Busy as beavers

CHAPTER X

                “BUSY AS BEAVERS”


“Come on, fellows,” said Jack, “let’s go and take a swim.”

Dinner was over and the Scouts lay in various attitudes on the grass
a little distance from the mess tent. The day had been unbearably
hot. Usually there was a breeze that somewhat tempered the fierceness
of the sun, and at night, indeed, it was so cool that their blankets
felt mighty good.

This was the first really hot day that they had had since they had
pitched camp. They had started out on a game of Mountain Scouting
during the morning, but Mr. Durland, who feared the effects of the
sun combined with violent exercise, had limited the range of their
run and they had come home earlier than usual. Now nearly an hour had
elapsed since their dinner had been eaten--or shall we say “gorged”?
because with appetites like theirs that was the most fitting
term,--and sufficient time had passed to make the proposed swim a
matter of no danger.

The boys greeted Jack’s suggestion with a shout, and after obtaining
Mr. Durland’s permission, started off, running and leaping, kicking
up their heels like young colts, for the swimming place a little way
from camp.

It was an ideal spot. The brook, starting from a point high up
in the mountains and cold as ice at the beginning, was gradually
tempered as it flowed under the sunlight into the lower levels and
in the meantime also widened its course. At the point that the boys
had chosen, it had spread out into a small pond or lake perhaps
three hundred feet in width. Its course had also been checked by
the level nature of the bottom at that point, so that it lay, with
scarcely a perceptible movement, gleaming in the sun, which warmed
it sufficiently to make swimming a delight. In places it was only
three or four feet deep, but toward the southern end there was a
depth of eight or ten feet that made it suitable for diving. The
younger boys and those whose skill as swimmers was not very great,
chose the upper part where, under the direction of Dick Crawford,
the Assistant Scout-Master, those unable to swim rapidly learned,
while those who simply knew the breast stroke were taught one by one
the more scientific crawl and over-hand stroke that are the envy and
despair of the small boy when he sees them put in practice by his
larger companions. Tom and Pete and Bob were down with Jack at the
southern end of the pool and as all were expert swimmers and the bank
was within easy reach, to say nothing of the assistance that would
be instantly rendered by any of their companions, should ill luck
befall, were left to do as they liked.

They had found a heavy plank a few yards distant from the bank and
had placed it over the log of a fallen tree so that it rose at a
gradual angle until, where it overhung the stream, it was about ten
feet from the water. The end that rested on the ground was firmly
wedged between heavy rocks that the boys had gathered, capped by a
section of tree trunk, so that, no matter what might be the strain
at the other end, it was impossible for it to slip or yield. It made
a capital springboard and the Scouts had a glorious time playing
follow my leader. The slope of the plank was so gradual that they got
a good running start, and, reaching the end of the plank, with hands
upraised over their heads, were flung out in a graceful curve coming
down head foremost, straight as an arrow, and seeing how far they
could swim under water before the need of breath compelled them to
come to the surface.

Jack’s familiarity with woodcraft and the lonely life of his early
boyhood when he was left so largely to his own devices and to what
enjoyment he could procure unaided from nature had made him a
splendid swimmer. He could dive forward and backward. He could sit
at the end of the springboard and from a sitting position leap to
his feet on the edge of the board and dive into the water with just
one motion. Once in the water, he swam like a fish. He could float
and on occasion had done so for an hour at a time without changing
his position. His action in swimming was grace itself. Now after the
boys were tired of sporting in the water, he pressed his hands close
against his side and swam from one end of the pool to the other,
using simply his feet.

“Gee,” said Tom, who had never seen Jack swim this way before, “where
did you learn that stroke, Jack?”

“Oh,” said Jack carelessly, “I got that from the beavers.”

“Beavers?” said Pete, with interest. “Do they swim that way?

“Sure!” said Jack. “Their front paws are very small and they have
to rely entirely upon the back ones. These are webbed like those of
a duck up to the root of the nails, and it’s one of the prettiest
things you ever saw to see a beaver swim. There is scarcely a ripple.
The front feet are perfectly motionless, pressed close up against its
side, while its head, with its shining fur and its keen, bright eyes
that seem to look in every direction at once, moves in a perfectly
straight line toward the front door of his house.”

“House?” said Tom, incredulously. “What do you mean by that?”

“Just exactly what I say,” said Jack. “Haven’t you ever heard of
beavers’ houses? Why, there isn’t a more intelligent builder among
all the animals I know about, and I’ve watched almost every one of
them! It’s not only a big house, but a well-made one. The beaver is
never satisfied with anything but perfection. It has a lot of rooms
in it and these are carpeted with leaves and moss and grass. The
upper rooms are sometimes six or eight feet above the surface of
the water so as to be perfectly dry. The wise old rascal knows that
sometimes there is a freshet that raises the level of the stream and
he makes his plan accordingly. There isn’t a thing about carpentering
or mason work that he doesn’t know. And he has to make his house
strong, too, because he has a good many enemies. The wolves and
wolverines are after him all the time and unless he had something
that they could not bite through or claw through, it would be all up
with Mr. Beaver.”

By this time all the boys had become interested in Jack’s description
and had gathered around him.

“You’re a lucky dog, Jack,” said Bob. “You’ve seen a whole lot of
things that us city fellows don’t know anything about.”

“Well,” said Jack, “there is no reason why you shouldn’t find out
all about the beaver, because I know for a fact that there are some
not far from camp. Just the other day I caught sight of a beaver dam
about three miles the other side of the logging camp. I was going to
speak to you fellows about it at the time, but Don just then started
up a woodchuck and we all got so excited that I forgot. What do you
say to dressing and going over there now? It won’t be so much of
a hike and as the camp is on our way, we will drop in and ask Mr.
Durland about it so that he won’t be worried if we don’t get back
until just before supper time. There is nothing else on hand for this
afternoon and I am mighty sure that he will let us go. Wouldn’t be a
bit surprised if he wanted to come along with us!”

The plan was greeted enthusiastically and after the fellows at the
other end of the pool had been told about it, they rushed out and
dressed quite as quickly as the rest. Then they hiked back to camp
and put the matter before the Scout-Master, who readily assented to
the trip, and, as Jack had foreseen, was very glad to go along. After
a little more than an hour’s tramp Jack held up his hand in caution.

“You’ve got to be careful now, Scouts,” he said. “They’re wary old
fellows and the least thing disturbs them. If they once suspect that
we are anywhere near, it’s good-night with us. Those big, bright eyes
will see us all right but we won’t catch a glimpse of them. Now’s the
time for you Scouts to show what you know of woodcraft and follow me
as silently as a band of Indians.”

Thus cautioned, the boys fell in behind Jack and, carefully avoiding
stepping upon twigs or speaking above a whisper, soon reached the
dam. They were on the banks of a mountain stream that wound its way
through the woods until at the point where they stood it was perhaps
a hundred feet in width. Just below them the progress of the stream
had been checked by what seemed at first sight a narrow bridge
extending from one bank to the other. This was about three feet wide
and perfectly smooth.

As Jack whispered to Dick, who was the nearest, this was made just
wide enough so that the beavers in going to and fro could pass each
other in comfort.

It evidently grew a great deal thicker as it approached the surface
of the water and at the lowest part was probably ten or twelve
feet thick. As the current was not especially strong, this served
effectually to make an almost unrippled pond such as the beavers
love. It was not exactly straight across but bent in slightly on the
side that pointed up stream so that at the center it was decidedly
curved.

This, as Jack further whispered, was to break the force of the
current and shunt it off gradually to each side of the dam.

It was the same principle that in a racing automobile gives the
cigar-like point to the machine so as to act as a wedge going into
the wind and lessening by that much its resistance. The base of the
dam was formed by young saplings and branches of trees that had
been cut by the beavers’ teeth and planted as piles. Between these
they had woven blades of grass and strips of bark so as to hold the
branches straight and form a foundation for the mason work that was
coming next. For the wise little creatures knew perfectly well the
force of the current, and were determined to make a good job while
they were at it. They had made mortar from the gravel and clay on
the bank of the stream, using their broad, flat tails as a trowel
for mixing. They must have had to travel to and fro thousands of
times before they completed the work and built around their temporary
outlines of plaited branches the solid wall of masonry. They knew
enough also not to make it top-heavy, and so gradually sloped it from
the bottom to the top, making it more compact by slapping it with
their tails until at last it stood almost like a wall of granite.
They watched over the dam day and night. No Hollander was ever more
careful to prevent a leak in the dikes than they were to keep their
dam perfectly solid. They knew that a little carelessness at the
start might spoil the work of years.

While the boys were looking open-eyed at this specimen of the
beavers’ work, Jack suddenly whispered, “’Sh, here they come! Now
keep perfectly still, boys, and you will see something worth while.”

From one of the mound-like houses up the stream a large beaver came
out, slowly looking around him with infinite caution before he left
the safety of his home. He was about two feet long in addition to
a flat oval tail that made his total length nearly three feet. His
nose was blunt, his ears small, and his eyes wonderfully soft and
intelligent. He carefully scanned the banks and the surface of the
stream, and, satisfied at length, paddled slowly toward the dam.
Something in its appearance must have alarmed him, for suddenly he
lifted his tail and struck it several times against the side of the
dam. At the sound, as though it were a signal, two or three other
beavers emerged from their houses and rapidly joined him. They swam
toward a point on the farther side, where the boys, now that their
attention was attracted to it, could see that a little stream was
trickling through and falling to the lower level of the creek beyond.

In an instant all was activity, although there was no confusion. They
acted as though they were perfectly disciplined and each knew just
what he had to do. Two of them swam to the farther bank, climbed up
and began to tear with their sharp teeth at some slender saplings.
It was astonishing to see how quickly they had gnawed their way
through and how adroitly they moved to one side when it fell. These
they dragged to the edge of the bank, plunged into the water, holding
an end in their teeth, and swam quickly toward the threatened point.
Then two or three of them got together and pushed the young branches
in among the others. One of them in the meantime had taken up his
position on the bank and was rapidly making mortar, doing it as
skillfully as the most experienced mason, pounding the clay and mud
and stones together until it reached an even consistency and at times
flirting water upon it with his tail. Then gathering up as much as he
could carry between his two front paws and chin and with head held
well out of the water he swam to the others, just as Jack had said,
using his hind feet alone. There he dropped his load and returned for
another.

By this time the others had done whatever work was necessary with
the branches, and all devoted themselves to the mortar, working with
incredible rapidity and never stopping for a moment. How long it
would have taken to complete the repairs the boys never knew, for
at that moment Tom, who in his eagerness had bent forward, lost his
balance and fell with a crash to the ground. The wary creatures heard
him instantly and like a flash turned and made for their homes. A
moment after the surface of the water was as smooth as a mill-pond
and none would have dreamed of the life and activity of a moment
before.

“Well,” said Bob Hart, angrily, “of all the bone-heads!”

“Bone-head yourself!” said Tom. “How could I help it? Do you suppose
I fell on purpose?”

“Come, come, boys!” said Mr. Durland. “We all know it was an accident
and nobody is more sorry than Tom himself. But I guess there is no
use waiting here any longer. You can be perfectly sure that there
will be nothing doing now for the rest of the day.”

He rose to his feet and the others followed toward the camp, so full
of wonder and excitement at what they had seen that it completely
overshadowed their chagrin at Tom’s carelessness, and he got off more
easily than he had expected.

All that evening when supper was over and cleared away the boys were
so full of the events of the afternoon that they could hardly think
of anything else.

“My,” said Bob, “did you see that beaver’s teeth? I’d hate to have
him bite me!”

“Well,” said Jack, “they wouldn’t bite you unless they were cornered
and had to. Then it would be a pretty healthy thing to keep out of
reach of their teeth. They are as sharp as a chisel. As a matter of
fact, the Indians use them to carve out their ornaments of bone. The
beavers use them so much that Nature has to keep hustling to supply
new material. There is an outside row that projects toward the front
and an inner row that furnishes the material to keep the outer ones
strong and keen. Sometimes a beaver loses a tooth on either the upper
or lower jaw and then the one directly opposite this keeps growing
so fast that after a while it prevents the beaver from closing his
mouth. He can’t eat and soon starves to death.”

“I wonder,” said Dick, “if that was a whole family that we saw this
afternoon.”

“I think very likely,” returned Jack, “because if there had been more
they certainly would have been on the job. The beaver is a sociable
animal and never cares to live alone. Usually there are four or five
found together, but sometimes as many as thirty or forty will gather
in a little village of their own. Each family has a separate house
and each member of the family has his own individual room, which he
keeps jealously for himself, and there is always a scrap if any one
else tries to bunk in there with him.”

“I suppose you find them almost everywhere,” said Bob Hart.

“No, you don’t,” said Jack. “They used to be very plentiful, but
their fur is in such great demand that hunters and trappers are
after them all the time. In Europe, where they used to be abundant,
there are hardly any left except in the zoos as curiosities. You
don’t find so many of them in America either now, except where it’s
cool, as it is up here, and over the line in Canada.”

“Well,” yawned Tom, as they finally got ready to go to bed, “I’d hate
to have to work as they do. Did you see how they pitched in this
afternoon? It makes me tired even to think of it.”

“Yes,” said Jack. “I guess we all know better than ever before what
it means to be as ‘busy as a beaver.’”




                CHAPTER XI

                THE BOG


“‘Where are you going, my pretty maid?’

“‘I’m going a-milking, sir, she said,’” chanted Pete as Ben Hoover
emerged from the mess tent with the largest tin pail the camp boasted
swinging from one hand, and the next largest one from the other.

“Gentlemen,” said Ben, with mock dignity, “I’m not in the humor even
to resent the insult your words imply further than to say that you
will be sorry for those cruel words when you learn my mission.

“I am about to sacrifice myself on the altar of friendship! I am
about to separate myself from human society for the space of two
endless hours! I am to spend those two hours in gathering material
for raspberry dumplings”--here a general shout of delight greeted
him--“with which to brighten the lives of many friends.”

This speech was highly applauded by the “many friends,” and Ben,
bowing solemnly, picked up his two pails and walked off, followed by
cries of:

“Hurrah for friendship!”

“Bully for you!”

“Go in and win!”

“We won’t do a thing to those raspberries!”

“Wait till you get them,” Ben called back, as he disappeared down the
hill.

Whistling gaily, Ben swung along till he came to the spot he had
noticed the afternoon before, where the raspberry bushes glowed red
with the luscious fruit.

By the time he had filled one pail, the berries were getting more
scarce, and he wandered on in search of the best filled bushes.

He did not notice that the ground was growing soft and springy under
his feet. He only thought of getting that other pail filled and
hiking back to camp in time for the cook to use the berries for those
promised dumplings.

“Ah, there is the dandiest one yet!” he said to himself, as a bush
fairly loaded with the red berries met his sight. He set down his
pail and reached for the berries. At that moment a sensation came
over him as if the ground were giving way beneath his feet, and
without a moment’s warning he found himself ankle deep in soft,
sticky mud.

Not in the least alarmed, he tried to spring to firmer ground, but
instead sank deeper into the mud than before.

More vexed than frightened, he made a more determined effort to draw
one foot out, but found that he only sank deeper. In sudden anger,
he struggled fiercely. What a sight he would be to return to camp
with his clothes all covered with mud! And such mud! How he loathed
it! He _must_, he _would_ get out, and again he tried, leaning from
side to side, tugging first at one foot, then at the other, but to no
avail.

Thoroughly frightened now, and filled with panic, he threw himself
first backward, then forward, to left, to right. Desperately, wildly,
he strove to draw himself from that awful bog. It seemed as if some
terrible monster with countless hands were dragging him down, deeper,
deeper into that awful mire. The more he struggled, the deeper he
sank.

All at once he realized this and ceased to struggle. He tried to
think. Was it possible that there was no way to get out of this
all-enveloping mud? Could it be that he was to die here, all alone?
And such a terrible death!

The thought sent a shudder through him, and for a few moments he felt
faint and ill. But no, it could not be! Why, his life was just begun!
What about all those plans to make the most of every ounce of ability
God had given him, to make a successful man of himself, to help
others, to make this old world some better because he had lived? Why,
he _could_ not die, he _could_ not! He had too much work to do first!

He thought of the merry words that had passed between him and his
fellow Scouts only a short hour before. How full of life he had been!
Why, he was as full of life now! Nothing had changed! The sun shone
warm upon his upturned face, the air was sweet with the smell of
growing things. A brilliant butterfly settled for a brief moment on
his motionless hand, fluttered, and flew away. A bird rose from a
tree, and, spreading light wings, was soon lost to sight.

How he envied that bird! It was free, while he, worth countless
birds, was held here, where, if help did not come to him soon, he
must die. His boy heart was filled with despair.

But no, he would not despair! He must think of some way to help
himself. There must be some way! Some of the Scouts must be near.

He called again and again, but no answer came back to his straining
ears. He kept his face toward the sky, for he did not dare look down
at that terrible mud, but yet he knew that he was sinking, slowly,
steadily. He could feel that the muck was half way between his knees
and his waist.

If he could only get someone to help him! If he could only make
someone hear! If he only had something--ah, a sudden thought sent
such a thrill of hope through his heart that it fairly hurt.

His whistle--his Scout’s whistle! Why could he not signal with it?
He, like all other Boy Scouts, was familiar with the American Morse
telegraph alphabet. He would try and, placing the whistle to his
lips, he sent out in shrill notes his call for help.

Bob Hart, like Ben Hoover, was on the commissary staff that day,
and was fishing for a mess of trout for dinner in the brook about a
quarter of a mile from the bog.

Pausing to take breath, after a particularly fine fish had been
landed, he wondered what that queer whistle was that came faintly,
yet insistently to his ears. Was it some bird he had never seen or
heard until then? Well, it was a queer, jerky note, anyway.

All at once there was something in that whistle that made him drop
pole and line, and stand listening not only with all his ears, but
with all his heart.

There was something familiar about it. What was it? Ah, now he knew!
It was a signal--a message in the Morse alphabet, and again he
listened intently.

Two short, sharp whistles--that was _I_. One long-drawn, and then
a short whistle--that was _in_. Then in quick succession the other
letters of the message, _In the bog. Help me. Hurry._

Every nerve in Bob’s alert young body responded to that pitiful
call. He ran--he raced--he flew, while always came that cry, “Hurry!
Hurry!” faint at first, but louder as he neared the bog. It seemed as
if his feet were held down with leaden weights. Why could he not go
faster? In his eager heart the wish was repeated again and again, Oh,
if he only had wings!

On, on he sped, and nearer and more insistently came the call,
“Hurry! Hurry!”

Now perhaps he was near enough to call and, raising his clear voice,
he shouted, “Courage! I’m coming! I’m coming!” and sweeter than angel
music the words sounded to Ben Hoover, sunken now to his waist.

A moment more, and Bob was there, encouraging him and promising to
have him out in a jiffy, but this was far more easily said than done.
To find something he could throw to Ben that would serve to keep him
from sinking farther--that was the first thing. After that he would
think of something to do to draw him out.

He pulled some bushes up by the roots and, as he threw them, told
Ben to push them close up against him and rest his arms upon them.
He felt sure they would keep Ben from sinking deeper. They did help,
and for a moment both Scouts thought their problem solved and they
chatted hopefully of the help that Bob was to bring. Vain hope!
Suddenly the bushes sank from view, and in the suction they caused
poor Ben sank lower.

Quickly Bob ran back and forth, searching desperately for something
to throw to his unfortunate comrade. A sapling! A board! Oh, if he
had a board! And as if a miracle, he caught sight of a long one lying
among the trees. How it came there he did not know or care. That it
was there was enough. He ran to it, snatched it up and, running to
the edge of the bog, slid it carefully along until it was within
Ben’s reach.

Carefully, wise now to the fact that the slightest movement made him
sink deeper, Ben drew the board in front of him.

“Don’t bear your full weight upon it,” counselled Bob. “If you just
press upon it lightly with your hands, perhaps it will hold you.”

Poor Ben, eager to do every slightest thing to help himself, obeyed
and, as the board did not seem to sink, again hope sprang up in their
hearts.

Bob wanted to go at once for the desperately needed help, but Ben,
terrified at the thought of being left alone, begged him to wait a
few minutes until they were sure the board would hold him up until
Bob could go and return.

“Keep up your courage, old man,” said Bob. “If that board holds--and
I feel sure it will--we’ll be all right. I’ll do a regular Marathon
up to camp. Harry and Pete are cooks this week, you know. They will
come back with me, and we’ll bring everything we can lay our hands on
to help. It will be mighty strange if we three husky fellows can’t
get one boy out of a fix! So you just be gay thinking about it, old
fellow. We’ll have you out before you know it.”

As he finished speaking, Bob arose and with a last wave of
encouragement to poor Ben, he started on a run for camp. But that
Marathon was never run.

Hardly had Bob gone a hundred yards from the bog than he heard Ben’s
imploring voice calling, “Come back, Bob! Come back! The board is
beginning to sink!”

Bob came tearing back in answer to that pitiful summons to find that
in truth the board was sinking a little in the mud. Beginning at the
heavier end, it slowly sank out of sight, and as it disappeared drew
the boy a little farther down.

He had now sunk halfway between the waist and shoulders. Now, indeed,
did both Scouts begin to despair. Half-crazed, Bob ran wildly up and
down, whistling shrilly, frantically searching for something with
which to aid his comrade.

There was nothing! He could do no more!

He stood, outwardly calm, but with his heart dying within him as he
watched Ben’s efforts to be brave as his last hope vanished.

“That’s right, dear old fellow,” said Bob, “keep up a brave heart!
I’m sure that help will come! I’m sure! Oh, Ben, if we only had a
rope!”




                CHAPTER XII

                OLD SAM TO THE RESCUE


As Bob stood there, desperately casting about in his mind for some
way to help poor Ben, now up to his armpits in the black mud, he
heard, or fancied he heard, a twig snap in the forest. Did that sound
exist only in his imagination, or had he really heard it? While he
was still in doubt, the underbrush parted, and he saw the best sight
in the world for him just then. There, framed by the bushes, was the
picturesque figure of Old Sam, the snake hunter, and in his hand he
held his two-pronged snake pole.

At a glance he took in the situation and, springing forward lightly,
extended the pole to Ben.

“Ketch a hold o’ the pole, an’ hang on to it, lad, an’ I’ll pull ye
out! Got a good grip? That’s right--now steady! Never mind! Ye’ll
keep it next time,” as the pole slipped from Ben’s nerveless fingers,
and let him down a little deeper in the muck.

“Here, lad,” he said to Bob, “ketch on to this here and help me
pull!” Then encouragingly to Ben, “Now ye got it? Hang on tight this
time! Good boy! Now once more--steady--steady! Ye’re comin’, boy,
ye’re comin’! Hang on another minnit and ye’ll be on solid groun’!
Steady! Now--steady! There ye be!” he cried, exultingly, as they
landed poor Ben, mud from head to foot, on the soft, dry grass, where
he lay exhausted.

“It’s durn good I happened ’long jest as I did,” Old Sam hurried on
to keep the boys from thanking him. “I nearly turned down t’other
road for the village, but I sez to myself, ‘Sam, old boy, p’raps ye
may meet some o’ them camp boys if ye goes by this here road,’ and so
jest on the chanct o’ meetin’ ye, I come this way. I never reckoned
I’d meet ye the way I done, though,” he added, chuckling to himself.

Here Ben, who had been trying desperately during this monologue to
get a word in, thanked the old man heartily for the great service he
had done him.

“I surely would have gone under in another minute if you hadn’t come
along!” he said. “I never was so glad of anything in my life as I was
to see you standing there with your long pole. I really don’t know
how to thank you!”

“Tut, tut,” said old Sam, who always hated to be thanked for his
kind deeds. “’Twan’t nothin’ ’t all! No more’n any Christian would
hev done ef he’d found a friend o’ his’n in a tight place. I reckon
ye must feel durned sticky with that there mud all over ye, lad,” he
added, to change the subject. “S’pose ye come up to my cabin--’taint
so very far from here, and scrape some o’ it off.”

The boys readily consented, for they had learned to think a lot of
this quaint old man of the woods. Therefore, as soon as Ben had
recovered his strength and felt rested enough, the three started out
for Sam’s cabin. In a very short time they came upon the little place
nestling in the very heart of the forest.

Sam told Bob to make himself comfortable while he took Ben around to
a brook that ran back of the cabin and told him that if he wanted to
take a plunge, he (Sam) would scrape the muck off his suit. And soon
Ben, wonderfully refreshed by his dip in the cold water, and wearing
his khaki suit, from which Old Sam had scraped the worst of the mud,
came around the corner of the cabin and joined Bob.

The two Scouts were in a very subdued mood. The terrible experience
they had just passed through brought with it a reaction. There was
something very restful and soothing in sitting on the grass, with
their backs against a log, while Old Sam moved cheerily around inside
the little cabin, frying bacon and eggs.

When everything was ready, Sam called them and seated them in two
very comfortable chairs of his own making.

“Aye,” said the old man, as he began serving the simple meal,
“there’s been many footsteps leadin’ up to them bogs as has never
come out o’ them. I remember once, when I was only a young feller,
how two o’ the ugliest villains I ever see got their deserts. Ye
see, these here rascals was tryin’ to steal some pow’ful val’ble
trees here’bouts. They had it all fixed up fine how they were goin’
to git away with ’em. Wall, they wuz hard to work one night loadin’
the logs on a wagon so’s they could get ’em away before mornin’,
when all a sudden they hears a voice and, lookin’ up, sees two great
big, green eyes a glarin’ right at ’em. With a yell they runs off
through the woods as fast as their legs could carry ’em, and never
stops to look where they’s goin’. All a sudden, the first man slips
an’ falls, ketchin’ hold o’ t’other and draggin’ him with him. With
a blood-curdlin’ cry, they found they was bein’ pulled under. In a
little while there was nothin’ to show they’d been there, ’ceptin’
their footprints leadin’ up to the edge o’ the bog. Me and a friend
o’ mine was jest in time to see the last o’ ’em disappear.”

The boys had listened in horrified silence to this story and, as Old
Sam stopped, Bob broke in breathlessly to ask, “But where did the
green eyes come from?”

“Why, seems them belonged to a bobcat,” Old Sam began, but was again
interrupted, this time by Ben.

“A bobcat?” he exclaimed. “I’ve heard there are some around here, but
I haven’t seen any yet.”

“Waal, ye will! They ain’t so pow’ful plentiful, but once in a while
ye ketch sight o’ one. Me an’ me friend, after we seen the finish o’
the rascals, we went back to see what mischief they’d been up to, and
then, all o’ a sudden, my friend sez, sez he, ‘Look a-there, Sam, I
reckon that’s what skeered them durned thieves!’

“I looked where he wuz pintin’ an’ I see them terr’ble glarin’ eyes.
I tell ye, lads, they made my hair jest raise itself right up on my
head, an’ I hadn’t no guilty conscience, nuther! Wall, quick as a
flash my friend, he up with his rifle an’ popped that there pesky
crittur right through the eyes!”

Just then a menacing rattle came from one corner of the cabin that
made the boys jump from their seats in alarm.

“Don’t be skeered!” Old Sam chuckled. “That there is one o’ my
rattlers as is waitin’ fur the man to come an’ take ’em to the
museem. If ye like, I’ll show ye my c’lection.”

On the boys expressing an earnest desire to see the collection, Old
Sam led the way to a couple of glass-covered boxes that stood in a
corner of the cabin. In each box were two snakes; in one two rattlers
were writhing and twisting, and in the other two unusually large and
beautifully marked copperheads were lodged.

As the boys pressed forward eagerly to examine them, one of the
rattlesnakes coiled itself and gave forth an ominous warning.
Instinctively the boys drew back with a shudder of repulsion.

“They’re awfully treacherous creatures--those snakes!” Bob remarked.

“Wall, yes, they be!” Old Sam drawled, “but they has one thing to
recommend ’em, anyway. They always gives warnin’ afore they strikes,
so ye kin get out o’ the way.”

“That’s so,” Ben agreed, then added, “Haven’t you ever been bitten,
Sam?”

“Not yet,” he replied. “Come pretty nigh it, sometimes, though. Many
a time I’ve found the critters hangin’ on to my boots. I had a cat
once what used to ketch a pow’ful lot o’ snakes fur me. He could do
it a durned sight better’n I could myself!”

“I never knew that cats could catch snakes,” said Bob, incredulously.

“Wall, that there one o’ mine could. Every day he used to go with me
when I hunted the critters.”

“Tell us how he did it,” the two boys said in the same breath, and
Sam, delighted by the interest they showed, willingly complied.

“Wall, it wuz this way,” he began. “Tommy--that wuz what I called
him--would hunt around till he found a good big rattler. Then he’d
creep on him on them soft paws o’ his’n, then all a sudden, when he
wuz just in front o’ him, he’d make a little noise and hold up his
paw. At the noise the snake would coil hisself up into a ball and
rattle somethin’ turr’ble. But Tommy, he’d never stir an inch. That
would make the reptile awful mad, and he’d strike out at that raised
paw o’ Tommy’s with all the strength he had in him. That’s just what
the cat had been countin’ on, an’ when the rattler struck, he would
jump aside quick as lightnin’. Then when the snake would go past him,
Tommy, he’d jump and land right on the critter’s neck, just below his
head. Yes, he wuz great on ketchin’ snakes, old Tommy wuz!”

“What became of the cat?” Ben asked, eagerly.

“Why, he lived to be sixteen years old, Tommy did, and at the end o’
that time passed off quiet and peaceful like. He lived a happy life
and a durn useful one, too, which is more’n you kin say fur most
cats,” he added.

Although the boys would gladly have stayed longer with this old man
who knew so many interesting tales, they knew Scout-Master Durland
would be anxious about them. They urged Old Sam to go with them back
to camp and stay to dinner, but he refused on the plea that the
“museem man” was coming to take away “them durned reptiles,” and he
had to be on hand to receive him.

“I’ll go with ye a little ways through the woods, though,” he said,
“and see that ye don’t get stuck in no more bogs.”

So they started merrily for the camp. Old Sam’s bacon and strange
stories had had a good effect on the two boys and they felt
themselves again.

The snake hunter gave all the bogs a wide berth, and beguiled the way
so pleasantly with his interesting talk that before they knew it they
were almost on top of the camp.

Bob and Ben tried their best then to persuade Old Sam to go in with
them, if only for a few minutes, but again he begged off, saying, “Ef
I once git in there, lads, I couldn’t pull myself away, an’ then what
would the poor museem man say?”

The boys didn’t know and didn’t care, but as they saw he could not
be moved from his determination, they reluctantly let him go. Before
they parted, however, the boys overwhelmed him with thanks and
gratitude.

“Tut, tut!” he said, for the second time that day. “’Twan’t no more’n
any Christian would hev done.”

But although this was true to some extent, the boys looked after his
disappearing figure with no lessening of their respect and love. With
a sigh they finally turned away and started toward camp once more.

In a few minutes they found themselves surrounded by the Scouts, who
were greatly relieved to have the two runaways with them again.

“Where are those raspberries, Ben, that you were going to bring for
the dumplings?” Dick cried.

Then Ben told the excited boys all about this mishap and how loyally
Bob had come to his rescue. When he spoke of the snake hunter’s
timely arrival and how he and Bob together had pulled him out of the
bog, the Scouts sent up three cheers that set Don barking.

Reserving the snake hunter’s stories to tell around the campfire that
night, Ben concluded: “I’m sorry, fellows, that I wasn’t able to get
you those raspberries! My intentions were good, I assure you, but
I was prevented by ‘circumstances over which I had no control,’ as
contracts say.”

“Don’t you worry about that, Ben,” said Jack, “you look better to
us than all the raspberry dumplings going!” and that he voiced the
general feeling was shown by the boys’ hearty, “You bet your life!”




                CHAPTER XIII

                THE BROKEN TRESTLE


Never had a day dawned more brightly, never had the skies been bluer
than on the morning of a day a week or so later, to which the Scouts
had looked forward with so much pleasure; and yet it proved to be a
day of disaster.

The unfortunate happenings had begun with an accident to Mr. Durland.
He had stepped carelessly upon a loose stone, and, his foot slipping,
he had been thrown from his balance, and had rolled and slid down
the steep mountain side. He had grasped at some stout bushes and so
managed to stay his fall until help could reach him. His Troop had
all been thankful enough when at last they had him at the top again
and had found no bones were broken, and that there was apparently no
more serious injury done than some severe bruises.

Thankful as they were, the accident had affected them all, for there
was not a boy in that Adirondack camp who did not love Mr. Durland.
He had been their Scout-Master ever since the formation of the
Thirty-ninth Troop, and in all that time they had spent together
the Scouts had found nothing in him that the most critical would
have cared to change if he could. His never-failing cheerfulness,
his quick sympathy and full understanding of boy nature, his
hearty praise for work well done or any act that proved the doer a
worthy Scout; the quiet reproof, when reproof could no longer be
withheld--all these traits had endeared their Scout-Master to the
members of the Thirty-ninth.

So it had been with thankful hearts but subdued spirits that they had
again taken up the trail.

Then venturesome Tom Binns had foolishly wandered away, and it had
taken an hour of searching before they had located him.

They had gone on quietly without any other unpleasant incident
and had covered several miles of their hike where there had come
literally “lightning out of a clear sky.”

One moment the sky had been of clearest blue, the sun shining
brightly. The next the air had been filled with a lurid yellow light.
It had thundered and lightened and, by sheer good fortune, just in
the nick of time, the boys had stumbled upon a refuge formed by three
great rocks piled one against the other. Against and between these
they managed to crowd, but it had offered only meagre protection
from the fury of the storm. Such a storm had never been witnessed
before by any of them. It was preceded by a terrific wind which bent
the saplings to the ground, wrenched up great trees by their roots,
casting them aside like a giant’s discarded playthings. This it had
made the boys’ hearts ache to see, for they had come to love the
trees, and regard them almost as friends.

Then came the rain, in driving sheets that hid even nearby objects.
It seemed as if the very floodgates of heaven were opened, and that
it poured in “floods that came and came again,” until in every
depression there was a small lake and wherever the ground sloped
downward small rivers ran.

Not a living thing was to be seen, for every wild creature had taken
refuge from the fury of the storm in its deepest woodland shelter
and nestled there quivering, while still the thunder rolled, the
lightning flashed and the rain came down in torrents.

Suddenly there was a peculiarly vivid flash, and then a crash that
seemed as if the heavens themselves must be falling, and a tall
oak directly opposite the Scouts’ shelter was riven by lightning.
Straight through the center of the tree the blue fire ran, from
topmost leaf to roots, and the giant parted and fell crashing to the
ground.

At last, after what seemed a never-ending wait, the deluge was over,
and the Scouts came out of their refuge, stretching their limbs, and
again took up the trail.

At first their progress was slow, for in every hollow the water lay
so deep that they were forced to abandon the trail and skirt around
it. In more than one place a great tree lay across the trail and they
must either go around or push through the fallen branches. All this
took time and effort, and the boys were tired when they reached a
part of the trail that led outside the woods, where they found the
going much easier.

Then they reached the river, along whose banks the trail led to
within a mile of the county town, for to purchase some much needed
stores in the village had been the object of this hike.

Long before they reached the river they could hear its rushing waters
and so were prepared to see it swollen, but the sight which now met
their eyes was beyond anything they had imagined.

The raging volume of water that came tearing down the river course
was more like some great, swirling cataract than a river. They
remembered how it had looked on the day they came to camp as,
crossing on the trestle which spanned it, they had looked down upon
it from the train, and admired its quiet beauty. Then the blue sky
was mirrored in its quiet depths, now a great mass of whirling, muddy
water, sweeping all before it.

Recovering a little from their amazement at the sight of the rushing
current, they went on down the trail until the trestle came in sight.
At the first glance they stood as if turned to stone. For several
minutes the Scouts gazed into the faces of one another, and, though
no word was spoken, whole volumes were read in eyes full of alarm and
faces which, despite the stout hearts back of them, were blanched
with fear.

It had needed only one glance to see it all. On its course down the
valley, the swollen river, overflowing its banks at many places,
had loosened the earth from the roots of many trees growing along
its edge and had borne them along. Several of these had been wedged
against the foundation supports of the trestle and on the farther
side had loosened several of them. This had caused the frame to sag
away from the track, leaving the rails loosened and out of place for
many feet at that end of the trestle, and--appalling thought! the
afternoon express was due in little more than an hour. Is it any
wonder that the thought left the Scouts white and speechless?

In order to give the alarm to the on-coming train it would be
necessary to cross the river. Ordinarily this would be easy enough,
for here the river had neither great depth nor strong current, but
one glance now at the raging, boiling torrent that had taken the
place of the usually placid river showed that to be dangerous, if not
impossible.

As the Troop stood there hesitating, trying to decide on the best
thing to do, there was constantly before each one a picture of
the train speeding out on that broken trestle, then falling, its
cars piling up one upon the other, the shrieks and groans of the
injured--Ah, but they must not think of these things! It would make
them unable to plan. That they must do something to save the train
went without saying. No true Scout could stand or had ever stood by
when there was disaster to be prevented or life to be saved.

“Now, Scouts,” said Mr. Durland in a resolute voice, “here is an
emergency that will test all your training. We must act quickly, or
it will be too late.”

As he spoke a new thought flashed into his mind and now, looking into
the earnest faces of the Scouts, he saw the thought that was in his
own mind grow in theirs.

The trestle! But to run along that trestle over the mass of seething,
angry water, when the slightest misstep meant death, to warn the
on-coming train--could he ask or expect such a heroic deed from these
Scouts, the oldest of whom was scarcely more than a boy? He must
consider.

The wind that had risen to a hurricane before the storm had broken
now began to rise again, and he knew that this would increase the
peril fourfold. What was his duty to these boys? Should he teach them
at this crisis that their first duty was to themselves, or that it
was their great privilege to risk their own lives to save others?

His decision was made, and, raising his head, he quickly called for a
volunteer.

Every Scout, to the last man, stood ready!

Strong man as he was, Mr. Durland felt the tears rush to his eyes,
and he could not speak for a moment for the choking in his throat.
Then he said, “Well, Scouts, I’m proud of every one of you, but you
see you cannot _all_ go.” Then glancing keenly about, he continued:
“I will let you choose your own man. Whom do you think best fitted,
not by courage, for you are _all_ that, but by physical strength and
steadiness of head to undertake this task?”

And there was but one word spoken, as with but one voice, “Jack!”




                CHAPTER XIV

                THE SAVING OF THE TRAIN


Without a word Jack threw off his Scout’s pack and prepared for
his task, but turned to ask what he should do for something with
which to flag the train. Harry French whipped out a large red silk
handkerchief and quickly passed it over. Without a moment’s delay
Jack swung off, with Mr. Durland’s “Take care of yourself, Jack,” and
the good-bye shouts of his fellow Scouts ringing in his ears.

His companions held their breath as he swung out over the rushing
water. Until now they had failed to notice in the excitement that
the sky had again darkened and that there was every sign of another
downpour. The darkness increased, and again came that terrible rain
in such sheets that, strain their eyes as they would, they could not
see a trace of Jack.

And now Jack, brave Jack, was all alone in his struggle. Blinded by
the wind and the pouring rain, he could scarcely see one iron girder
of the trestle. Standing with difficulty and swaying dizzily, he
waited until a flash of lightning showed the way before him for one
blinding second. In that second he calculated the distance between
the girders and now crept on from girder to girder over those hungry
waters that seemed to leap at him in an attempt to drag him down into
their raging depths.

Once he slipped and fell between the girders and for an instant
thought that he was lost, but with cat-like agility he caught at a
projecting beam, and, though the angry waters dashed over him and
sought to break his hold, they could not, and he pulled himself
slowly back to the trestle.

No standing up now! He had learned the danger of that. On hands and
knees, drenched by rain and river, buffeted by the terrible wind that
tore at him like some living enemy determined on his destruction, he
crawled painfully along inch by inch and foot by foot.

His hands, torn and bleeding from his desperate attempts to hold onto
the rough iron, almost refused to obey his will. The cold wind and
rain chilled him to the marrow and it was only his strong, determined
will and dauntless heart that held him to his task.

It seemed to him that he was going so slowly, so terribly slowly,
when there was such need of haste. He must hurry! He told himself
that the short hour before the train was due must already be gone.

At any moment now he might hear that dreaded whistle and see the
monster train bearing down upon him. What if it should come while he
was still on the trestle?

For a moment he stopped overwhelmed, controlled only by that physical
fear of death that is common to us all. The thought of going down
into that swirling flood and yielding his young life to those
merciless waves was more than he could bear. Only for a moment did
this thought sway him. Almost instantly the realization that upon him
depended other lives, and that he must hurry if he would hope to save
them restored his courage and banished every thought of self. Again
he crept on, trying to hurry and constantly beaten and held back by
wind and rain.

On, on, he crept, with bleeding fingers, toward the end of the
trestle. Would he never reach it? The downpour of rain lessened, and
it grew lighter. He strained his eyes, and, yes! there before him,
only a few yards distant now, was the end of the bridge and beyond
it, wet rails glistening, the track stretched away.

Rising to his feet, Jack looked eagerly, searchingly along that
track. Nothing in sight, he told himself exultingly. He was going to
be in time!

The storm was over now, and in the clearer light he hurried along,
his bleeding hands and bruised knees forgotten in the joyful thought
that he was going to succeed--but at this moment there was a terrible
crash and noise of breaking and splintering wood, and he stood
transfixed at the sight before him.

The end of the trestle the entire width across had given way and
fallen with a crash and now lay, a broken mass of wreckage, half on
land and half in water. An open space about six feet wide yawned
between Jack and the bank.

Not very much space, you think, for an agile Boy Scout trained in
all sorts of athletics to cover; and, ordinarily, that would have
been so. But now the ground under and beside the tracks was soft and
yielding from the rain and, to make the task of jumping still more
difficult, the mass of wreckage served as a dam and the water flowed
out over the roadbed, making it impossible to calculate the leap.

Our Scout stood there for a long minute trying to decide what to do.
If it had been only his own life that he had to consider, he would
not have hesitated a second, but he had to reflect that if lost there
would be no one to warn the express, which must now be very close at
hand.

Whatever he did he must do quickly. He glanced around keenly, but
could see nothing to aid him. Desperate, he looked again. Ah, yes!
There, a foot or so beneath where he was standing, he saw a beam of
wood projecting from the water. Jack could only see a few feet of it,
for the rest of it was under water, but it was his only chance and he
took it unhesitatingly. Drawing off his shoes that his feet might get
a better grip, he stepped down upon it and felt his way cautiously
along until he came to the broken end of the beam. Knowing that he
had gained several feet, he now leaped out over the flood. As he
jumped, he leaned far forward, and it was well he did, for as his
feet touched the soft earth, it slid from under them and it was only
by grasping at the rails that he kept himself from slipping backward
into the water.

Hurrah! he was on firm ground at last, and all else was forgotten in
the triumph.

Toot! Toot! T-o-o-t! It was the whistle of the express. He was just
in time. He dashed up the track toward the on-coming train with the
speed of an arrow. He had sore need now of all his athletic training
and ran as he had never run before. There around the bend, about a
fourth of a mile away, appeared the express, ten minutes behindhand,
and in consequence putting on extra speed.

Jack planted himself firmly in the middle of the track and waved the
red danger signal to and fro, his heart singing with joy. He expected
to see the express slow down, but to his amazement it did nothing of
the kind. They did not seem to see him!

What should he do? The train, with the broken trestle ahead of it,
must not be allowed to take that awful plunge. He must stop it!

He waved the red flag more frantically than before, but still the
train, unheeding, came on. Two minutes more and it would be upon
him. Now came the supreme test of his Scout training. Would he fail?

Lightning quick he thought and decided. Springing from the track, he
caught up a rock, and, as the train came abreast of him, hurled it
through the window of the cab. Then, well nigh exhausted as he was,
he ran along by the side of the track.

As the train sped by him he heard startled exclamations and shouted
oaths mingled with the sound of the breaking glass. He caught a
glimpse of the engineer face thrust from the cab window, and once
more he frantically waved the red flag.

At last, at last, he heard the grinding and whistling of the
air-brakes as the express began to slow down. So great had been its
speed that its momentum carried it on even when all steam had been
shut off and the air-brakes applied.

The engineer and fireman, now fully aware of some terrible danger,
feared the train could not be stopped in time. With bated breath
they waited, while nearer and nearer crept that awful gap. On, on,
went the great locomotive until within two scant feet of the broken
trestle when, with whistling brakes and grinding wheels, it came to a
full stop.

From cab and car people poured, gathering around Jack, whose white
face, bleeding hands and clothing torn almost in shreds told their
own story of the terrible ordeal through which he had just passed.

As it happened, there were several wealthy mine owners on the train
going up into the Adirondacks to verify a report of a rich vein in
that locality. With them was the superintendent of the road, likewise
interested in the mining project. His family, consisting of his wife,
his married daughter and her husband and their two young children,
were also of the party. It was for their accommodation that a most
luxuriously furnished private car had been added to the regular
train, and very soon Jack, quite restored, found himself sitting in a
wonderfully comfortable chair, and the center of attraction.

With keenest interest all listened to his account of the storm in the
mountains and as, in answer to their many questions, they drew from
him the story of the crossing of the trestle, their hearts glowed
with gratitude to the brave Boy Scout who had done so much for them.
They quickly made up a purse, and the superintendent of the road
presented it to Jack, saying, “This is from the passengers, for they
recognize the great debt you have placed upon them, and I can say for
the road itself that it will be quick to recognize in a substantial
way the service you have rendered it.”

Jack drew back, and firmly refused to accept the reward, first of all
because he did not wish it, and second because it is against Scout
rules to accept a reward for any such service. When the passengers
saw how determined he was in the matter, their admiration knew no
bounds, and if Jack had not been as strong minded as we know him to
be, it is to be feared that he would have grown conceited.

The superintendent soon gave orders to the engineer to make best
speed in backing the train to the county town, only a mile or two
away, and there Jack alighted, and after a short wait was joined by
the rest of the Troop, who had gained the town by means of a bridge
which had withstood the storm some miles down the river.




                CHAPTER XV

                A STRANGE DUEL


Lounging in all sorts of careless attitudes around the campfire that
evening, the boys were playing with Don. That exuberant animal was
an unfailing source of delight. No matter how much he had tramped
through the day, he was always ready for a frolic with the boys. All
of them were fond of him and since he had led the Scouts to the cave
and saved the lives of Jack and Tom just when the situation seemed
most desperate, he had become the idol of the camp. He was constantly
learning new tricks and perfecting those he had. Now he rolled over
and over, turned somersaults, stood on his hind legs and marched as
a soldier, stretched himself out and played dead and went through
all his extensive stock of tricks. Nor did he do it as a matter of
obedience to the shout of a command, but took as much delight in
it as did the boys themselves. It was easily seen that he thought
himself as important as any Scout in camp and there were times, it
must be said, when the boys agreed with him.

Now as he barked joyfully and leaped and ran from one to another, Ben
remarked, “Well, there’s no use talking, there’s something wrong
with a man who doesn’t love a good dog!”

“Right you are!” said Tom, who, since Don had saved his life, had
redoubled his affection for the dog. “They’re the finest animals in
the world.”

“Yes,” said Jack, while Don squatted on his haunches and looked in
his eyes adoringly, “they’re the most faithful and affectionate
beasts on earth. They’ll never go back on you, no matter what
happens. You’re just the same to them whether you have a dollar or a
million; whether you’re a helpless outcast or the President of the
United States. There aren’t many human friends that will stick by you
everywhere in foul weather as well as fair weather, but a dog always
will. He will trot along with you; he’ll fight for you; he’ll forgive
all your impatience and ill-treatment, and he wouldn’t hesitate a
moment to give up his life to save yours. They’re noble fellows,
sure enough, aren’t they, old dog?” as he fondled the shaggy head
caressingly.

“And they’re so intelligent,” said Pete. “They’ll follow a trail
anywhere. You may try to cover up your tracks by all sorts of tricks,
by walking backward in your footsteps, by running along fences or
jumping from rock to rock, but although you may confuse them, they’ll
stick to it until soon or late they pick up the trail again. The
only way to fool them utterly is to take to the water and wade
through it, but even then you have got to head for land sooner or
later and the chances are they’ll get you. You know how hard it used
to be in the old slave-holding days for a runaway to escape. I’ve
heard that in some of the places of Europe--Belgium I think--trained
dogs are a regular part of the police force and a most important part
too, if you believe all that is told about them.”

“Well,” said Dick Crawford, who, after discharging some of the
routine duties of the camp, had joined the group, “I know of a famous
case that shows both those qualities of the dog, his affection and
his intelligence. It all happened four hundred years ago and yet it
is so interesting and remarkable that the story has lived all this
time.”

The boys clamored to hear it and Dick went on:

“There was a young man in Paris, we’ll call him Aubrey for short,
of good birth and breeding and moving in the gay world of fashion.
He had a large circle of friends and owned a magnificent greyhound.
It was a splendid brute, whom people turned about to watch as he
followed his master through the streets.

“One day there was a great tournament in Paris, a very gay and
splendid occasion, and his friends were surprised to see that Aubrey
wasn’t there. They thought this was strange because he had counted
very much on this coming event and had shown the greatest interest
in it. Still they thought that something had detained him, but when
on the second and third days he was also absent, they began to be
worried about him.

“On the fourth morning a great friend of Aubrey, whom we’ll call De
Narsac, heard a scratching at his door. He arose and found there his
friend’s greyhound. The poor brute was wounded and had evidently
been without food for days, so that his ribs almost showed through
his flesh. De Narsac gave him food that he ate as famished. The
appearance of the dog in such a condition deepened his suspicions
that harm had come to his friend. The dog kept running about the
apartment, whining and looking at him imploringly and plainly asking
him to follow. Convinced now that something was wrong, he hastily
dressed and followed him through the streets of Paris. The dog led
him without a moment’s hesitation several miles out into the country
through a forest that had a bad reputation as a resort for thieves
and outlaws. Coming to some freshly disturbed earth under a great oak
tree, he fell upon it and began scratching and whining pitifully. De
Narsac and some friends he had brought with him began to dig and soon
uncovered the murdered body of Aubrey.

“On their return to the city, they met a group of young men on one of
the main streets. As soon as the dog caught sight of one of them he
growled furiously, crouching and then leaped at the man’s throat. The
courtier, whom we’ll call Macaire, beat off the dog with the help of
his friends, but the greyhound made unavailing efforts to renew the
attack.

“The sudden fury of the dog aroused suspicion and a little quiet
investigation showed that sometime before there had been a bitter
quarrel between Aubrey and Macaire.

“The matter came to the ears of the King, who determined to sift the
matter to the bottom. He gave a great function in the royal palace
and so managed that Macaire with a dozen other courtiers stood in a
group at the right hand of the throne. By previous arrangement, De
Narsac entered, accompanied by the greyhound, who, the instant his
eye caught sight of Macaire, made a tremendous bound and bore him
to the floor. It seemed to the King and all present that Providence
had pointed out Aubrey’s murderer. Macaire denied it violently but,
in accordance with the ideas of the time, it was arranged that the
matter should be left to the judgment of heaven. In other words, the
dog and the man were to fight a duel. It was supposed that eternal
justice and wisdom would select the winner. If the dog won, the
murderer of Aubrey stood revealed. If, on the other hand, Macaire
came out victor, he was to be adjudged innocent.

“A duel between a man and a dog!” exclaimed Ben who, with the other
boys, had listened breathlessly to Dick’s story. “That doesn’t seem
fair. How could they fix it so that each would have an even show?”

“Well,” said Dick, “perhaps it wouldn’t be possible to make a thing
of that kind exactly fair and even between a man and a dog, but they
figured it out and made it as fair as they could. The man was armed
with a heavy club and the dog had to rely upon his teeth and claws. A
barrel was provided for him, in which he could take refuge when too
hard pressed and get ready to renew the attack.

“The affair came off before a tremendous crowd. All the leading
people of Paris and the court were present. The instant the dog was
brought in he tugged at the leash and being freed, leaped at his
enemy. Macaire fought with the fury of despair; but the consciousness
of guilt unnerved him and most of his blows beat the air. The dog
returned again and again to the attack and, finally, leaping through
Macaire’s guard, caught him by the throat and threw him to the
ground. He shrieked for help and confessed his guilt. Justice was
keen and quick in those days, and that very night Macaire was led out
to execution. The dog had avenged his master.”

The Scouts drew a long breath as Dick finished his exciting story
and Pete ejaculated, “Well, that certainly was some dog!”

“They thought so at the time,” said Dick, “and put up a monument to
him that can be seen even now.”

“Well,” said Jack, turning to Don, “you’re not so big and strong as
that great greyhound, old fellow, but I bet you know as much, and
no matter what happened to any of us, you would stand by us to the
very end. Wouldn’t you, Don?” and Don, looking eloquently into his
master’s eyes, wig-wagged, “Yes!”




                CHAPTER XVI

                TOO LATE!


The morning of the last day of the month dawned bright and clear.

The day before, Harry, as he had promised Crawford he would do, had
come over to the Boy Scout camp and had a long talk with Mr. Durland.
Flannigan had not come back from his prospecting trip nor had they
heard from him in any way. The only conjecture was that he had been
delayed longer than he had expected, but had probably planned his
return so as to stop at the junction point to receive the express
package that always arrived for him on the last day of the month in
order to meet the payroll, and from there would drive over to the
logging camp.

It was absolutely necessary that somebody should reach there before
the arrival of the train in order to give him ample warning, and let
him make his arrangements accordingly. Jack was selected as best
fitted for that important duty and immediately after breakfast he
started off for the Junction.

He gave himself plenty of time. It would not do to take any risk
when theft was in the air and when possibly a life also depended
upon his getting there before the train. The distance from the Boy
Scout camp to the Junction was about five miles as the crow flies.
If he had been able to go by the road, he could easily have made it
in a little over an hour. The path, however, lay chiefly through
the woods and there were brooks to be crossed and occasional hills
to be climbed and for all this Jack had to make allowances. Thanks
to the efforts of the Boy Scout Pathfinders, the district had been
thoroughly surveyed and rough paths indicated, and as Jack himself
had been in the thick of this exploring, he had a perfectly clear
idea of the shortest and easiest way to get there.

The train was due at the Junction at ten thirty-five. Usually it
was behind time. It ran on a little spur jutting off from the main
road. It was a single narrow-gauge track, with only one train each
way every day. It carried both freight and passengers and stopped,
as its patrons sometimes grumbled, at “every dog kennel” on the way.
The chances were that it would be late, but then again on this one
occasion it might happen to be on time and Jack could take no risks.
He figured that, with all the roughness of the road, he could make
the distance easily in two hours. He gave himself an extra hour and a
half, however, to allow for any possible hindrance and left camp at
about seven o’clock.

It was a splendid morning. A slight haze tempered the heat of the
sun and made walking a delight. As Jack swung into his stride, the
charm of the morning took possession of him. The full tide of youth
and strength ran through his brain. The balsam of the woods filled
his nostrils. The woods were full of life. Birds sang in the trees
overhead. He caught glimpses of chipmunks and squirrels gliding
through the bushes and occasionally crossing the path. It was good to
be alive, and it seemed scarcely possible that on such a day robbers
and murderers were abroad and the possibility of a crime near at hand.

As this last thought came to him his step quickened. He didn’t
anticipate any danger in his mission, and yet his blood was stirred
by the possibilities that lurked in the day’s work. He had no idea
that he himself would be concerned in it or come face to face with
the robbers.

What he had to do after all was perfectly simple. He only had to
warn Flannigan and he knew enough of that individual to have perfect
confidence in him. He was sure that the big, burly Irishman could
easily hold his own if it came to a tussle. But there would be no
tussle. He was sure of that. All the foreman had to do was to take no
chances in going by the main road, but to take a less traveled path,
rough, to be sure, but over which a horse could be driven, and thus
reach the camp. It was a much longer road, but in this case at least
the old proverb was true that “the longest way around is the shortest
way home.”

He had no doubt that Flannigan would be at the station. No matter how
important his business might have been, he would never let pay-day go
by without turning up in camp. That was the one unwritten law of the
logging camps that was like the laws of the Medes and the Persians
and could not be broken. The rough characters that Flannigan had to
deal with in their hard-worked and narrow lives looked forward all
through the month to that one day of the pay envelope. To be sure,
the money didn’t last long when they got it. A big spree in the
county town usually followed and, after a day or two of gambling and
drunkenness, the men stumbled back to the camp and began to work
for another month, and dream of the next pay-day. They were quick
tempered at the best, would listen to no argument or explanation and
only the sight of the money would appease them. If Flannigan did not
turn up at the camp that day, there would be a riot, and nobody knew
this better than Flannigan himself. Therefore he was sure to be on
hand.

While Jack was thus pressing steadily forward, two men lay in a clump
of bushes alongside the road about half way between the Junction and
the logging camp. They had chosen another place than that on which
they had first determined. They felt a vague uneasiness regarding
the Boy Scouts. While the sudden appearance of Don had given rise to
some misgivings, they had not been sure that they had been overheard.
They had missed Dick on his trip to the logging camp to give warning
and though after that day they had kept a sharp lookout, they had
seen no proof of any communication from the Boy Scouts to the lumber
camp. As a matter of fact, on the strict injunction of Mr. Durland,
the Scouts had kept carefully away from that section since that day.
Still on the mere chance they had thought to “make assurance doubly
sure,” and had picked upon a new location where, squatting in the
bushes, they waited the coming of Flannigan.

The intervening days spent in wandering about the woods and brooding
over their plot had not improved their appearance. They were unshaven
and unkempt, and their clothes hung on them in tatters. But if their
appearance was bad, their tempers were still worse. Their rankling
bitterness and hatred of all society had turned them into wild beasts.

“Curse him!” growled Red, as O’Brien was called, “we’ll settle his
hash this time!”

“Yes,” returned Lavine. “By gar, I get even with zat man to-day if I
swing for it!”

“We’ve got to be pretty keerful,” said Red. “He’s a moighty handy man
with his fists, begorra!”

“His feests I fear not,” replied Lavine. “What are his feests against
zis knife?” and he ran his hand significantly across the razor edge
on an evil-looking hunting knife. “Do you zink he weel hev a pistol?”

“No fear uv that,” said Red. “He’s too cock-sure of himself.”

Just at the turning of the road they had felled a tree and with true
woodmen’s skill had arranged it so that some of the heavier branches
lay across the road. They thought that Flannigan, on reaching the
obstruction, would be forced to get down from the wagon in order to
remove it and clear a path. While he was bending over, they planned
to spring upon him from behind with their clubs. Taken by surprise,
they figured that he would be helpless in their hands. The knives
they held as a last resort. Their thought of vengeance went no
further than to give the prostrate man a terrible beating and perhaps
maim him for life. It would be safer than actually murdering him and
the pursuit was likely to be less keen than if they had killed their
man. Yet their knives were there and in a pinch neither one would
have flinched from using them should it come to that.

“He’ll soon be here now,” said Red, looking at the sun.

Lavine responded with a growl and an oath, and the two outlaws drew
their belts tighter and waited for the coming of their prey.

In the meanwhile Jack had caught sight of the Junction from the
brow of the last hill. His watch told him that he had an hour and a
half to spare and he knew that he could easily make the distance in
fifteen minutes, leaving plenty of time. He stepped out briskly and
came to the edge of a little brook. It was only about a foot deep and
there were stepping-stones leading from one bank to the other. As he
neared the farther bank, a round stone slipped from under him and he
plunged forward, striking his head against a tree stump on the edge
of the brook. The world swam around him and then his senses left him.

How long he lay there he never knew. When he opened his eyes he
looked around bewildered. His legs were wet to the waist where he had
lain in the brook. He carried his hand to his forehead that ached
horribly and when he withdrew it, found it covered with blood. Where
was he? What had happened?

As he staggered to his feet the thought of his mission came to him.
How late was it? He looked at the sun. It seemed much higher in the
heavens. Could it be possible that he was too late for the train? He
glanced at his watch. It was no longer going. The force with which
he had fallen had stopped it and the hands marked nine thirteen. He
remembered that a few minutes before his fall it had been nine eight.
How long had he lain there?

Suddenly a thrill ran through his veins. Over the hill came the
shrill whistle of a locomotive. It must be the train that Flannigan
was to meet. There wasn’t any other that morning. Could he possibly
be in time? He knew that it would take him at least fifteen minutes,
doing his best, to get there. The train would get to the station in
less than five,--might be there now. Even yet, he told himself, he
might be in time! Perhaps there would be a car to be shifted on a
siding. Even after the train had gone, Flannigan might stop for a
chat and gossip with the station agent. There might be some delay in
signing for the express package. A dozen things might happen to help
him. At least he might get near enough to wave his arms and attract
attention.

While these thoughts rushed through his mind, now clearing from
the effects of the fall, he had struggled to his feet and started
dizzily on his way. At first he staggered, but with every step he
felt himself getting stronger. Only a little part of the remaining
distance was up a slight ascent but after that it would be easy
sailing. All the way from that to the station would be down hill.

A groan passed from his lips as he reached the brow of the hill, half
a mile from the Junction. The train had reached the station, let
off a single passenger and, grunting and groaning, was just pulling
out. Alongside the platform was a buckboard drawn by an old white
horse. Holding the reins was a thick-set, sturdy figure, whom he
recognized as Flannigan. Jack shouted but they could not hear him at
that distance. He blew his Scout’s whistle but still there was no
sign. He ran on, waving his hands wildly. Their backs were to him
and no one saw him. A solitary passenger stepped into the buckboard,
Flannigan gathered up the reins, the old white horse started off and
disappeared around a turn of the road just as Jack rushed up to the
station.

He was too late!




                CHAPTER XVII

                JACK’S RUN FOR LIFE


Too late! The horrible truth flashed across him as he flung himself
on the platform, unable to speak and almost unable to breathe. He had
failed! He had been entrusted with that mission and he had failed. A
life, perhaps two lives now, could have been saved by a word from him
and he had failed! The picture of the men jogging quietly along the
road on that beautiful morning without a thought or dream of danger,
going to a certain robbery and perhaps to death came before him. He
put his hands over his eyes and groaned aloud.

What would Mr. Durland say? What would the Scouts say? Above all,
what would his own conscience say to the last day of his life? He had
never yet fallen short in any important mission and now on this day
of all days he had come miserably short, and he felt that he could
never forgive himself as long as he lived.

How bitterly he blamed his carelessness in crossing the brook! Of
course it was an accident, and after it had happened he had done his
best to remedy it. But why had the accident happened? Why had he
not been more careful? Why had he trusted that treacherous stone in
crossing the brook? His heart swelled up in bitter self-reproach. But
what was the use of that now? That wouldn’t save a life. He was too
late!

But _was_ he too late? The thought came to him like an electric shock
and roused him from his despair. How did he know but what he might
yet save them? While there was life, there was hope. Was he, Jack
Danby, to lie there like a coward and give up supinely while lives
hung in the balance? No, a thousand times no! He sprang to his feet,
pushed through the door and rushed into the little office.

The station agent, a long, lanky native of the woods, was sitting
with his back to him, looking over the orders left him by the
conductor. His back was to Jack, but at his tumultuous entrance he
sprang to his feet in alarm. Jack’s appearance was not prepossessing.
His forehead was still covered with clotted blood, his hat was gone,
his eyes were blazing. Less than that might have startled the agent,
used to the slow and quiet ways of that isolated spot. For one brief
moment he thought of a hold-up. In a moment he had slammed the cash
drawer shut and reached for a pistol that lay on his desk. A second
glance, however, showed him that it was no robbery he had to fear.

“Tell me,” gasped Jack, “can I get a horse around here anywhere?”

“Why, no, son,” replied the agent. “There isn’t anything less than a
mile from here and that old plug ain’t no good. He’s too lazy even to
switch the flies off him. What do you want him for?”

In quick, broken sentences Jack told him the danger. The station
agent became grave and frightened. “And Mr. Scott is with him too,”
he said. “That was him as got off the train and drove off with
Flannigan. He has come up to look over affairs at the logging camp.
He ain’t very husky, and I don’t know what would happen to him if it
came to a scrap. Flannigan’s all right, but ’tain’t at all likely he
can beat off two men if they take him by surprise. There ain’t no
telegraph station down here and there ain’t no telephone, either, in
these woods. What on earth are we going to do?”

Jack thought quickly. His brain never worked more swiftly than when
in the midst of danger. There was nothing to hope for from the
station agent. He put his head in his hands and tried to think.

Suddenly he remembered.

The road was hilly and roundabout, the horse was old and staid and
would probably go along just at a jog trot. He had noticed that they
had driven away slowly. Mr. Scott would have a lot to talk about on
matters connected with the camp, and they would be so engrossed in
talking that the old horse could jog along at his own gait. Could he
not intercept them?

A great deal of work had been done near the station by the young
pathfinders. Among other things, they had made a rough survey of a
proposed path that, starting near the Junction, had led almost in a
straight line to a point five miles distant, where it struck the road
along which Flannigan was driving. At intervals of half a mile they
had set up stakes with fluttering cloths tied to them, to mark the
most easily traveled path between the two points. He happened to know
that the work had been done well. He himself had led the squad that
planted the stakes and remembered clearly the general directions. If
he could only run across country and get to the main road, he might
beat Flannigan to it despite the heavy handicap. In all the games of
hares and hounds he had been easily the central figure. When with the
hares he had rarely been captured; when with the hounds he had always
brought a hare back captive. Now was the time to show his speed. If
he could do this much in games merely, what ought he to do when lives
were at stake?

An instant later the astonished station agent saw Jack bolt out of
the station, running like a frightened rabbit. The ground flew away
under him; the wind sang in his ears; his heart was beating like a
trip hammer. Lives hung on his speed that day, and he would win or
die trying.

The terrific pace at which he started soon began to tell and now that
he was fairly on his way, he had time to think. He was going the pace
that kills, and he realized that he must husband his speed. There
was no use throwing the game away at the very start. At the rate he
was now going, he would be blown before he had made a mile, and five
good miles lay before him. So while his instinct pushed him on at top
speed, his judgment began to get the upper hand. He must hold himself
in, he must watch the path, he must save his strength. He fell into a
swift lope that carried him over the ground with great rapidity, but
still left him strength in reserve. He must keep that reserve until
the last minute.

One pole marking a half mile flew by, then two, three, four. Two
miles already covered! Only three yet to go. His legs began to tire,
but his wind was good. Another pole and still another. Three miles
now! He began to pant. His chest was straining, his breath was
labored. He knew that he had reached the end of his first spurt, but
he also knew that this was only temporary.

Another half mile and he had gotten his second wind. Now he felt as
though he could run all day. He threw off his coat, his kit, his
hatchet. Everything that could possibly hinder him he shed as he went
along. He wasn’t going to carry an extra ounce. Another pole went by.
He dashed through a brook and dipped his head under for a moment;
then, refreshed and dripping, he ran on. Oh, if he were only in time!

His clean life and strong vitality were helping him. If he had spent
his strength in excesses, he would have been absolutely helpless in
this great emergency, but young, untainted life surged in him. He
called on all his resources and they responded.

Four miles now! Another pole and only a half mile more! The main road
was in sight. On and on he flew. Now he was within a few rods. He
caught a glimpse of a white horse, with Mr. Scott holding the reins
and Flannigan getting down to remove the branches of a tree that
blocked the path. The next instant he dashed into the road just in
time to see Red O’Brien fling himself upon Flannigan who was bending
over the tree, while Jacques Lavine with uplifted cudgel rushed
toward Mr. Scott.




                CHAPTER XVIII

                BALKED OF THEIR PREY


Though taken by surprise, Flannigan was a man of ready resource
and tremendous strength. His life had been spent among the rough
men of the woods, where muscle and courage were constantly called
into play. Again and again he had come to hand grips with some of
the wild characters of the district and he had always come out with
flying colors. He had a reputation throughout the North Woods as a
rough-and-tumble fighter. His heart was as stout as his arms, as many
a lumberjack filled with drink and ferocity had found to his cost.

At this supreme moment his long experience stood him in good stead.
The warning shout of Mr. Scott, as the robbers rushed forth from the
thicket, told him of instant danger, and he turned so swiftly that
Red, instead of leaping upon his back, as he had intended, met him
face to face. Before he could swing his cudgel, the hairy arms of
Flannigan closed around him.

Back and forth the giants struggled, their eyes glaring, each trying
to get at the other’s throat. Sheer strength and courage must decide
that battle. They surged back and forth, their muscles stretched to
the utmost. At first the result hung in the balance. Neither gained a
decided advantage. All their passions were unleashed. Red fought for
his liberty and Flannigan for his life. Neither one thought of giving
in. Neither intended to give any quarter. They were more like wild
beasts than men.

As Lavine lifted his cudgel to strike Mr. Scott, the latter dropped
the reins and, snatching the whip from the socket, swung the heavy
butt on the robber’s shoulder. With a savage curse Lavine dropped his
cudgel, and at that instant Jack hurled himself upon him and bore him
to the ground.

They rolled over and over like a pair of wild-cats. Lavine was the
stronger, but Jack the quicker. The ruffian tried to get his great,
gnarled hands on Jack’s throat, but his agile adversary eluded his
attempt at a strangle hold. With muttered oaths Lavine tried again
and again, but suddenly finding this unavailing, his hand went down
to his belt and Jack knew he was feeling for his knife. Now indeed it
was a fight for life. If the maddened wretch could get that knife out
of its sheath, all would be over. Jack redoubled his efforts, but the
tremendous strain was beginning to tell. Had he been fresh, he might
have had an even chance and his agility might have proved a match for
the Frenchman’s strength. Slowly but surely he felt the knife being
drawn up inch by inch. He grasped the knife hand and twisted it with
all his might. Into that twist he put all the power of his young and
well trained strength. With a howl of pain and rage, Lavine shifted
his knife to his other hand. Jack felt the wrist he was twisting
snap, then the knife in the other hand gleamed before his eyes and
the knife fell once, twice. Jack felt a keen pain like a red-hot iron
flash through his shoulder. He heard the yell of the Scouts as Dick
and Tom rushed through the bushes and flung themselves upon Lavine.
His grasp relaxed, his head was strangely light, the trees danced
around him, he felt that he was sinking, sinking ten thousand fathoms
deep, and then for the second time that day he lost consciousness.

When he came to himself, he was lying on a litter that the Scouts
had hastily constructed. His shoulder had been deftly bandaged and,
as he opened his eyes, they fell upon Mr. Durland, Mr. Scott, Dick
and the other Scouts crowding around him. At a little distance were
the two robbers waiting for the wagon that Flannigan had sent for to
the camp to carry them to the county jail. All the fight had gone
out of them. Dick and Tom, together with Mr. Scott, had disarmed and
overpowered Lavine, and he now sat nursing his wounded wrist and
cursing horribly. Red was lying on the ground, bruised and dazed,
where Flannigan with one mighty twist had thrown him and, falling
upon him, choked him until he begged for mercy.

“Thank God!” said Mr. Durland, his voice broken with emotion. “He’s
coming around all right!”

“Yes,” murmured Jack, smiling faintly, “I guess I’m worth a dozen
dead men yet.”

“Sure yez are,” said Flannigan, his massive frame yet panting with
his exertions. “It’s a broth of a b’y yez are, and ’tis glad and
proud I’d be if I had a son like yez! Sure, ’tis a fighter yez are,
by the powers! It takes no baby to tackle Jacques Lavine. And don’t
yez be worrying about that knife play,” he said, turning to the
group. “There’s nothing bad’ll come of that. ’Twill keep him in bed a
day or two perhaps, but nothing worse than that.”

Mr. Scott came forward and put his hand on Jack’s forehead. “My boy,”
he said, “I don’t know how to thank you. You saved my money to-day
but that was a little thing. You saved my life as well, and I shall
never forget it. If ever you need a friend or help of any kind, call
on me! You’ve put me in your debt for life.”

“Oh, that was nothing,” said Jack, “I only did my duty. It was only a
little thing after all. Anybody else would have done as much.”

He tried to lift himself as he spoke, but Mr. Durland stopped him
instantly.

“No, you don’t,” he said, with a smile. “You’re not going to stand
on your feet to-day or for several days. You’re going right over to
the camp. Mr. Scott has sent to the county town for a doctor and he
will be there before evening. You’re going to ride in state to-day,
Jack, as befits a hero. Who’ll volunteer,” he said, turning to the
Scouts, “to carry this litter?”

Who would volunteer? The boys almost fought for the honor. They
crowded around him in wild excitement. They had always admired him,
but to-day they fairly idolized him. Mr. Durland had to settle the
matter by arranging for relays, so that all might have a chance to
carry him, and the boys picked out for the first relay were the
object of envy to the other fellows.

It was a joyful, if rather subdued, party that carried Jack back
to the camp that day. They took the utmost care to avoid the rough
places, so that there might be no shock to the wounded shoulder.
When they got him there, the first bandages were removed, the wound
was carefully washed and dressed and Jack was put to bed. Toward
evening the doctor arrived and his examination confirmed the opinion
of Flannigan. The knife had missed any vital spot, had touched no
arteries and, with the good care and nursing that Jack was sure to
get, he would be all right again in two or three days.

“You see, old boy,” said Dick Crawford as he sat by Jack’s bedside
the following day, “it was like this. We knew the place that those
fellows had fixed on to waylay Flannigan, from what we overheard in
the woods. Although we felt sure that you would get to the train in
time, we thought it better to take no chances and made up our minds
to be on hand. We could not go too close for fear of being seen, and
so we lay behind some bushes a little way off. Of course we didn’t
know that they had changed their plans, so when the real rumpus came,
we were farther off than we expected to be. We ran--how we ran! I
never made such time in my life before. If we had only got there a
minute sooner, you wouldn’t be lying on your bed to-day.”

“That’s all right, old fellow,” said Jack. “I know how gladly any one
of you fellows would have risked your lives to save mine. But all’s
well that ends well, and I’m mighty glad I’m alive.”

“And so are we!” came with a shout from outside the tent where the
boys were gathered, fearing to disobey the doctor’s orders to keep
Jack quiet, if they had crowded in as they had wanted to. “Three
cheers for Jack!” and they gave them with a will.

The next few days came and went quickly. The time had come for
breaking camp and most of the boys had been compelled reluctantly to
go back to town. The life-giving air of the woods, combined with the
careful nursing of Dick and Tom, who had remained behind to take
care of him, had worked wonders for Jack. His splendid vitality and
will power had assisted nature, and the morning came when, strong and
well, he too bade farewell to the Adirondack camp.

“I tell you what, fellows,” he said, as they stood upon the station
waiting for their train, “I never had such a delightful as well as
exciting time as I’ve had this summer and I don’t believe I will ever
have anything in the future that comes up to it.”