordinary swimmer.
“Oh, just wait till I catch you, you abominable sneak!” yelled Steve. “I ought to have taught you a lesson before! Oh dear! O-o-h! Carlo! C-a-r-l-o!”
But Carlo could only whine piteously.
“Stay where you are,” Bob yelled back, “and when I get across the river you’ll ‘see sport,’ as you said on the island, at the picnic.”
Lustily and swiftly this thirster for revenge worked his way across the stream, jeering at poor Stephen’s threats and entreaties. The raft grounded near the bank, and, the coil of rope in his hand, he jumped ashore, and shoved it off. Then, oh most humane action! he jumped on the raft again, opened the door of the cage, and cast off the cords and straps that bound Carlo’s feet, thus leaving the poor beast at liberty to struggle feebly in his narrow prison. Having made the door of the cage fast, he landed once more, this time, however, getting his feet very wet.
To set the dog free was evidently an after thought, or he would have done so before, and so have saved himself time, trouble and a wetting.
Meanwhile, poor Stephen danced excitedly about in the water, shouting and gesticulating wildly. In fact, the poor boy was at his wits’ end. He made several desperate efforts to swim after the “jolly young waterman,” but failed in each effort. He lacked George’s great self-possession, and allowed his anger to get the better of his judgment. Thus he acted, and there he remained, until his teeth chattered and his limbs turned into what is known familiarly to the boys as “goose-flesh.” Then he rushed out of the water, and pulled on his clothes promiscuously.
To the frantic boy’s horror, he next saw Bob running up the stream, along the bank whilst the raft, with the dog still on it, was drifting down the stream.
“The scoundrel!” Steve gasped. “Is he going to run away, and let my dog drift over the falls?”
Such was not the case. Bob’s left hand was toward Stephen, while in his right hand he carried and unwound as he ran, the coil of rope. No; Bob was only “paying out the cable.” But Stephen was too far off to see this.
This one thousand feet of cord, however, did not work so harmoniously as Bob had imagined it would; it became most mysteriously and provokingly entangled at every step. The sinker on the cord kept the greater part of it under water; and when Bob at last reached the end of it, and turned, he changed it from his right hand to his left hand, so that it was still out of Stephen’s sight.
Bob stood still a moment, puffing and perspiring, and the raft stopped drifting and pulled gently, very gently on the cord. Then he moved on slowly, and to Stephen on the opposite bank, there seemed to be no connection between him and the raft.
If Steve had looked narrowly, however, he would certainly have seen the cord coming out of the water in front of Bob; for, if a boy can see the string leading to his new kite when his mischievous brother is flying it nearly a quarter of a mile away,—mark this, we do not say that any one else could see it,—then surely, in spite of the distance between him and Bob, he could have seen what little of the cord there was in sight.
But Steve’s attention was centred upon the raft, where his dog was.
Let not the peruser of this work of fiction suppose that the raft was really one thousand feet below Bob. By no means; sundry loose knots, kinks, or snarls, shortened the distance greatly.
But it was undoubtedly a long way below him.
“Hollo, Stepping Hen!” Bob yelled. “Don’t you see that your raft and the dog are sailing towards the falls? Why don’t you stir around and save ’em?”
Stephen heard him distinctly, and it seemed to him that Carlo’s doom was sealed. He was now running madly up and down the margin of the river, in the vain hope of finding some craft on which he might set out in pursuit. But he could find nothing that would serve his turn.
Bob saw the boy’s dilemma, and like all orthodox villains, when successful in their wickedness, he could not conceal his delight. His powerful imagination saw a log in each broken twig, a huge boulder in each little stone, a frightful chasm in each slight depression in the ground; and he passed along by leaps that bore considerable resemblance to those of an Alpine hunter. He writhed his whole body, distorted his features, rolled his intensely blue eyes, hallooed, sang and uttered original and untranslatable interjections, expressive of triumph.
Such actions could not but be injurious to his system; but—fortunately for himself and the rest of the world,—as Bob afterwards invented and patented an ingenious saw-horse—they were to be of short continuance.