The Rival Campers Ashore: or, The Mystery of the Mill

This idea, at least, seemed to strike Mr. Bangs favourably. He glanced to where Henry Burns and his companions stood.

"Hello," he called, "want to go out for a sail? Got room enough. Take you along."

The three boys stepped toward the boat.

"Not scared of the water, are you?" queried Mr. Bangs.

"Not unless it gets rough," replied Henry Burns, with a sly wink at Harvey.

The three jumped aboard, and Coombs, with something like a grin at his partner, shoved the boat's head off. He had got the jib and mainsail up, and they caught what little breeze there was stirring. The Flyaway drew away from the landing. To Bangs's embarrassment, however, the boom suddenly swung inboard, swiped across the stern, causing him to duck hastily, and almost knocking the bonnet off the lady with the pug dog. Mr. Bangs had jibed the boat, greatly to his surprise. But no harm had been done, as the wind was light.

Mr. Bangs laughed loudly. "Meant to tell you that was coming," he said. "She'll sail better this way. Ever been on the water before, boys?"

Harvey nodded. "A little," he said.

"Well, the more you are used to it, the better you'll like it," said Mr. Bangs. "Don't mind if she tips a little, if we get any wind. She sails that way. Funny that jib flutters so. Better haul in on that rope there and – and trim it."

Henry Burns, soberly following orders, did as requested. But it was noticeable that the trimming did not seem to accomplish the result desired by Mr. Bangs. In fact, as the Flyaway was going dead before the wind, it was quite apparent that no amount of trimming would make the jib draw.

"It keeps on fluttering just the same, Augustus," said Mrs. Bangs, eying the offending sail suspiciously. "Hadn't you better tie it some way?"

"Of course not," responded Mr. Bangs, loftily. "They will act that way sometimes. Isn't that so, my lads?"

"Oh yes," replied Henry Burns. "I've seen 'em do it, haven't you, Jack?"

But Harvey was looking the other way.

They went slowly up the pond, with Mr. Bangs holding the tiller and watching the sail critically. He was in buoyant spirits, and entertained them with stories of the thrilling adventures of the Green Pond Fishing Club, in which he seemed to have figured prominently.

The wind freshened a little and the Flyaway drew ahead somewhat faster. There was just the suspicion of a ripple along the sides, and it was pleasant sailing. Two miles up the pond they dropped the sail and anchored; got out the fish lines and tried for bass. After which, Mr. Bangs, a generous host, opened up a huge hamper and spread out a luncheon that made Little Tim's mouth water.

"Nothing like sailing to give one an appetite," exclaimed Mr. Bangs, heartily. "Pitch in, boys. There's plenty of grub. I believe in having enough to eat, I do."

He was so busily and pleasantly engaged in eating that he paid no heed to the aspect of the sky. Nor, indeed, was there anything of very serious import in its changes. But Henry Burns, alert as ever, saw certain signs of wind in some light banks of cloud that began to gather in the western sky, in the direction of Coombs's landing.

"We won't have to row home," he said presently, addressing the skipper of the Flyaway, who was absorbed in the enjoyment of a huge slice of meat pie.

"Eh, what's that?" he inquired. "What do you mean?"

"We're going to have some wind," replied Henry Burns.

"Well, that's what we want, for sailing," laughed Mr. Bangs. "You aren't anxious to row, are you?"

"Not particularly," replied Henry Burns. "We won't have to, anyway. It's going to blow some. We'll take some spray in over the bows beating back – "

"What's that?" exclaimed Mrs. Bangs. "Augustus, do you hear? Let's start right away. We don't want to get wet."

"Ho!" sniffed Mr. Bangs. But just then a quick gust of wind swept over them, such as comes without warning in pond waters, bordered by hills. Mr. Bangs seemed to take the hint it conveyed. "Guess we'd better start," he said.

The boys sprang to the halyards; the sails were hoisted and the anchor got aboard. With Mr. Bangs at the tiller, the Flyaway started on the beat of two miles down the pond. The wind continued to freshen, coming now and then in flaws, as the light clouds overspread the sky.

Henry Burns, noting the style of Mr. Bangs's yachtsmanship, and observing the freshening of the wind, and the fact that the craft was not being worked to windward anywhere near what it would go, slipped astern beside Mr. Bangs.

"Like to have me tend that sheet for you?" he asked, carelessly.

Mr. Bangs waved him back. "Don't touch that, my lad," he cried. "You might upset us in a minute. Never let a boy fool with a sheet – hello!"

A sharper and heavier flaw caught the big mainsail with full force; and then, as Mr. Bangs in his excitement threw the tiller over and headed the yacht farther off the wind, instead of up into it, the Flyaway heeled dangerously, taking water over the side and causing the pug dog, which got a drenching, to howl dolorously. Mrs. Bangs gave a slight scream.

"Oh, it's all right. Don't be alarmed," said Mr. Bangs, assuringly. He failed to notice that prompt action on the part of Henry Burns, who had started the sheet at the critical moment, had saved them from a spill; and seemed to think that somehow he had righted things himself. However, as he observed that youth calmly trimming the sail again, despite his admonition to let the sheet alone, he seemed to have undergone a change of heart.

"That's right," he said, in a tone of not quite so much confidence, "you just run that thing, while I do the steering."

It began to get rough now, and the Flyaway did not seem to justify it's owner's praise. It threw the water heavily – partly by reason of its clumsy build and partly because Mr. Bangs did not meet the waves with the tiller. One might have observed, moreover, that Mr. Bangs wore an anxious expression, and his hand shook slightly as he pressed the tiller.

A moment more, and he seemed almost dazed as the tiller was snatched from his grasp by Henry Burns, who put the Flyaway hard up into the wind, just in time to meet a squall that threw the lee rail under again. The craft stood still, almost, with the sail shivering. Then Henry Burns eased her off gently, getting her under headway again. Mr. Bangs was deathly pale. The spray had dashed aboard freely and drenched him.

"We've got to reef, and be quick about it," said Henry Burns, addressing the shivering skipper. "What do you say? It's your boat."

"What's that – eh, do you think so?" stammered Mr. Bangs. "Reef her? Yes, that'll stop her tipping, won't it? Oh my! can you do it?"

His knees were wabbling, and he allowed himself to be pushed aside, sinking down, pale and trembling on the seat.

"Here, you take her, Jack," said Henry Burns. "Tim and I'll reef her. We can do it quick."

He relinquished the tiller to Harvey, who threw the boat up into the wind, while Henry Burns and Tim seized the halyards and lowered the sail sufficiently to take in a double reef. Henry Burns had the tack tied down in a jiffy; whereupon Harvey drew the sail aft, hauled out on the pendant and passed a lashing. Henry Burns and Little Tim had the reef points tied in no time. Before Mr. Bangs's wondering eyes the sail was hoisted, the topping lift set up, and the boat got under way again before he had had hardly time to think what had happened.

It was surprising to see how easily the craft went along under competent management. The spray flew some and the water came aboard, wetting the party to the skin and causing alarm; but there was little danger. The Flyaway no longer took the brunt of the waves, but headed into them a little, keeping good headway on. What was better, she was making time, going to windward and approaching the landing.

Mr. Bangs gradually regained his colour, and took courage.

"Guess you've sailed some before," he said, with a sickly smile. "You go at it like old hands."

"We've got a boat of our own," replied Harvey. "She's down in Samoset bay. We got a big price for her for the summer, so we let her."

Mr. Bangs looked a bit sheepish.

"I'm glad you came along," he said; and added with a glance at Mrs. Bangs, and in a lower tone, "I haven't sailed very much, to tell the truth. We do – er – mostly rowing in the Green Pond Fishing Club."

They came up to the landing in sailor fashion, and the party stepped out.

"Glad to see yer back," remarked Coombs. "Got just a bit worried about you. You came in nicely, though."

Mr. Bangs smiled good-naturedly.

"Well," he said, "the fact is, I've got a crew. They are old sailors. You ought to have seen them reef her quicker'n scat. They're going along with me after this, for the rest of their stay – and their friends, too. My wife says she's got enough sailing."

"I should say I had," said Mrs. Bangs.

CHAPTER XIV

THE FORTUNE-TELLER

Mr. Bangs proved to be a genial companion in the days that followed. Nothing suited him better than to fill up the Flyaway with the crew of campers and go sailing on the pond. No longer seeking to support a fallen dignity as skipper, he was pleased to receive instruction from Henry Burns and Harvey, and even occasionally from Little Tim, in the art of sailing.

They showed him how to sail the craft nicely to windward, without the sail shaking; how to run off the wind, with no danger of jibing her; how to reef with safety, and how to watch the water for signs of squalls. He, in turn, told them good stories of the Fishing Club; and, as he really did know how to fish, he returned their instruction with lessons in this art.

It was certainly a pretty piece of sport, when Mr. Bangs would take his light, split-bamboo fly-rod and send fifty feet of line, straightening out its turns through the air, and dropping a tiny fly on the water as easily as though it had fallen there in actual flight. Even Harvey, and Tom and Bob, who had done some little fly fishing, found Mr. Bangs an expert who could teach them more than they had ever dreamed, of its possibilities. Little Tim, who had threshed brook waters with an alder stick, using a ragged fly, was an apt pupil, when Mr. Bangs entrusted to him his fine rod, and showed him how to make a real cast.

"There, you're catching it, now," exclaimed Mr. Bangs to Tim, one morning, as they floated on the still surface of the pond, about a half mile above the camps. "Don't let your arm go too far back on that back cast. Don't use your shoulder. You're not chopping wood. Just use the wrist on the forward stroke, when you get the line moving forward."

Tim, enthusiastic, tried again and again, striving to remember all points at once, and now and then making a fair cast.

It was only practice work; but, somehow or other, a big black bass failed to understand that, and suddenly Tim's quick eye saw the water in a whirl about his fly. He struck, and the fish was fast.

"Well, by Jove!" exclaimed Mr. Bangs. "One never knows what's going to happen when he's fishing. I didn't think they'd take the fly here at this time of year. Let him have the line now, when he rushes. That's it. Now hold him a little."

The light fly-rod was bending nearly double. Intermittently, the reel would sing as the fish made a dash for freedom and the line ran out.

"Look out now; he's turned. Reel in," shouted Mr. Bangs, more excited even than Little Tim. He wouldn't have had that fish get away for anything. "Here he comes to the top," he continued. "Reel in on him. Hold him. There, he's going to jump. Hold him. Don't let him shake the hook out."

The black bass, a strong active fish, made a leap out of water, shook his jaws as though he would tear the hook loose, then shot downward again.

"Give him a little on the rod when he hits the water," cried Mr. Bangs. "That's right. Keep him working now. Don't give him any slack."

Little Tim, alternately reeling in and lifting on the road, and letting the fish have the line in his angry-rushes, was playing him well. Mr. Bangs applauded. Gradually the struggles of the big bass grew weaker. His rushes, still sharp and fierce, were soon over. By and by he turned on his side.

"Careful now," cautioned Mr. Bangs. "Many a good bass is lost in the landing. Draw him in easy."

Little Tim followed instructions, and Mr. Bangs deftly slid the landing net under the prize. He dipped the bass into the boat, took out a small pair of pocket-scales and weighed him.

"It's a five-pounder!" he exclaimed. "You've beat the record on Whitecap this year. Well, fisherman's luck is a great thing. You're a born lucky fisherman."

"Now," he added, "we'll just row down to your camp and I'll cook a chowder that'll make your eyes stick out, and have it all ready when the boys return. Save them getting a breakfast."

They went back along shore to the empty camp, deserted by the boys, who were out for early morning fishing.

"What do you say?" inquired Mr. Bangs, "Think they'll care if I go ahead and cook up a chowder? Guess I can do it all right. Oh, I've seen 'em made, a thousand times, up at the Fishing Club."

"They'll be glad of it," said Little Tim. "Go ahead."

Mr. Bangs, rummaging through the campers' stores, proceeded to construct his chowder; while Tim busied himself about the camp, after building a fire.

Mr. Bangs, stirring the mess in a big iron kettle suspended above the blaze, waved a welcome to the boys, as they came in.

"Thought you'd like to have breakfast all ready," he cried. "The Flyaway's waiting for us all to get through."

They thanked him warmly.

"Oh, I'm having as much fun as you are out of it," he responded. "Get your plates and I'll fill 'em up."

He ladled out a heaping plate of the chowder for each, and they seated themselves on two great logs. Henry Burns tasted his mess first, and then he stopped, looked slyly at his comrades and didn't eat any more. Harvey got a mouthful, and he gave an exclamation of surprise. Little Tim swallowed some, and said "Oh, giminy!" Tom and Bob and the Ellison brothers were each satisfied with one taste. They waited, expectantly, for Mr. Bangs to get his.

Mr. Bangs, helping himself liberally, started in hungrily. Then he stopped and looked around. They were watching him, interestedly. Mr. Bangs made a wry face and rinsed his mouth out with a big swallow of water.

"Well, I'll be hanged!" he exclaimed. "If it isn't sweet. Sweet chowder! Oh dear, isn't it awful? What did it?"

Henry Burns, looking about him, pointed to a tell-tale tin can which, emptied of its contents, lay beside the fire.

Mr. Bangs had made his chowder of condensed milk, sweet and sticky.

"I say," he exclaimed, "just throw that stuff away and we'll go up to the landing for breakfast. I thought milk was milk. I never thought about it's being sweetened."

They liked Mr. Bangs, in spite of his mistakes; and he wasn't abashed for long, when he had pretended to be able to do something that he didn't know how to do, and had been found out. He had a hearty way of laughing about it, as though it were the best joke in all the world – and there was one thing he could really do; he could cast a fly, and they admired his skill in that. And when it came time for them to leave, and bid him good-bye, they were heartily sorry to take leave of him, and hoped they should meet him again.

But Mr. Bangs was not to be gotten free from abruptly. There was bottled soda and there were stale peanuts over at the landing, where Coombs kept a small hotel a little way up from the shore; and Mr. Bangs insisted that they should go over and have a treat at his expense.

"You don't have to start till four o'clock," he urged. "You've got plenty of time." And they needed no great amount of persuasion.

"Funny old place Coombs keeps," he remarked, as they walked from the camps over to the landing. "All sorts of queer people drop in there over night. Last night, there were some show people in some of the rooms next to mine – they're going to leave to-morrow, for the fair up at Newbury – and they kept me awake half the night, with their racket.

"They've got a fortune-teller among them, too," he continued. "Say, she's a shrewd one. Of course, she's one of the fakers, but she's downright smart – told me a lot of things about myself that were true. Suppose she looked me over sharp. Say, I tell you what I'll do; I'll get her to tell your fortunes. How'd you like to have your fortunes told? I'll pay."

As matter of fact, they were not so enthusiastic over it as was Mr. Bangs; but they didn't like to say so, since he seemed to take it for granted that they did. So, after they had had the soda and peanuts, Mr. Bangs ushered them, one by one, into a room, where the fortune-teller awaited them.

Perhaps she flattered most of them over-much; perhaps she even hinted at certain bright-eyed, yellow-haired young misses, whom some of them might fancy, but were not of an age to admit it. At all events, as they came forth, one by one, they made a great mystery of what she had said to them. Little Tim didn't take kindly to the idea at all, in fact; and, when it came his turn, Henry Burns and Harvey had to take him and shove him into the room.

He was inclined to be a bit abashed when he found himself in the presence of a tall, dark, thin-faced woman, whose keen, black eyes seemed to pierce him through and through. In fact, those shrewd, quick eyes were about all anyone might need, to discover a good deal about Little Tim, whose small but wiry figure, tanned face, bare feet and dress indicated much of his condition in life.

"Come over here and sit down," said the woman, as Tim stood, eying her somewhat doubtfully. The boy complied.

"So you want your fortune told, do you?" she asked.

"I dunno as I care much about it," answered Tim, bluntly.

The woman smiled a little. "No?" she said. "Let's see your hand."

Tim extended a grimy fist across the table, the lines of which were so obscured with the soil of Coombs's landing that it might have puzzled more than a wizard to read them. But the woman, her keen eyes twinkling, remarked quickly, "That's a fisherman's hand. You're the best fisherman on the pond."

Tim began to take more interest. "I've caught the biggest bass of the year," he said.

"That's it; what did I tell you?" exclaimed the woman. "I think you're going to have a lot of money left to you some day," she added, noting at a glance Tim's poor attire. Little Tim grinned.

"You have some courage, too," continued the woman, who had not failed to observe the boy's features and the glance of his eye. But at this moment Little Tim gave an exclamation of surprise. Surveying the room he had espied the lettering on a partly unrolled banner in one corner, where the words, "Lorelei, the Sorceress," were inscribed.

"Why, I've seen you before," he said. "That is, I haven't seen you, either; but I've seen your picture on that canvas – and you don't look like that at all."

The woman laughed heartily. "You're sure you don't think it looks like me?" she added, and laughed harder than ever. "Well, I should hope not," she said; "but I fix up like that some, for the show. Where'd you see me?"

"Why, it was down at Benton," answered Tim. "You were with the circus."

Then, as the full remembrance of the occasion came to him, Tim became of a sudden excited. "Say," he asked, "what did Old Witham want?"

The woman looked at him in surprise.

"Old Witham," she repeated, "I don't know who you mean. I don't know any Old Witham."

"Oh, yes you do," urged Tim; and he described the unmistakable figure and appearance of the corpulent colonel, together with the time and night of his visit. The woman's eyes lit with amusement. She remembered how the colonel had parted with his money painfully.

"Oh, he didn't want much," she said. "Somebody had hidden some papers in a factory or mill of some sort – that's what I thought, anyway – and he wanted me to tell him where they were."

"Oh," replied Tim, in a tone of disappointment. "Is that all?" He had really fancied the colonel might have a love affair, and that it would be great fun to reveal it to the boys.

"Why, what business is it of yours, what he wanted?" inquired the woman.

"It ain't any," answered Tim. "Guess I'll go now;" and he made his escape through the door.

"Oh, she didn't tell me anything," said Little Tim, as the boys surrounded him a moment later. "Said I could catch fish, though. How do you suppose she knew that?"

Mr. Bangs seemed much amused. "She's a real witch," he exclaimed. "Well, good-bye, boys. Come again next year."

They said good-bye and started off.

"Say, Jack," said Little Tim, as they walked along together, "that's the fortune-teller that was down to Benton with the circus. Remember I told you we caught Witham coming out of the tent? Well, I asked her what he was there for, and it wasn't anything at all. He was only hunting for some papers that somebody had hidden – "

"What's that – tell me about that?"

Henry Burns, who had been walking close by, but who had been not greatly interested up to this point, had suddenly interrupted. "What did Witham want?" he repeated.

Little Tim repeated the fortune-teller's words.

Henry Burns, hurrying ahead to where the others were walking, caught John Ellison by an arm and drew him away. "Come back here a minute," he said. "Here, Tim, tell John what the fortune-teller said about Witham."

John Ellison, listening to Tim Reardon, grew pale and clenched his fist.

"That's it," he cried. "There are some other papers, don't you suppose? Lawyer Estes said there might be; but they couldn't find them, though they hunted through the mill. I just know there are some. Witham knew it, too. That's what he was after. Tim, you've found out something big, I tell you. We've just got to get into that mill again and go through it. Don't you say a word to anybody, Tim."

Tim's eyes opened wide with astonishment – but he promised.

All through the work of striking and packing the two tents, and stowing the stuff into the wagon, Henry Burns and John Ellison discussed this new discovery; what it might mean and what use could be made of it. And all the way home, on the long, dusty road, they talked it over. They were late getting started, and it was eight o'clock when they turned in at the Ellison farm.

The mill had ceased grinding for two hours, and night had settled down. But, as they got out of the wagon, John Ellison called to Henry Burns and pointed over the hill toward the mill.

"Do you see?" he said softly, but in excited tones. "Do you see? That's what I see night after night, sometimes as late as nine o'clock."

There was somebody in the old mill, evidently, for the light as from a lantern was discernible now and again through one of the old, cobwebbed windows; a light that flickered fitfully first from one floor, then from another.

"It's Witham," said John Ellison. "He's always in the mill now, early and late. I'll bet he's hunted through it a hundred times since he's had it. It gets on his mind, I guess; for I've seen him come back down the road many a night, after the day's work was over, and he'd had supper, and go through the rooms with the lantern."

"Well," said Henry Burns, quietly, "we'll go through them, too. We'll do it, some way."

CHAPTER XV

A HUNT THROUGH THE MILL

"Say, Henry, guess what I'm going to do," said John Ellison, as he met Henry Burns in the road leading from Benton, a few days following the return from camp.

Henry Burns, leaning on the paddle he was carrying, looked at his friend for a moment and then answered, with surprising assurance, "You're going to work for Witham."

John Ellison stared at his friend in amazement.

"You ought to be a fortune-teller," he exclaimed. "You can't have heard about it, because I haven't told anybody – not even the folks at home. How'd you know?"

"I didn't," replied Henry Burns, smiling at the other's evident surprise. "I only guessed. I knew by the way you looked that it was something unusual; and I know what you're thinking of all the time; it's about those papers. So I've been thinking what I'd do, if I wanted a chance to look for them, and I said to myself that I'd try to go to work in the mill, and keep my eyes open."