Oakdale Boys in Camp

After a time he succeeded in tearing the root away and flinging it aside, following which he rolled over and over to escape from the thing he feared so much. The whole affair was intensely ludicrous.

Trembling and panting, Carl got upon his feet and ran a short distance, only to trip and fall with a crash that brought a puffing grunt from his lips.

“It seems too bad,” said Stone; “but, still, I can’t help laughing.”

“Oh, yah!” raged the frightened lad, sitting up and glaring at Ben. “It peen funny to see an eels choke somepody plack undt plue, ain’t it? Go ahead undt laugh your sides split.”

“Why, that thing wouldn’t hurt you, Carl,” said Grant, advancing and wiping his eyes, for excessive laughter had brought the tears. “It don’t look to me like an eel.”

“Iss dot so!” sneered Duckelstein scornfully. “Maype you supposition it vas a catfish? Maype you peliefe it peen a whales? I pet you I know an eels vhen he sees me, undt uf dot vas not an eels I vill alife svallow it.”

The Texan lifted the rod with the long root dangling at the end of the line, causing Carl to scramble away still further and once more get upon his stubby legs, prepared to run.

“It’s not an eel at all,” said Rod; “it’s nothing but an old root that must have caught upon your line in some manner.”

“Vot?” squawked the Dutch boy, staring incredulously at the thing. “It peen a roots? Vot iss? It couldt not peen a roots, for didt I not feel him aroundt my neck viggle undt choke me almost der vind out of? Keep avay!” he howled, as Rod started to advance. “Perhaps it didt like a root look, but an eels can tell me efery time.”

“Look here,” invited Rodney, taking the thing in his hands and detaching it from the line. “I tell you it’s nothing but an old root.”

Even then Duckelstein found it almost impossible to believe the evidence of his eyes. Chagrined, he finally said:

“Vale, dot peen der first time I efer knew a hook to pite a roots. It vas a most singular concurrence.”

“You see now,” said Stone, attempting to appear quite grave, “why we laughed and didn’t go to your assistance.”

“Didt you knew all der time it peen a roots?” questioned Carl a bit suspiciously.

“Yes, we knew it all the time.”

“Vale, uf dot vas der case, I vill again say dot it peen a strange concurrence, and I didt not understood him. I couldt not comprehension how dot root came on my line caught.”

“That’s the most natteral thing in the world,” said Crane. “Yeou went to snoozin’ and let your line sink to the bottom. The old root was down there and got ketched on it.”

“Maype dot vas so,” admitted Carl, although his suspicions were plainly unallayed; “but der bottom of der vater off der rocks vas nothings but gravel undt sand, undt I couldt not imachine vot made dot roots svim there.”

“He’s on to you,” whispered Piper in Crane’s ear. “Beware of the hour of vengeance.”

“Vhy didt you not out loud say it?” demanded Duckelstein, giving Piper a look. “Vhy didt you vhisper dot fashions? I oxpect you haf enchoyed a great deal uf fun mit me already soon. Maype sometimes der laugh vill out come der other side your mouth of. I vill now home go.”

Overflowing with resentment, he started toward the old white horse, which, with head drooping and eyes closed, seemed, like Carl, to have the sleeping habit.

“Don’t hike away mad in that fashion,” entreated Grant, following. “You won’t forget the stuff you’re to bring us every morning, will you?”

“Oh, no,” assured Carl, “I vill not let it forget me. I vill aroundt come, as agreement, undt maype you vill some more fun haf py me – undt maype you von’t.”

Grasping the horse’s bit, he compelled the animal to back the heavy wagon round so that he might drive away. Climbing upon the wagon, he picked up the reins, but turned for a moment before departing to say:

“You vant to out look for dot gouger. If dot gouger shouldt aroundt come der night in, he might pite you.” Then he gave the reins a slap, chirped to the ancient nag and started.

“May I be eternally chawed up!” rasped Sleuth, glaring at Carl’s receding back. “Is it possible the fellow knows something about my terrible experience last night? He hauled our dunnage over here. You don’t suppose he found a way to plant those confounded ants in my sleeping bag, do you, comrades? If I thought so, I would unhesitatingly shed his gore.”

Springer choked and coughed in the attempt to suppress another shout of laughter, while Crane, with admirable soberness, made answer to Piper:

“I really don’t see haow he could have faound the chance, Sleuthy. Yeou’ve got jest as much reason to suspect that I done it myself, and yeou know there wa’n’t no chance for that. I tell yeou them sleepin’ bags always become infested if they ain’t used reg’ler.”

“It will be a long time before I use one again, regular or irregular,” asserted Piper. “I’ve had my lesson.” The manner in which he uttered these words made it impossible for Sile, even, to keep his face straight.

“As I once before remarked,” observed Grant, “I don’t reckon Carl Duckelstein is quite as sleepy as he looks. It was plenty plain that he suspected us of putting up that joke on him.”

After laughing and chatting a while longer, they became aware that it was midday and time for dinner.

“I’m hungry again,” announced Sleuth; “and even taking up a hole in my belt, after the manner of the bold pioneers of other days, will not satisfy me. What are we to have for rations?”

“Perhaps the cuc-cook will suggest something,” said Springer, looking at Stone.

“I’ve told you before,” reminded Ben, “that I’m a mighty poor cook.”

This brought a chorus of remonstrance from the others, and Grant remarked:

“I reckon you’re the best cook in the bunch, and we can stand it if you can. Our bread must be running low. Can you make bread?”

“Or flapjacks?” cried Sile. “Them’s the things, flapjacks. We brought along a can of molasses, and if yeou can knock together some flapjacks, Ben, it’ll fix us all right.”

“The kind I’d make would be likely to fix you,” agreed Stone. “Still, I’ve seen my mother make them, and I’m willing to try.”

That was enough, and, encouraged by his mates, he set about the task. First he measured out a quart of flour, into which he rubbed dry about two tablespoonfuls of lard, adding a teaspoonful of salt, two of baking powder and two of sugar, the latter to make the flapjacks brown. With the addition of cold water and the vigorous use of a spoon he produced a thin batter.

In the meantime a hot fire had been built beneath the sheet-iron stove top and the frying pan placed upon one of the uncovered holes. When the pan was well heated Stone greased it with a piece of fat pork that sizzled and spluttered.

“Now,” he said, as the boys, having set the table, gathered around to watch him, “we’ll soon find out what sort of things they will be.”

“I’m willing to take a ch-chance, anyhow,” declared Springer courageously.

“Starving men in the wilderness have been known to subsist on old moccasins,” said Piper, licking his lips. “Your flapjacks can’t be much worse, Ben.”

“I should hope not,” said the cook, using the big spoon to ladle some of the batter into the frying pan. “You fellows better get ready to tackle them as they come hot from the skillet.”

“I’m going to watch,” said Sleuth, squatting near, the heat of the fire having caused the perspiration to start out on his face. “It’s well that all adventurous characters who explore wild and unknown lands should have at least a rudimentary knowledge of the culinary art.”

With repeated dips of the spoon Stone had poured enough batter to fill the hot pan within half an inch of the rim, and this he now watched closely as it began to cook. As soon as the cake was full of bubbles and the edges had begun to stiffen, he lifted the pan and shook it with a rotary movement, which set the big flapjack free.

“Are you going to flip it?” questioned Sleuth eagerly. “They always flip ’em, don’t they?”

“I’m going to try it,” said Ben, holding the pan slantingly away from his body. “Look out.”

He gave a toss and a flip, and the hot cake sailed into the air. In vain he sought to catch it, and in vain Piper dodged.

The flapjack hit Sleuth fairly in the left eye, and he fell over upon his back with a howl of dismay.

Naturally, this incident was productive of considerable merriment, in which, however, the victim failed to join.

“Enjoy yourselves!” rasped Sleuth, gazing ruefully at the lost flapjack as it lay on the ground. “Laugh, while I perish of hunger, you heartless brutes! Say, Ben, don’t try to flip the next one; turn it with a knife or something. And please hurry up, or in the throes of famine I’ll eat that half-cooked thing that soaked me in the blinker.”

Stone, however, persisted in the attempt to flip the flapjacks, and, having learned something through his first failure, succeeded quite well with the next cake, although Piper took care to keep well out of range. Having caught the knack, the cook furnished flapjacks as fast as the fire would brown them, and, urged by him, the boys began devouring them almost as rapidly as they came to the table. Adrip with molasses, they were not so bad, either.

“I’ve sus-seen worse,” said Springer.

“Where?” laughed Ben.

“In the dictionary,” replied Phil, lifting a dripping piece to his mouth.

“Come on, Stoney,” urged Crane. “Don’t yeou dast to try ’em? Ain’t yeou goin’ to eat any?”

“When the rest of you begin to falter,” said Ben, as he watched another one browning, “I’ll take a venture. If they prove fatal we’ll all perish together.”

Far from proving fatal, however, they fully satisfied the hunger of those vigorous boys, whose healthy digestions gave them not a single pang. The last morsel was cleaned up, and Stone was universally acclaimed as a wonderful cook.

“I reckon that settles it,” said Grant, when he had finished. “You’ve got your job cut out for you during this outing, Ben, and I shall vote that you be given full charge of the commissary department.”

CHAPTER XI.

THE LEGEND OF LOVERS’ LEAP

An hour or more after dinner, as the boys were lounging about, a canoe containing a single occupant was seen approaching the point. The person who wielded the paddle headed for the sandy beach of the little cove, upon which lay the canoe of the campers, and, as he drew near, he was seen to be a youngish man dressed in khaki. A bamboo fishing rod projected upward over one of the thwarts of the stranger’s canoe.

“I judge he’s coming to pay us a visit,” said Grant, starting toward the beach.

Rod was right. Smiling pleasantly, the young man, who had a small black moustache and seemed somewhat in need of a shave, brought his canoe on to the beach with a soft grating sound and stepped out into the shallow water, his feet being protected by water-tight boots.

“Hello,” he nodded in an agreeable manner. “Saw your smoke and thought I’d come over. Camping out here, I see.”

“Yes,” answered Rod, equally affable and a bit curious. “Are you from the hotel?”

“No. My name is Granger – Charles Granger, and I’m stopping in an old log cabin about two miles from the hotel. How’s the fishing over this way?”

“Pretty good, I reckon. We’ve tried it only once, but we had good luck. You see we got here last night barely soon enough to make camp.”

“I didn’t think you’d been here long,” said Granger, “for if you had I’d been likely to have seen you before. How long do you plan to stay?”

“A week or so; perhaps two; if everything goes all right. My name is Grant. Won’t you come up and meet the rest of the fellows?”

“Sure,” beamed Granger; “I’d like to.”

He followed Rod, who presented him to the others. Apparently he was a languid sort of a chap with a dreamy eye, and, for all of his seeming frankness, it was not long before the boys fancied they could perceive something mysterious in his manner. He told them he was occupying the old log cabin quite alone, his doctor having advised him to spend as much of the summer as possible in the open air. Nevertheless, although he was somewhat slender of build, he did not have the appearance of a person in poor health. Springer, seeking to draw him out, soon discovered that he knew very little about fishing and fishing tackle.

“Oh, I’m a greenhorn,” laughed Granger; “but I enjoy the sport just the same. It’s about all I have to do besides read, and a man gets tired of reading after a while. I have amused myself, however, by picking up some information concerning the legends hereabouts. You know this is really a most romantic spot, as well as one of the prettiest sheets of water to be found in all New England. If people looking for a summer’s outing just knew about it, they’d pack the Cliff House over there until it would be necessary to build an addition.”

“The lake would soon be spoiled if rusticators overran it,” was Grant’s opinion.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” retorted the visitor. “In one way, perhaps you’re right, but it would mean tremendous business and a lot of money for the hotel people. They took a big chance when they put up that house over there and sunk so much money in it. You see there’s a certain disadvantage in the fact that they’re so far from the nearest railroad point, although to many people that would seem like an advantage. The first two years they lost money hand over fist, although they advertised extensively in the regular manner. This is the first season that they have really done a fair sort of business, and I understand the business is increasing.”

“You sus-seem to be interested in the hotel,” said Springer.

“Oh, not at all, not at all,” returned Granger. “I’m simply telling you what I’ve heard, and it’s by the way of gossip, you know. We must have something to talk about.”

“Sir,” said Piper, “I reckon maybe you’ll pardon me if I inform you that we’re not much interested in the affairs of other people who have rashly ventured into the remote regions of these virgin wilds. It is only their ignorance or their foolish bravado that has led them thus to expose their lives to the perils of the primeval forests, and were the Wampanoags to take to the warpath, it is not at all improbable that the foolhardy palefaces over yonder would be butchered to the last man, woman and child.”

Mr. Granger looked at Sleuth in a puzzled way.

“What’s he talking about?” he asked.

“Injuns!” hissed Piper, unabashed. “We pioneers know full well the perils that menace us in this redskin haunted land, but years of experience amid such dangers have taught us to baffle the varmints. Those who lack our knowledge should cling close to the settlements, where they may seek the protection of the block houses whenever the pizen warriors go on a rampage.”

The visitor turned from Sleuth to Grant. “Anything the matter with him up here?” he asked, touching his forehead.

“Nothing but illuminated literature,” answered Rod, laughing. “At home Piper has Sherlock Holmes and Old Sleuth backed against the ropes, and groggy. He’s the greatest detective that ever solved the mystery of a dark and terrible crime. Here in the woods he is the emulator of Daniel Boone, Simon Kenton and ‘Deadeye Dick, the Boy Scout of the Border.’ That’s all.”

“Oh, I see,” laughed Granger. “It’s the effect of a vivid imagination, spurred by a line of reading that some fussy people call pernicious. I fancy he’ll get over it in time and be none the worse for it.”

Which caused Sleuth to snort disgustedly.

“Speaking of Indians,” pursued the visitor, “I suppose you’ve heard the story of Lovers’ Leap? That’s the cliff over behind the hotel, the top of which is marked by that white cross which you can faintly discern against the sky.”

“Well,” replied Crane, “we’ve heard something abaout it.”

“It’s a most romantic legend,” said Granger glibly. “In the days before the invading whites drove them out, two small, warlike tribes of Indians, the Passagonquays and the Mattagamons, were almost constantly at war over this particular territory, which was coveted by both. Even in times of peace these tribes had little in common and shunned each other as far as possible. According to the story, Lolokana was a beautiful princess of the Passagonquays, and Agamenthan, a young brave of that tribe, desired her to brighten his wigwam. But, for some reason, Lolokana had no use for Agamenthan and steadily repulsed his wooing. One day while Lolokana wandered alone in the forest she was attacked by a panther.”

“Who says there are no cougars hereabouts?” muttered Piper.

“The princess would have been slain,” continued the narrator, “only for the prompt and fortunate appearance of a tall, handsome young brave, who rushed to her rescue and slew the panther with his knife. The young Indian was wounded, but not seriously. His name was Woganock, and he was a Mattagamon. Nevertheless, in spite of the hostility between the two tribes, Lolokana promptly fell in love with Woganock. Of course they knew their love-making would not meet with the sanction of their people, and therefore it was carried on in secret through clandestine meetings in the woods.

“But Agamenthan was keeping a jealous and watchful eye upon Lolokana, and one day he followed her and saw the lovers meet in the forest. Without hesitation he rushed upon Woganock, shouting for him to defend himself. Armed only with their knives, the two young braves fought a bloody battle, in which both were badly chopped up. Woganock conquered, however, and Agamenthan was left apparently dying upon the ground.

“Supported and aided by Lolokana, Woganock, though desperately wounded, made his way back to his tribe. But when he told the story of the battle and confessed his love for Lolokana his father, a chief, rose in wrath and drove the princess away, vowing that no Passagonquay should ever take a Mattagamon for his squaw. Weak and helpless, Woganock could not lift a hand in remonstrance, and doubtless it would have availed him little had he been able to do so.

“Lolokana returned to her people and learned, to her astonishment, that Agamenthan had been found by some warriors, who had bound up his injuries and brought him back, alive, to the village. He must have been a tough one, this redskin, for he did not die. However, he told the story of the duel with Woganock, and thenceforth Lolokana was held practically a captive by her father, who promised Agamenthan that she should become his squaw. When the wounded brave recovered his strength and health he was to have her, whether she wished it or not.

“Now, as it affects every girl of spirit, this attempt to coerce her against her will made Lolokana only the more determined that she would never belong to Agamenthan. If she had lost Woganock, if she was to see him no more this side of the Happy Hunting Grounds, she was resolved that she would die the squaw of no man. A prisoner, watched vigilantly by night and by day, she dreamed splendid dreams of a reunion with the lover who had saved her from the panther and defeated the warlike Agamenthan in a fair and even battle. For, even as she had been driven away by the angry Mattagamons, although he could make no effort to shield her and could scarcely whisper a remonstrance, Woganock had cast her a look from his dark eyes that was a pledge and a promise. So she waited for him to come, confident that sometime he would do so and take her away.

“At last, however, she began to fear that she had waited in vain, for Agamenthan, bearing many terrible scars upon his person, had recovered his strength and was asking of her father that the time should be set when he could lead her to his wigwam. Though she knew of these councils and of the impatience of the young brave, Lolokana kept her lips sealed – kept her dark lashes always lowered, that Agamenthan might not read in her eyes the resolve to die rather than submit. A knife, which she had found, was hidden upon her person, and this, if nothing else, would enable her to escape at the last moment. One strong, swift thrust deep into her bosom would set her free.

“At last the day was named, and the chief of the Passagonquays told his daughter that on the morrow she was to become the squaw of Agamenthan. That night she did not close her eyes in sleep, although, lying quite still, without a single movement to arouse suspicion, she led her vigilant guard to believe she slumbered. It was her purpose to try to creep forth from the teepee in the darkest hours and take flight.

“As she lay thus she heard something – the faintest rustle, like the movements of a toad in the leaves; yet something told her it was not a toad, and, with her heart pounding, she listened and listened. Presently she heard her name whispered almost in her ear, and she knew it had been breathed by the lips of Woganock. She knew her lover had come at last. With all the skill and stealth of his race he had crept into the village, not even disturbing a sleeping dog. He was outside the teepee; only the thin wall divided them.

“Lulled by her apparent submission to the decree of her father, the chief, the guard dozed. Woganock’s hands found his throat and strangled him with scarcely a sound. Then, with the same caution, he led Lolokana out of the village and away into the black depths of the forest.

“What had happened was not discovered by the Passagonquays until morning dawned. Then, as you may believe, there was something doing. The old chief called upon Agamenthan to bring the princess back, and Agamenthan promised to do so. With a dozen young warriors at his heels, he took up the trail. Three days and three nights they pursued the fleeing lovers with the tenacity of bloodhounds. Early on the fourth day the pursuers closed in upon Woganock and Lolokana, for the princess was weary. The moccasins were gone from her bleeding feet, and even Woganock’s great strength had been terribly taxed through bearing the maiden in his arms over many of the rough places. They were trapped in the mountains yonder. No matter which way they sought to flee, they found themselves cut off, and eventually, with the pursuers closing in, they were driven out upon the very brink of that great cliff where the cross now stands. They could not descend, and to turn back into the forest from which they had come meant nothing save final capture, even though they were to slip through the cordon of pursuers.

“There upon the cliff, with half his followers at his heels, Agamenthan found them. His eyes blazing with triumph, the Passagonquay advanced, shouting exultantly that this time the dog of a Mattagamon should surely die.

“With their hands clasped, Woganock and Lolokana looked into each other’s eyes and spoke a few low words. When Agamenthan was less than forty feet distant Woganock laughed at him and cried, ‘Fool! idiot! warrior with the heart of a rabbit! spawn of a crawling snake! creature that I have conquered and spit upon! if you would take Lolokana from me, follow.’

“In a twinkling he had caught the princess up in his arms, and her arms were around his neck. In another twinkling, before the eyes of the horrified Agamenthan, he leaped far out from the brink of the precipice. No sound, no cry did the lovers make as they fell. Even the ragged rocks at the foot of the cliff could not tear them apart. They were found among those rocks, dead, but still locked fast in each other’s arms.

“That’s the legend of Lovers’ Leap. The hotel people have put up the cross to mark the spot from which Woganock sprang. There is a path, passing round the cliff, which may be climbed by anyone who wishes to visit the cross and has the energy and perseverance. Each day several of the guests at the hotel climb that path.”

CHAPTER XII.

THE STORY OF THE HERMIT

The boys had listened with deep interest to this story, told by Granger in a manner which seemed to indicate that he had it well by heart. After the tale was ended there was silence for a moment or two, broken by Piper, who observed with no small amount of sarcasm:

“Talk about imagination! I call that going some! Who ever polished up that gem of a yarn certainly put in some fancy touches.”

“The story is said to be true,” said the visitor, with a touch of warmth.

“Perhaps it is,” returned Sleuth; “as true as the illuminated fiction someone politely sneered at a short time ago. If I had read it in a book, I’d taken it for just what it doubtless is, pure romance. To romance I have no objection whatever, but I certainly hate for anyone to try to cram it down my throat as truth.”