Scott Morgan
Oakdale Boys in Camp

CHAPTER XXI.
ESTABLISHING FRIENDLY RELATIONS

Heedless of the blazing lightning, the crashing thunder and the drenching downpour, Stone and Crane remained exposed upon the shore and besieged by anxiety concerning what was taking place a short distance away upon the lake. Through the blinding rain swirl they finally perceived a dark object approaching, and, running swiftly, they reached the beach just as the wind and waves hurled upon it the canoe containing Springer and Piper.

“Where’s Grant?” cried Stone, aghast. “What made you desert him?”

“Yes, why didn’t yeou stick by, confaound ye?” snarled Crane, snatching the paddle as Phil staggered up beyond the reach of the water. “Yeou’ve got a lot of sand, ain’t ye?”

Sleuth floundered forth, gasping, and he grabbed Sile’s arm as the latter seemed about to put off in the canoe in the face of that terrific gale.

“What are you going to do?” asked Piper.

“Leggo!” rasped the excited fellow. “I’m goin’ aout there after Rod.”

“No need of it,” was the assurance. “He’s all right.”

“Grant’s all right,” substantiated Springer. “He got Simpson to the boat, and they’re both hanging fuf-fast to it. Rod told us to get ashore as quick as we could before the canoe swamped. We cuc-couldn’t hold the old thing against the wind, and she was taking in water.”

It was no easy matter, however, to satisfy Crane; but finally, by their united efforts, Phil and Sleuth succeeded in preventing him from attempting to put out in the canoe, which was now more than half full of water.

“You couldn’t do it, anyhow,” declared Piper. “Look how the waves beat in here. You’d be swamped in half a minute.”

“What are we goin’ to do?” demanded Sile feverishly. “Be we goin’ to stand araound here and let them hang to that upsot bo’t?”

“The wind should drive them right in here,” said Stone. “There they are – there they are now!”

Like the canoe, the drifting boat was first seen through the blanketing rain as a black splotch on the water. In a few moments, however, they could discern the heads of the two lads who clung to it, and their shouts were answered by a reassuring call from Grant.

When the boat had drifted nearer Rod came wading forth from the lake, assisting Simpson, who seemed rather weak and limp. Heedless of lightning or thunder, the waiting boys stood in that downpour of rain and cheered heartily. The canoe had been carried beyond the clutch of the waves, and the beach was left free for the reception of the drifting boat, which was also drawn up securely as soon as it floated within reach.

Speechless, Simpson stumbled at Rodney’s heels as the Texan made for the tent, the front flaps of which, with commendable foresight, had been closed and buttoned by Stone and Crane. So well had the tent been pitched and guyed that it had withstood the sweep of the wind practically unmoved, and, releasing the lower button of the flap, the boys crawled inside, one after another. With the exception of Simpson, who stretched himself out, exhausted, they sat around upon the ground, a sorry-looking but triumphant bunch.

The wind howled around the tent and crashed together the limbs of the trees; through the woods it roared, with a sound scarcely less awesome than that of the almost incessant volleying of the thunder. Upon the canvas shelter the rain beat in torrents, but the structure demonstrated its quality by shedding the downfall in a wonderfully effective manner. The good judgment of Rodney in locating the camp-site upon a spot where the water would flow away in all directions was made evident by the fact that no trickling rivulets seeped into the tent.

Until the thunder and lightning began perceptibly to abate the boys wasted few words in conversation. After a time, however, to the satisfaction of all, it became evident that the storm was passing.

Simpson sat up and surveyed Rodney. “I guess,” he said slowly, “I’d sartain been drowned if you hadn’t give me a hand.”

“You don’t swim?”

“Nope; never learned how.”

“You should. Every fellow ought to know how to swim.”

“Guess that’s right, but I never had no chance.”

“Chance? What do you want? Here’s a whole lake of water to learn in.”

“But how’s a feller goin’ to learn if he ain’t got nobody to show him?”

“So that’s the trouble. Well, look here; if you want to learn and you’ll take the trouble to come around every day while we’re camping here, I’ll agree to do my best to teach you.”

“That’s generous, considerin’ our fuss about you fellers fishin’ in that brook,” said Simpson. “You must be the right sort, arter all.”

“What the dud-dickens were you doing out there in that boat?” questioned Springer. “That’s what I’d like to know.”

He was not the only one who felt curiosity concerning that point.

“Why,” answered Simpson, “I was comin’ back after deliverin’ some pertaters, onions and other truck to Mr. Granger. We keep him supplied with garden stuff. He’s good pay, and prompt.”

“Oh, I see,” nodded Rodney. “But you seemed to be making for this camp.”

“I was. I saw the storm comin’, and this was the nearest shelter; so, for all of our row, I thought I’d take a chance that you’d let me crawl under kiver here. Kinder nervy, wasn’t it?” he concluded, with a grin.

“Oh, I think we’d let you in,” said Stone.

“But why didn’t you dud-douse your sail when you saw the wind coming?” asked Phil. “If you’d pulled it down and used your oars, you’d bub-been all right.”

“Didn’t have any oars, nothing but a paddle, and I was using that to steer with. This is the first time I ever tried a sail. You see, it was pretty hard work paddlin’ that punt across the lake and back, so I decided to rig up a sail to help along. I thought I’d make shore before the wind hit me hard enough to do any damage. Bad judgment, I own up.”

“It was,” agreed the Texan. “How often do you carry garden stuff across to Granger?”

“Oh, two or three times a week.”

“What do you know about him?” questioned Piper, his interest seeming suddenly sharpened. “He was over here to call on us yesterday. What’s he doing around here?”

“Rusticating for his health, and writing.”

“Writing?”

“Yep.”

“What’s he writing?”

“Stories. Don’t you know about it? He’s one of them fellers that write stories for the papers and magazines. Funny sort of business to get paid for, ain’t it? But he says he gets paid, and he always has plenty of money.”

“Ah!” breathed Sleuth. “The mystery of Mr. Granger is solved. Now I understand why it is that he possesses such a vivid imagination and is so remarkably clever in spinning yarns and filling in the little details and touches. A writer of fiction, eh? Ha, ha, Mr. Granger; you’re found out.”

“But,” reminded Springer, suddenly recalling their experience upon Spirit Island, which had temporarily been forgotten because of the exciting adventure that had followed, “it doesn’t seem to me that there was much fiction abub-bout some of the stuff he tut-told us. Say, Simp, do people around here say that Spirit Island is haunted?”

“Oh, they tell such things,” answered the farmer’s son; “but I guess it’s all bosh. Granger has talked to me about it some. He seems to have an idee in his noddle that there’s really ghosts on that island. One day I saw some of the stuff he’d writ about it. Say, you know he don’t do his writin’ with a pen; no, sir, he has one of them new-fangled thingamajigs that prints the words jest as fast as he can pound ’em off with his fingers. Did you fellers ever know that folks got paid for makin’ up lies and writin’ ’em off for the papers? Don’t seem right, when other people have to work to get their money.” There was something like resentment in his manner.

“Every man to his trade,” laughed Grant. “The old shower is practically over, fellows. I hope the sun comes out good and warm, so we can dry our clothes comfortably.”

The thunder was still grumbling in the east, like the muttering of a fractious giant gradually falling asleep, and a few raindrops mingled with the dripping from the trees that continued to patter upon the tent. Beyond the mountains the sky was brightening, and soon a ray of sunshine burst through the dispersing clouds.

In a few minutes, the rain having ceased entirely, the boys opened the front of the tent and came forth to find the world looking bright and beautiful after its invigorating bath. Once more the lake was smiling in the sunlight, and the woods seemed to have taken on a fresher green, while the air, that had been heavy and humid before the storm, was clear and light and warm, without being depressing.

Their wet, clinging clothing was uncomfortable, but, fortunately, all of the campers had brought extra underclothes, and it would not be so difficult upon this sunny afternoon to dry their outer garments.

Simpson’s boat lay unharmed upon the sandy beach, and the paddle was found not far away, where it had been tossed by the waves. They helped him unstep the mast, for the sail would be of little use to him in making his way along that shore; and, besides, as he somewhat sheepishly confessed, he was practically cured of a desire to seek further experience in the art of sailing such a craft.

“I’ve got enough,” he admitted. “This kind of a rig ain’t no good against the wind, and it’s rather dangerous sailing her with the wind, when there is any wind to speak of.”

“Look here,” proposed Crane, “why can’t yeou bring us garden truck, same as you do Granger? We’ve made arrangements for that Dutchman, Duckelstein, to send us milk, butter and aigs, but there ain’t no need to give him a monopoly of all aour business. Besides, I’ve got a score to settle with his fat-headed boy, and mebbe after that’s over we won’t even get the stuff we’ve contracted for.” As he spoke he involuntarily touched his eye, which was still swollen, although the bandage had been removed.

“Cal’late I can fetch ye anything you want,” answered Simpson promptly. “And, considerin’ what you’ve done for me, I’ll furnish truck at a rock-bottom figger; won’t charge ye a cent more for the stuff than we can get by haulin’ it into town.”

“That sure is generous,” laughed Grant, though the farmer’s son could not comprehend why he seemed amused. “We brought only a few vegetables, and they are already practically used up. We need potatoes, onions and beans.”

“We’ve got some rippin’ good green peas,” said Simpson. “I guess some of them wouldn’t go bad.”

“Bring us a mess.”

“And beans – don’t yeou forget the beans,” cautioned Crane. “By hokey! I’m hungry for good baked beans.”

“We haven’t a pot to bake them in,” reminded Stone.

But Simpson immediately assured them that he felt certain he could supply them with a beanpot, which they might return when they were through with it.

“Leave it to me,” he said; “I’ll fetch what you want, and mebbe I’ll be able to get round with the stuff tonight. So long.”

After pushing out from the shore he paused and turned, apparently struck by a thought.

“Say,” he grinned, “jest you fellers go ahead and fish the brook over yonder all you blame please. I don’t cal’late nobody will bother ye no more.”

“Much obliged,” laughed Grant.

CHAPTER XXII.
PIPER GROWS SECRETIVE

Dressed only in underclothes while their other garments were drying, the boys really suffered no discomfort whatever. They amused themselves in various ways, and in camp the least ingenious person may keep himself occupied and entertained without much trouble. For Crane and Stone the account of the adventure of the others upon the mysterious island proved deeply interesting, and much time was spent in discussion and speculation. It was observed that of the trio who had visited the island Piper had the least to say about it, being much absorbed in meditation.

“Look at Sleuthy,” whispered Sile, nudging Springer. “His analytical mind is at work, and I cal’late he’s tryin’ to form a few deductions.”

As if he had caught the remark, Piper looked up and gave Crane a hard stare that was doubtless intended to be piercing.

“Next time I visit that island,” he declared, “I’m going to take the shotgun along, and it will be loaded, too.”

Springer whooped derisively. “Oh, yes, next tut-time you visit the island you’ll tut-take the shotgun!”

“What,” questioned Grant, “would you have done with a shotgun if you’d had one with you today, Pipe?”

“He’d dropped it when he ran,” asserted Springer.

Piper promptly turned on Phil. “If I were in your place, I’d be ashamed to mention running. Like Crane, pursued by hornets, you demonstrated that the wings of Mercury or the seven league boots would be of little aid to you in covering ground when you’re thoroughly frightened.”

“I’m willing to admit,” said Grant, “that the sounds we heard on the island and the conditions under which we made our visit of investigation gave me a few unpleasant and awesome sensations. Nevertheless, sitting here at this moment, I’m much disinclined to admit that I believe in haunts. I reckon it was the approach of the storm, more than anything else, that upset us complete.”

“How about the tut-ticking of the unseen clock?” asked Phil.

“A woodtick, perhaps, boring into the rotten timbers of the hut.”

“And the ghostly knockings?”

“There is no person who has not at some time heard seemingly mysterious rappings, which were afterward found to be of the most commonplace origin.”

“Well, there was that mum-moaning cry. You heard it, didn’t you?”

Rodney admitted that he had. “With more time at my disposal,” he asserted, “I opine I would have looked around for the cause of it.”

“Bub-but the howling of the dog?”

“Most dogs are given to howling.”

“How about the white figures Crane and I saw on the island?”

“Imagination sometimes plays right peculiar tricks with the eyesight.”

“But we saw them. Yes, we did,” corroborated Sile earnestly. “I’ll swear to that.”

Piper listened to this colloquy, his eyes bright, his manner that of one keenly interested.

“Comrades,” he announced, rising to his feet and posing, “I shall remain forever unsatisfied if we leave Phantom Lake with this mystery unsolved. I propose to find the solution.”

“Oh, yeou’ll do a lot in that line!” sneered Crane. “Yeou’ve had a swelled head ever since yeou was called to give testimony in court at Stone’s trial. Before that you never done anything but talk, and yeou ain’t done nothing since then. That was an accident.”

Sleuth’s lips curled scornfully. “Envy! Jealousy!” he declared. “The opportunity has not since presented itself until the present occasion for the full exercise of my acumen.”

“Wow!” whooped Springer. “Ac-cac-caccumen! That’s going some. Gee! Pipe, when you’re at home you must sit up nights to study the dictionary.”

“In command of English pure and undefiled,” retorted Sleuth, “you are plainly extremely limited.” Then he strolled off by himself and spent at least a full hour in deep thought.

Some time before sunset Jim Simpson reappeared in the punt and landed at the Point.

“Told ye I’d get round if I could,” he said, stepping ashore. “Didn’t know but the old man would raise objections and have something else for me to do, but when I told him what had happened to me, he give me a good dressin’ down for being keerless, and then said that you chaps could have any blessed thing you wanted that he owned. Say, the old gent ain’t sech a bad feller, though he nigh works me to death sometimes. Soon’s I come of age, you bet I’m goin’ to hit out for myself. Livin’ on a farm ain’t what it’s cracked up to be, I tell ye that. I’ve got the truck for ye here in the bo’t.”

He had brought a peck of new potatoes and a bountiful supply of green peas, as well as onions, beans for baking and a pot to bake them in. But that was not all; he proudly passed over something wrapped in brown paper, announcing:

“Here’s some lambsteak for ye. The old gent killed a lamb yesterday, and, thinkin’ mebbe you might like some meat, he cut this for ye and sent it as a present.”

“Lambsteak, green peas and new pertaters,” spluttered Crane. “Gee whiz! We’ll sartain have a feast. Say, Simp, yeou’re right abaout yeour old man; he ain’t a bad feller. Get busy, Stoney, and start the repast to cookin’.”

Ben was willing enough to do this, for his appetite, like that of the others, had been keenly aroused by camp life.

He set his companions shelling the peas and preparing the potatoes, while he started up a good fire.

“You fellers seem to be havin’ a pretty good time,” observed Simpson, as he sat watching them. “Guess you’re enjoying it all right.”

“Sure we are,” answered Rodney. “Ever camp out?”

“Shucks, no; never had no time for that. Guess if you’d ever lived on a farm you’d know how ’twas. Don’t s’pose you’re much used to real work.”

Grant smiled. “I was brought up on a ranch, and I reckon I know something about work.”

“A ranch!” cried the farmer’s son, his eyes widening. “Where?”

“In Texas.”

“Sho! You don’t say! Well, I snum!” He suddenly regarded Rodney with an amazing increased amount of respect. “Never saw nobody before that ever lived on a ranch,” he confessed. “Was you a real cowboy?”

“In a way, yes; I’ve punched cattle.”

“I do declare!” breathed Simpson. “That must be great fun. I’ve always thought I’d like to be a cowboy.”

“Have you?”

“You bate! I say it must be rippin’ fun to be a real cowboy and jest ride ’round on a horse and do nothing but tend cattle that don’t have to be milked and cleaned and fed in a tieup and fussed over, the way farmer’s critters are. I’ve read about cowboy life, and it sartainly is the kind for me.”

The Texan laughed outright. “Not if you are adverse to hard work,” he asserted. “Likely the stories you’ve read about cowboy life have given you the impression that it consists principally of adventure and romance and very little work. But let me tell you straight, partner, there’s no harder work a fellow can do, and there’s mighty little romance connected with it.”

But Simpson shook his head incredulously. “Can’t be so,” he doubted. “Sometime mebbe I’ll go West and be a cowboy.”

“If you carry out that design,” returned Grant, still smiling, “you’ll soon come to realize the fact that, in the way of work, Eastern farm life is almost play compared with cow-punching. One experience upon the range in a Texas norther would knock all the romance out of your noddle, to say nothing of the lesson you’d get during a good dry, blistering summer, when you’d have to be on the hike day after day from an hour or more before the first peep of dawn until long after nightfall.”

Still Jim Simpson was not convinced, for, like many a mistaken Eastern youth, he had come to regard the life of a cowboy as a most enviable existence, and nothing but a test of its hardships could convince him otherwise.

“Why, right now,” he said, rising, stretching and yawning, “I’ve got to hustle back to the farm and putter around till it’s dark and time for supper. S’pose I’d better be goin’.”

But ere he departed Sleuth mysteriously drew him aside and talked with him for some time in low tones that carried no distinguishable word to the rest of the campers. Naturally, Piper’s friends speculated over this, and when Simpson was gone they sought in vain to quiz Sleuth. He rebuffed them flatly.

“It’s told that curiosity once killed a cat,” he said, “and I can aver that it got a certain party badly stung by ‘gougers.’ When I’m ready to make known my private business, I’ll do so without being coaxed or badgered.”

CHAPTER XXIII.
CRANE RELENTS

The supper was indeed a genuine feast. The vegetables, being well cooked, tasted delicious to the hungry boys, and Crane declared that never before had he “stuck a tooth into such snappin’ good lambsteak.” Their wet clothing had dried out completely, and, properly dressed, they were inclined to lounge about after eating, their well filled stomachs making them comfortably torpid and lazy.

But Stone would not let them loaf until the work of starting the beans baking was performed. Slightly more than a full pint of beans were placed in a kettle of boiling water to which one-fourth of a teaspoonful of baking soda had been added. Two of the boys cut and brought a big supply of dry hardwood, while the other two were digging a deep hole in the ground a short distance from the regular fireplace; and when the hole was dug to the cook’s satisfaction he filled it with plenty of light kindling and built above it a high pile of crossed hardwood sticks, cob-house fashion. A blaze was then started in the kindling, and soon the whole mass was roaring like a bonfire.

While the fire was burning down and filling the hole with a mass of red-hot, glowing coals, Ben completed the preparation of the beans, which had been permitted to boil a full half hour. A sizeable piece of salt pork was cut in two pieces, each of which was gashed with a knife. One piece was placed in the bottom of the kettle, and then the beans, with the water fully drained off, were poured in upon the pork, the second piece of which was placed on top of them. Salt, pepper and a tablespoonful of molasses were added, and the cover of the pot put on securely.

Next the coals were carefully raked out of the hole, into which the beanpot was placed. This done, the coals were pushed back around the pot, packing it on every side and covering it from view. Lastly these glowing coals were covered by a few inches of earth, and then Ben announced that the work was done.

“Huh!” grunted Springer skeptically. “Do you mum-mean to tell us that beans will cook pup-properly that way? Why, they won’t get half done before those coals will all be dead.”

“We’ll see about that in the morning,” said Ben, with a faint smile. “I admit this is the first time I’ve ever cooked them in this fashion, but I once saw beans baked in a hole at a Grand Army encampment, and I don’t believe I’ve bungled much.”

The evening passed quickly and pleasantly enough. For a time Grant strummed on his guitar; but, somehow, they were not in the mood for singing, and when they finally grew weary of story-telling and chatting they went to bed.

And for the first time since coming to Pleasant Point all slept soundly the night through.

It must be confessed that Stone arose in the morning with a slight feeling of anxiety about the beans, although he successfully disguised this fact, taking the regular plunge with the others and dressing as deliberately as any of them. No one suggested fishing this morning, but all seemed eager for breakfast.

“Bub-bub-baked beans would go first-rate,” said Springer; “but I’m afraid we’ll feed on something else.”

The table laid, they watched Ben open the bake-hole and lift out the beanpot. To their surprise, in that hole there were still coals which gleamed the moment the air reached them, and the pot was so hot that it was handled with some caution and difficulty. When the embers were fully removed from the cover, Stone opened the pot, and immediately an aroma rose that brought exclamations of delight from everyone. The beans were smooth and full and brown and perfectly baked.

“I tut-take it all back,” cried Springer. “I offer a humble apology, chef. Say, you’re a wizard.”

“The greatest cook that ever came daown the pike, that’s what he is,” pronounced Crane. “Oh gimme a dip at them beans before I expire.”

Now for breakfast, under ordinary conditions, beans are a hearty food indeed; but the short time they had been in camp had prepared the lads to relish just such heavy food, and digest it, too. Therefore, like the supper of the previous night, this breakfast was voted a tremendous success.

Shortly after breakfast Crane suddenly started up in a listening attitude, and, observing him, the others also listened, hearing the sound of wagon-wheels a short distance away in the woods. A look of almost savage joy contorted Sile’s features as he hissed:

“Here comes that confaounded Dutch boy! Yeou watch me! I’ll scare him into fits.”

But when he hurried forward, eager to put his hands on Carl, he met with a surprise. Drawing the wagon, the old white horse came into view, but the person on the wagon-seat was not Carl. Instead, it was a fat, placid, moon-faced man, who was smoking a huge crooked pipe.

“Hang it!” growled Sile, halting abruptly. “It’s the old Dutchman himself!”

“How you vas, poys?” gurgled Herman Duckelstein, without offering to step down from the wagon. “You can took dose thing vot I haf prought; undt I vill aroundt turn. A crate hurry I vas in.”

“Huh!” exploded Sile. “Where’s that boy of yourn?”

“My poy? He didn’t not came.”

“Yes, I notice it. Why didn’t he come?”

“Maype he vas busy py something else. Yah. Vas it disappointment dot he didt not come?”

“Yes, a great disappointment,” rasped Sile. “I’m mighty sorry not to see him this morning.”

“You seem to like my poy, Carl, ain’t it? You seem to enchoy his companies vhen he comes to seen you, no? Vot vas der matter py your face?”

Sile ignored the question. “I kinder hope you’ll send Carl tomorrer morning, Mr. Duckelstein,” he said. “Yeou’re right abaout aour enjoyin’ his company.”

“Carl toldt me dot an eel didt catch him here,” said Duckelstein, a suspicious twinkle in his eyes. “Didt you at him laugh undt good sports have vhen dot eel caught him?”

“Well,” admitted Sile, grinning a little, “yeou see we couldn’t help laffin’, considerin’ the fact that it wa’n’t no eel, only an old root that got ketched on his line.”

“Vas dot correction?” said Duckelstein soberly. “Maype dot poy didt not toldt me dot. Maype he toldt me dot he peen afraidt der eels vas vaiting in der voods aroundt here to chump at him undt give him a pites. Didt you nefer see anythings around here dot at you chumped undt gafe you a pite, no?”

In spite of his efforts to refrain, Springer suddenly giggled outright, which caused Sile to flush painfully and frown in a forbidding way.

“Yeou’ve got a purty smart boy, mister,” growled Crane. “Anyhaow, I s’pose he thinks he’s smart.”

“Vale, maype,” beamed the Dutch farmer, “he iss not a fool so pig as somepody took him to be. Sometimes he peen carelessness undt forgetful. I peliefe vhen he vas here der last times a tin pail forgot him, mit a cover undt a strap to holdt on dot cover vhen dere vas in der pail somethings dot Carl didt not vant to out come. Uf you didt not objections, I vill avay took dot pail, pecause maype Carl vould like to use him again. Yah.”

And now Grant laughed aloud. “There’s the pail and strap yonder on the ground, Mr. Duckelstein,” he said. “We sure don’t want any property that doesn’t belong to us.”

“That’s right,” said Crane. “Take yeour dratted old pail.”

“Maype you didt not a choke enchoy vhen it vas yourself on,” said Duckelstein, in a manner of mild reproof. “Dot is der vay uf some peoples. It is crate fun vhen der choke vas somepody else on, but vhen it home comes dot makes a tifference. Over think dot a little, my poy. Uf you couldt not a choke stood yourself on, don’t play him somepody else on, pecause you couldt not tell vhen dot other feller vill pack get at you a choke vot iss petter as der vun you didt up think yourself.”

Silenced, Crane retreated to think it over. He was still thinking some time after Mr. Duckelstein had departed. Finally he looked up, a slow grin creeping over his face.

“I guess that old Dutchman is abaout right,” he nodded; “a feller that can’t take a joke hadn’t better be playin’ ’em on other folks. Furthermore, yeou can’t never be sure that the dumb duffer yeou’re havin’ fun with ain’t got a knockout come-back hid up his sleeve. Guess I’ll forgit it and try to show that I ain’t a squealer. Maybe I won’t hug that Dutch boy when I see him, but, anyhaow, I’ll agree not to hand him a wallopin’.”