Oakdale Boys in Camp

“Evidently you’re a doubting Thomas,” said the narrator of the legend, who was greatly surprised that, of them all, Piper should be the one promptly to brand the tale as fiction.

“No,” said Sleuth, “I’m a doubting William; Billy is my first name. It’s scarcely necessary for me to bring my penetrating and deductive faculties to bear upon that yarn in order to point out the ragged holes with which it is riddled. Who recorded this wonderful legend? Who knew all about the very thoughts of the beautiful Indian princess as she lay a captive in the lodge of the great war chief, her father? I haven’t anywhere read that the North American Indians could record things by any other method than that of picture writing of the crudest sort. And the old guy of a brave who recorded thoughts in that manner would be obliged to hump himself some. I wonder who faked up that yarn?”

“You seem inclined to take everything too literally,” said Granger, seeking to repress his resentment over Sleuth’s attitude. “Perhaps it has been touched up a bit and filled out in complete narrative form, but doubtless, in the main, the story is true.”

But Billy shrugged his shoulders and elevated his eyebrows significantly.

“It makes little difference whether you believe the story or not,” said the annoyed visitor. “A great many people do believe it.”

“There are always suckers ready to swallow anything,” retorted Sleuth. “Why, I suppose there are some people who actually believe this lake, or that island out yonder, in particular, to be haunted.”

A queer look passed over Granger’s face, and for a few moments he scrutinized Piper in a perplexed manner. At first he had imagined that of the young campers this lad would be the most ready and eager to accept such fanciful tales as truthful, or as containing a certain amount of truth, at least. It now seemed that this sentimental, imaginative boy was the most skeptical fellow among them.

“You may believe as much as you like,” he finally said; “or as little; it makes no difference to me. The story of Lovers’ Leap, as a story, sounds very well.”

“And you tell it fluently,” murmured Piper.

Disdaining this remark, Granger went on.

“As for the other matter, it is scarcely strange that some superstitious people should fancy the lake haunted. I believe it got its name in the first place through the tale that regularly, once a year, upon the anniversary of the tragedy, the spirits of the Indian lovers appear upon the cliff, from which they leaped, clasped in each other’s arms.”

Sleuth smothered a snicker, upon which, unable longer to keep still, Crane, who had been deeply absorbed in the legend as related, turned upon him savagely, snapping:

“What’s the matter with yeou, anyhaow? Can’t yeou be half perlite if yeou try? Yeou don’t haf to listen; yeou can go off somewhere all by your lonesome.”

The visitor flashed Sile a glance of thanks.

“There’s another reason,” he stated, “why the lake is supposed to be haunted. Almost everyone around here has heard the story of Old Lonely, the hermit whose deserted hut still stands on Spirit Island.”

“Yep,” nodded Crane eagerly, “I know abaout that yarn.”

“Perhaps the rest of us have never heard it in full,” said Grant. “I’m right sure I haven’t.”

It immediately became apparent that Granger was fully as ready to tell this story as he had been to relate the Indian legend.

“In midwinter some ten years ago,” he began, “it was reported that there was an old man living on Spirit Island. First his smoke was seen rising from the island, and then some men who came here to fish through the ice saw the recluse himself. Their curiosity aroused by the sight of the smoke, they approached the island. But when they drew near a bearded, bare-headed man in tattered garments appeared on the shore with a gun in his hands and a growling dog at his heels, and ordered them away. They attempted to talk with him, but, save to warn them of personal violence if they persisted in intruding, he would make no conversation. All that winter he remained on the island, seen at rare intervals, though the ringing of his axe and the report of his gun were sometimes heard. Naturally, people wondered who the stranger could be, and when the spring fishing came on some sportsmen made a second attempt to land on the island.

“Again the hermit made his appearance with the vicious looking dog as his companion, and warned them to keep off. They attempted to parley with him, but the effort was discouraged, as that of the winter fishermen had been.

“For almost five years Old Lonely, as he was dubbed for want of another name, lived there with his dog on Spirit Island. Two or three times a year, silent and unapproachable, he appeared in Pemstock and bought certain absolutely necessary essentials of life that could be obtained in no other manner. Clothing, ammunition for his gun, fishing tackle, a little hardware and a few simple cooking utensils, together with salt, sugar, coffee, flour and tobacco made up, in the main, all of his purchases, which were paid for with spot cash. Where he got it no one could surmise, but the hermit always seemed to have enough money in his pocket to pay for what he bought. He engaged a man regularly to deliver the stuff at the foot of the lake, where Old Lonely received it, loaded it into his crude flat-bottomed boat and rowed away.

“Upon every occasion when seen he was accompanied by his dog, a snarling, tooth-threatening creature, who seemed even less friendly toward human beings in general than did his master. There were fake stories and surmises afloat concerning the hermit of Spirit Island, but none of these hints or tales when followed up seemed to have any real foundation of truth. All were apparently the figments of some speculative or imaginative mind.”

At this point Piper smothered a cough, but the narrator did not even glance in Sleuth’s direction. Absorbed in the story he was relating, he continued without a break.

“Naturally, some of these speculative ones were inclined to picture Old Lonely as having a dark and terrible past. Others said he was a man who had been betrayed by a friend and deserted by his wife. The latter declared that, having watched him when he came into Pemstock, they had observed that he always turned his eyes away whenever a woman drew near. At any rate, living that lonely life, the man swiftly aged. When first seen there had been no sign of gray in his long hair or his ragged beard, but soon the white began to show, and on his last visit to town both hair and beard would have been almost snowy white only for the fact that they seemed soiled and dirty through the general negligence which marked his entire person. His clothing he wore patched again and again, until it almost dropped from his body.

“Once, having watched the island a long time and finally seen Old Lonely leave it in his boat, two men went on and saw his crude clay-chinked log hut; but, fearing his return and believing he might make good his threat to shoot any who trespassed, they did not linger long.

“Late in the autumn, something like five years ago, some hunters heard Old Lonely’s dog howling dolefully on Spirit Island. The howling continued for two full days, although it grew less frequent in its outbreaks and seemed to become weaker, as if the dog was losing strength. And during those two days not a sign of smoke was perceived rising from the island. That something had happened to Old Lonely became the conviction of the hunters, but the man’s reputation prevented them from making haste to investigate. Finally, however, they ventured to put out and land upon the island. The hermit did not put in an appearance to oppose them.

“Approaching the hut by way of a path made by the feet of the recluse, they beheld the door standing ajar. About the dismal place there was a silence and desolation that bespoke tragedy. When they peered in at the door two gleaming eyes met their gaze, and the warning snarl of a dog greeted their ears. In that inner gloom they saw the animal, gaunt and weak, lift itself upon its trembling legs to stand glaring at them, its teeth exposed. More than that, upon a dirty bunk they perceived the silent figure of Old Lonely, his ghastly, stony face framed in a tangle of white hair and whiskers. They called to him repeatedly, but he did not answer and he made no move. Then they knew he was dead.

“The dog, however, weak and starving though he was, would not let them enter the hut, and finally, in order to perform what they believed to be their duty to the dead, they shot the creature. In its dying throes it howled once in such a terrible manner that the listeners shuddered and turned cold.”

“Ge wilikens!” breathed Crane. “I’ve heard the story before, but yeou sartainly can put in the fancy touches and thrills.”

“The dog,” pursued Granger, “was buried on the island. The body of Old Lonely was taken to the pauper’s plot in Pemstock cemetery. In an old leather pocketbook upon the hermit’s person were found some newspaper clippings and other papers, which revealed the identity of the man. In that pocketbook there was also a small, faded photograph of a woman, and this, it was eventually learned, was the likeness of the hermit’s wife. Old Lonely’s true name was John Calvert. Years before, in a distant state, he had plundered a bank, for which crime he had been arrested, tried, convicted and sent to prison for twenty years. Within twelve months of his conviction his wife died of a broken heart. How he secured a picture of her after breaking prison, as he eventually did, can only be surmised.

“As an escaped convict he was hunted relentlessly, until the body of a man believed to be that of John Calvert was cast ashore by the waters of Lake Michigan. Thinking the bank looter and prison breaker dead, the authorities quite naturally gave over the hunt. How he came to Spirit Island and why he chose to make his home there for the remainder of his desolate days is likewise a matter of speculation.

“And now comes the strange, and, doubtless you will say, the improbable, part of the story. The island is said to be haunted by the ghosts of Old Lonely and his dog. Venturesome ones, entertaining the belief that Calvert had, ere his arrest, hidden a portion of his plunder, which he recovered after escaping from prison, have searched for the loot on Spirit Island, and half a hundred holes that they have dug in the ground may be seen by anyone who cares to take the trouble and has the courage to do so.”

“Courage!” scoffed Piper, with a laugh, “Who’s afraid? Of course no sensible person believes the island is really haunted.”

Granger smiled. “You’re a brave young chap, I perceive,” he said sarcastically. “I don’t presume you fear ghosts or anything else?”

“Nothing but cuc-cougars,” chuckled Phil Springer. “Brave as he is, Sleuthy has a certain amount of respect for cuc-cougars.”

“I’m not advertising myself as one who believes in spooks,” smiled the entertaining visitor; “but, nevertheless, even though you may feel inclined to ridicule me, I will say that I’ve seen and heard some strange things around Spirit Island, and I’m not the only one, either. Many people have seen vanishing lights flashing there at night. They have heard the weird howling of a dog. They’ve even seen white, ghostly figures upon the shores of the island. When Calvert’s body was found a small eight day clock sat ticking upon a shelf above the man’s bunk, and some of the loot hunters, venturing by day into that desolate hut, have vowed that they plainly heard the ticking of a clock coming from some unknown place. They have likewise heard strange tappings, like the knocking of ghostly fingers. Every little while people from the hotel visit the island, but they always do so in numbers, and it would be a nervy person who would go there alone, especially at night. Perhaps our brave friend, the doubter, would not hesitate to make such a visit, even after nightfall.”

The bare idea, however, was enough to cause the other boys to laugh heartily, whereupon Piper rose to his feet, crying:

“I’m not chump enough to go prowling around anywhere alone at night; but I’ll tell you what, I’d just like to visit that old island in the daytime, and I don’t take any stock in this fine, well polished ghost story.”

CHAPTER XIII.

QUEER SLEUTH

The visitor also rose to his feet, repressing admirably such annoyance as he may have felt.

“I’ve simply given you the story as I’ve heard it,” he said. “That it’s true in the main there is sufficient evidence to prove. As to the matter of the island being haunted, I will reiterate that I have seen flashing lights upon it at night, and once or twice I’ve heard the howling of a dog, which seemed to come from the island itself. I think you’ll all admit that the story is interesting, at least.”

“It sure is,” agreed Grant, “and we’re much obliged to you for telling it. It ought to make a right good newspaper yarn.”

Granger nodded. “It has appeared in several newspapers this year.”

“The newspapers will print anything,” said Piper.

The visitor shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, boys,” he said, “I think I’ll be going. I hope you enjoy yourselves and have plenty of sport. Perhaps I’ll see you again.”

“Cuc-come over any time,” Springer hastened to invite. “You’ve helped liven up a rather hot and dull afternoon.”

“Yes, come again,” said Stone.

“Perhaps,” suggested Grant, “after we’ve been here a while we might be able to put you wise to the good fishing places. Our friend, Piper, although he hasn’t yet tried his hand at it, is a right wonderful angler.”

“When the fish hear that he’s araound,” grinned Crane, “they crawl right aout on dry land and hide themselves.”

“Funny, hey?” snapped Sleuth. “Good joke! Ha! ha!”

Somehow, this seemed to amuse Mr. Granger greatly, for he continued to laugh as he made his way toward his canoe. Piper glared at the young man’s back and muttered; unlike the others, he did not go down to the shore to see the visitor off.

“Queer chap, that chum of yours, boys,” said Granger, ere getting into the canoe. “Anything wrong with him in his garret?”

“Nothing except the sus-stuff he reads,” answered Springer. “Some folks might think Sleuthy a bit queer, but he’s no fool, as he’s demonstrated more than once.”

“I should say not,” agreed Stone. “I surely have reasons to feel mighty grateful toward Piper. Naturally, people laugh at him on account of his poses in imitation of the great detectives of fiction; but less than a year ago, when I was arrested on a false charge, he turned the laugh and materially aided in clearing me through some genuine detective work that was really clever.”

“I can hardly believe such a thing possible,” murmured Granger.

“It’s a fact,” asserted Ben.

“And I’ll swear to it,” supported Phil, “for I was in the courtroom when he told his sus-story that upset the case against you and astonished everybody who heard it. Sleuth may be queer, but it’s a fact that he’s no fuf-fool.”

“Well, so long, boys,” said Granger, pushing off and dipping his paddle into the water.

They watched until he was some distance away, heading for the further shore to the south of the hotel.

“A right agreeable chap,” commented Grant, “though he didn’t seem inclined to tell a heap about himself.”

“He was too busy telling us about Lovers’ Leap and the old hermit,” said Stone, as they made their way toward the shade in the vicinity of the tent. “Those yarns were very interesting and very well told.”

“That’s a fact,” agreed Piper, “and that’s the reason why the brand of fiction was so plain upon them.”

“Naow yeou look here, Sleuthy,” cried Crane. “Mebbe there ain’t no proofs to back up the Injun story, but everybody knows the principal features of the other yarn are true. The old hermit did live on Spirit Island, and after he was faound dead folks said there was evidence to show that he was an escaped convict.”

“That much may possibly be true,” admitted Piper, with evident reluctance; “but think of claiming that the spirits of the Indian lovers appear on the cliff once a year and leap off clasped in each other’s arms! Piffle! And all that stuff about the ticking of an unseen clock in the hermit’s hut, and mysterious rappings, and ghostly lights, and the howling of a dog, and white figures seen vaguely on the island! Bah! Rot!” With those final explosive ejaculations he burned the brand of condemnation upon such preposterous moonshine.

“Oh, of course we didn’t really believe them things,” protested Crane, although his manner seemed to indicate that he would have found a certain amount of satisfaction in believing them.

“You must recall,” said Grant, “that Granger did not make the assertion that such things really happened; he simply claimed that some people believed or told that they happened.”

“No, sir,” denied Piper promptly; “he declared that he himself had seen mysterious lights on the island, and had likewise heard the doleful howling of a dog. I’ll admit that he was clever in avoiding assertions that might be disproved by investigation or the light of reason’s torch, which must illuminate the minds of all intelligent men; but, nevertheless, in a subtle, crafty manner, he sought by every possible device to inveigle us into accepting as truth the fanciful chimeras of his, or some other person’s, imaginative mind.”

“Oh, wow!” whooped Sile. “Yeou hit the English language an awful wallop that time. Yeou had the dictionary backed up against the ropes and gaspin’.”

“Nobody’s eager to swallow it all, Pipe,” said Grant. “All the same, I’ll admit that Mr. Granger has made me curious to pay a visit to Spirit Island. I’d like to see the holes people have dug searching for the loot John Calvert is supposed to have buried there.”

“Me, too,” nodded Crane. “It’s too hot to paddle araound much naow, but we’ll have to go over to the island fust chance we get.”

“I wouldn’t mind that myself,” said Sleuth. “It will give us something to do.”

“You’ve got sus-something to do,” reminded Springer, “unless you want to sleep on a mighty hard bed tonight. Why don’t you cut some boughs?”

“Seems to me,” returned Sleuth, “you fellows cut enough yesterday. You might give me some of your boughs.”

“Not on yeour life, you lazy tyke!” returned Crane. “If yeou want boughs you’ll cut ’em.”

“Oh, all right,” snapped Piper. “Where’s the hatchet? I’ll do it now.” He found the hatchet and stalked away into the woods in search of boughs.

“Queer old Sleuthy,” laughed Springer, as they heard him chopping a short distance from the camp. “I’m glad he came along with us, for he’s certainly provided some amusement.”

After a time Piper reappeared with an armful of boughs, dripping perspiration from every pore and looking weary and disgusted. He would have flung the boughs down carelessly in the tent, but Grant compelled him to put them in the proper place and arrange them for his bed.

“I never dreamed camping out was such hard work,” grumbled Sleuth.

“Work!” returned Rod. “Why, we haven’t worked, any of us; it’s nothing but play. Hurry up, Pipe, for we’re going in swimming pretty soon.”

“And me all hot and reeking like this? Now that’s a pretty trick to play on a fellow, get him overheated and then announce that you’re going in swimming.”

“We’ll wait till you cuc-cool off some,” promised Springer.

Half an hour later, feeling secure from observation, they stripped off their clothes and went plumping, one after another, into the cool, inviting water off the bold rocks of the point. The delight of it set them tingling and shouting joyously as they disported themselves like porpoises.

“It’s great!” cried Crane. “Warm! I never saw the water so warm. Somebody get a white stone. Let’s dive.”

A white rock twice the size of a hen’s egg was found and tossed into the water, and one after another they took turns diving for it, casting it each time, when recovered, a little further from the shore. Grant proved himself the most expert at this diversion, for he brought up the stone, after all the others had failed to find it, in particularly deep water. In impromptu races, also, the Texan was able to defeat any one of them, although Springer pushed him hard.

“I took swimming lessons at school,” he explained. “After a fellow gets so he reckons he can swim about as well as anybody he will usually learn a lot by taking lessons from a good instructor.”

They were loath to come out, but presently Rodney urged them to do so, and, after a vigorous rubbing with rough towels, they dressed and found themselves bubbling with fresh vigor, like a lot of young colts.

As the sun declined and the afternoon waned Springer mentioned the fact that the time for evening fishing was approaching.

“We really ought to have two canoes,” he said, “so four of us could go out. I suppose it will be a good pup-plan for one of us to be at camp all the time.”

Promptly Piper announced:

“I’m going fishing myself tonight, and I’m going in the canoe, if I have to fight for the chance.”

“Dinged if I ain’t with ye, Sleuthy,” cried Sile. “Rod and Phil had all the fun this morning, and naow it’s aour turn.”

“But we didn’t go fuf-fishing in the canoe,” reminded Springer.

“Because you couldn’t, that’s why,” said Sleuth. “It wasn’t here.”

“We had to foot it along the shore and up that brook, you know,” put in Grant.

“But that was fun,” snickered Piper. “No work about it; nothing but fun. That’s all there is to camping out.”

“Look a’ here, yeou bold pioneer of the wilderness,” said Crane, “if yeou come with me in the canoe yeou don’t want to git a notion that I’m goin’ to do all the paddlin’. Not on your life. Yeou’ll have to do yeour part of it.”

“Depend on me, comrade,” said Piper promptly. “I’ll be with you, even to the death.”

So, as the others good-naturedly yielded, it was Piper and Crane who put forth in the canoe with their rods and gear to lure the finny denizens of the lake with artificial flies.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE HAUNTED ISLAND

Luck did not seem to favor the anglers, for, though they paddled along the shores, casting into the shadows, and varied this by trying deeper water, the sun had set before they got a single rise. At last, however, there was a swirl as Crane lightly dropped a “Morning Glory” as far as he could send it from the canoe, and the buzz of the reel made the hearts of both lads jump.

“I’ve got one – by jinks! I’ve got one,” palpitated Sile.

“You haven’t got him yet,” said Sleuth. “He’s hooked, but you can’t be sure of him until we dip him into the canoe.”

“Ginger! see him go,” cried Crane. “He must be a bouncer. Grab the paddle, Pipe, and follow up.”

Having reeled in, Sleuth did as directed, and at the first dip of his blade the boys saw the fish leap clear of the water, with a tremendous slap, as it tried to shake the hook free. With a splash, he fell back and took to running again.

“Shades of the Pilgrim Fathers!” gasped Sleuth in envious admiration. “He’s a monster. He’s the father of them all. Why didn’t I have the luck to hook him?”

“It’s a salmon, and a peach,” fluttered Crane, reeling in as the fish yielded. “Have that net ready, Pipe.”

“No hurry,” returned Sleuth wisely. “Don’t you get the idea that that fellow is going to let us dip him in a hurry. You’ve got your work cut out for you for some time, old man.”

He was quite right about this, for the gamey fish fought like a shark, resorting to all the devices and stratagems of its kind. Time after time the salmon leaped high out of the water, and whenever it did so both boys were filled with apprehension until the tautening of the line again told them that the creature had not broken away. At least twenty minutes were consumed in the delightful, nerve-racking task of playing that fish, and Crane repeatedly brought him close to the canoe, only to have him turn and run with a fresh burst of strength and a persistence that threatened to leave the reel bare of line. At last, however, with the soft twilight thickening, the salmon betrayed unmistakable evidence of weariness. Slowly and resentfully it permitted itself to be brought closer, its efforts to run becoming shorter and weaker. Grasping the bamboo handle of the landing net, Piper awaited the proper moment, ready to dip.

“Work easy, Sile – work easy,” entreated Piper. “Don’t let him fool you. He may be playing possum.”