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Captain Chub
The boys entertain Mr. Ewing
Captain Chub
By
Ralph Henry Barbour
Author of “The Crimson Sweater,” “Tom, Dick, and Harriet,”
“Harry’s Island,” etc.
With Illustrations
By C. M. Relyea
New York
The Century Co.
1909
Copyright, 1908, 1909, by
The Century Co.
Published September, 1909
J. F. TAPLEY CO.
To J. P. M.
WITH THE AUTHOR’S REGARDS
AND BEST WISHES
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
PAGE
I.
The Stolen Run3
II.
Letters and Plans19
III.
An Invitation to Miss Emery30
IV.
Leasing a House-boat47
V.
A Trip of Inspection61
VI.
The Jolly Roger74
VII.
The Cruise Begins96
VIII.
Driven to Cover114
IX.
Prisoners125
X.
A New Acquaintance139
XI.
Mr. Ewing is Outwitted163
XII.
The Tables Turned167
XIII.
Chub Tries a New Bait180
XIV.
The Crew Enters Society198
XV.
Harry Goes to Sea217
XVI.
Under the Awning234
XVII.
Mrs. Uriah Peel249
XVIII.
Keeping Store263
XIX.
A Midnight Alarm282
XX.
“Gasoline and Supplies”306
XXI.
The Burglary323
XXII.
Clues336
XXIII.
In the Gipsy Camp349
XXIV.
An Old Acquaintance Appears362
XXV.
Mr. Ewing is Suspicious373
XXVI.
Chub’s Adventure382
XXVII.
Gifts and Farewells397
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
The boys entertain Mr. EwingFrontispiece
Chub Eaton was lying in a cloud of dust15
Writing the invitation to Harry37
In a great studio49
Roy59
Chub descended at the Porter’s bag and baggage71
The boys arrive at the wharf83
The “Jolly Roger” begins her cruise up the Hudson River99
Roy stared silently, with open mouth123
Dick and Roy slumbering153
But Mister Trout didn’t want to come193
They had dressed in their best clothes207
The next moment they were all shaking hands223
Before noon camp was made at the edge of the grove245
She tied together the strings of a quaint little black bonnet251
The figure disappeared noiselessly into the night291
“A little more of the hegg, ma’am?”299
“I want the key of the store”309
The till was empty333
Two men entered the tent359
“You stay where you are”369
They waved back to her and went on405
The doctor was called on for a speech409
CAPTAIN CHUB
CHAPTER I
THE STOLEN RUN
“That settles that,” groaned the captain of the Crimson nine as the long fly settled gracefully into the hands of the Blue’s left-fielder. The runner who, at the sound of bat meeting ball, had shot away from second base, slowed his pace and dropped his head disconsolately as he left the path to the plate and turned toward the bench.
“Come on, fellows,” said the captain cheerfully. “We’ve got to hold ’em tight. Not a man sees first, Tom; don’t lose ’em.”
Pritchett, the Crimson pitcher, nodded silently as he drew on his glove and walked across to the box. He didn’t mean to lose them. So far, at the beginning of the ninth inning, it was anybody’s game. The score was 3 to 3. Pritchett had pitched a grand game: had eight strike-outs to his credit, had given but one base on balls, and had been hit but three times for a total of four bases. For five innings, for the scoring on both sides had been done in the first part of the game, he had held the Blue well in hand, and he didn’t mean to lose control of the situation now. The cheering from the stands occupied by the supporters of the Crimson team, which had died away as the unlucky hit to left-fielder had retired the side, began again, and continued until the first of the blue-stockinged batsmen stepped to the plate.
It was the end of the year, the final game and the deciding one. The stands, which started far beyond third base and continued around behind first, were filled with a gaily-hued throng, every member of which claimed allegiance to Crimson or Blue. Fully eight thousand persons were awaiting with fast-beating hearts the outcome of this last inning. The June sun shone hotly down, and the little breeze which came across the green field from the direction of the glinting river did little to mitigate the intolerable heat. Score-cards waved in front of red, perspiring faces, straw hats did like duty, and pocket-handkerchiefs were tucked inside wilting collars.
Half-way up the cheering section sat a little group of freshmen, hot and excited, hoarse and heroic. At every fresh demand from the cheerleader they strained their tired lungs to new excesses of sound. Now, panting and laughing, they fell against each other in simulated exhaustion.
“I wish a thunder-storm would come along,” said one of the group, weakly.
“Why?” asked another.
“So they’d call the game and I wouldn’t have to cheer any more,” he sighed.
“Why don’t you do the way Chick does?” asked a third. “Chick just opens his mouth and goes through the motions and doesn’t let out a single yip.”
“I like that!” exclaimed the maligned one. “I’ve been making more noise than all the rest of you put together. The leader’s been casting grateful looks at me for an hour.”
There was a howl of derision from the others.
“Well,” said a tall, broad-shouldered fellow, “I don’t intend to yell any more until something happens, and—”
“Yell now, then, Porter,” said Chick gloomily as the first of the opponents’ batsmen beat the ball to first by a bare inch. But instead of yelling Roy Porter merely looked bored, and for a while there was silence in that particular part of the stand.
The next Blue batsman bunted toward third, and although he went out himself, he had placed the first man on second. The Blue’s best batters were coming up, and the outlook wasn’t encouraging. The sharp, short cheer of the Blue’s adherents rattled forth triumphantly. But Pritchett wasn’t dismayed. Instead, he settled down and struck out the next man ignominiously. Then, with two strikes and two balls called by the umpire, the succeeding batsman rolled a slow one toward short-stop and that player, pausing to hold the runner on second, threw wide of first. The batsman streaked for second and the man ahead darted to third and made the turn toward home. But right-fielder had been prompt in backing up and the foremost runner was satisfied to scuttle back to third. The Blue’s first-baseman came to bat. He was the best hitter on the team, and, with men on second and third, it seemed that the Blue was destined to wave triumphantly that day.
“Two down!” called the Crimson captain encouragingly. “Now for the next one, fellows! Don’t lose him, Tom!”
“Two out!” bawled the coachers back of first and third. “Run on anything! Well, I guess we’ve got them going now! I guess we’ve got them going! He’s sort of worried, Bill! He’s sort of worried! Look out!” For the “sort of worried” one had turned quickly and sped the ball to third.
“That’s all right!” cried the irrepressible coacher. “He won’t do that again. Take a lead; take a lead! Steady!”
Pritchett glanced grimly at the two on bases and turned to the batsman. He was in a bad place, and he realized it. A hit would bring in two runs. The man who faced him was a veteran player, and couldn’t be fooled easily. He considered the advisability of giving him his base, knowing that the next man up would be easier to dispose of. It was risky, but he decided to do it. He shook his head at the catcher’s signal and sent a wide one.
“Ball!” droned the umpire, and the blue flags waved gleefully.
The next was also a ball, and the next, and the next, and—
“Take your base,” said the umpire.
“Thunder!” muttered Chick nervously as the man trotted leisurely down the line and the sharp cheers rattled forth like musketry. “Bases full!”
“He did it on purpose,” said Roy Porter. “Burton’s a hard-hitter and a clever one, and Pritchett didn’t want to risk it.”
“Well, a hit now won’t mean a thing!” grieved Chick.
“It’ll mean two runs; just what it meant before,” answered Roy. “Who’s this at bat?”
“Kneeland,” answered his neighbor on the other side, referring to his score-card.
“What’s he done?”
“Nothing. Got his base twice, once on fielder’s choice and once on balls.”
“That’s good. Watch Pritchett fool him.”
They watched, breathlessly, in an agony of suspense. One ball; one strike; two strikes; two balls; a foul; another foul.
“He’s spoiling ’em,” muttered Chick uneasily. But the next moment he was on his feet with every one else on that side of the field, yelling wildly, frantically. Pritchett had one more strike-out to his credit, and three blue-stockinged players turned ruefully from their captured bases and sought their places in the field.
The Crimson players came flocking back to the bench, panting and smiling, and threw themselves under the grateful shade of the little strip of awning.
“Easy with the water,” cautioned the trainer as the tin cup clattered against the mouth of the big water-bottle.
“Who’s up?” asked some one. The coach was studying the score-book silently. Pritchett was up, but Pritchett, like most pitchers, was a poor batsman. The coach’s glance turned and wandered down the farther bench where the substitutes sat.
“Eaton up!” he called, and turning to the scorer: “Eaton in place of Pritchett,” he said.
The youngster who stood before him awaiting instructions was a rather stockily-built chap, with brown hair and eyes and a merry, good-natured face. But there was something besides good nature on his face at this moment; something besides freckles, too; it was an expression that mingled gratification, anxiety, and determination. Tom Eaton had been a substitute on the varsity nine only since the disbanding of the freshman team, of which he had been captain, and during that scant fortnight he had not succeeded in getting into a game.
“You’ve got to get to first, Eaton,” said the coach softly. “Try and get your base on balls; make him think you’re anxious to hit, see? But keep your wits about you and see if you can’t walk. If he gets two strikes on you, why, do the best you can; hit it down toward third. Understand? Once on first I expect you to get around. Take all the risk you want; we’ve got to score.”
“Batter up!” called the umpire, impatiently.
Eaton selected a bat carefully from the rack and walked out to the plate. The head cheerleader, looking over his shoulder, ready to summon a “short cheer” for the batsman, hesitated and ran across to the bench.
“Who’s batting?” he asked.
“Eaton,” he was told. “Batting for Pritchett.”
“A short cheer for Eaton, fellows, and make it good!”
It was good, and as the freshman captain faced the Blue’s pitcher the cheer swept across to him and sent a thrill along his spine. Perhaps he needed it, for there is no denying that he was feeling pretty nervous, although he succeeded in disguising that fact from either catcher or pitcher.
Up in the cheering section there was joy among the group of freshmen.
“Look who’s here!” shrieked Chick. “It’s Chub!”
“Chub Eaton!” cried another. “What do you think of that?”
“Batting for Pritchett! Say, can he bat much, Roy?”
“Yes; but I don’t know what he can do against this fellow. He hasn’t been in a game since they took him on. But I guess the coach knows he can run the bases. If he gets to first I’ll bet he’ll steal the rest!”
And then the cheer came, and the way those classmates of Chub’s worked their lungs was a caution.
In the last inning of a game it is customary to replace the weak batsman with players who can hit the ball, and when Chub Eaton stepped to the plate the Blue’s catcher and pitcher assumed that they had a difficult person to contend with. The catcher signaled for a drop, for from the way Chub handled his bat it seemed that he would, in baseball slang, “bite at it,” and Chub seemed to want to badly. He almost swung at it, but he didn’t quite, and the umpire called “Ball!” Well, reflected the catcher, it was easy to see that he was anxious to hit, and so he signaled for a nice slow ball that looked for all the world like an easy one until it almost reached the plate; then it “broke” in a surprising way and went off to the left. Chub almost reached for it, but, again, not quite. And “Two balls!” said the umpire. Chub swung his bat back and forth impatiently, just begging the Blue pitcher to give him a fair chance. The pitcher did. He sent a nice drop that cleared the plate knee-high. “Strike!” announced the umpire. Chub turned on him in surprise and shook his head. Then he settled back and worked his bat in a way that said: “Just try that again! I dare you to!”
The pitcher did try it again; at least, he seemed to, but the ball dropped so low this time that it failed of being a strike by several inches. Chub looked pained. On the bench the coach was smiling dryly. The Blue pitcher awoke to the fact that he had been fooled. He sent a high ball straight over the plate and Chub let it go by. “Strike two!” called the umpire. The Blue stands cheered mightily. Two strikes and three balls! Chub gripped his bat hard. Again the pitcher shot the ball forward. It came straight and true for the plate, broke when a few feet away and came down at a weird tangent. Chub swung desperately and the ball glanced off the bat and went arching back into the stand. “Foul!” growled the umpire. Chub drew a deep breath of relief. Once more the pitcher poised himself and threw. The ball whirled by him and Chub dropped his bat and started across the plate, his heart in his mouth.
“Four balls! Take your base!”
The umpire’s voice was drowned by the sudden burst of wild acclaim from the Crimson stands, and Chub trotted to first, to be enthusiastically patted and thumped on the back by the coacher stationed there. Up in the cheering section five freshmen were hugging each other ecstatically. The head of the Crimson’s batting list was coming up, and things looked bright. The cheering became incessant. The coach shouted and bawled. But the Blue’s pitcher refused to be rattled. He settled down, held Chub close on first and, before any one quite realized what was happening, had struck out the next man.
But Chub had made up his mind to go on, and he went. He made his steal on the first ball thrown to the new batter and, although catcher threw straight and fast to second-baseman, Chub slid around the latter and reached the bag. Then, while the cheers broke forth again, he got up, patted the dust out of his clothes, and took a fresh lead. The pitcher eyed him darkly for a moment and then gave his attention to the batsman. Crack! Ball and bat met and the short-stop ran in to field a fast grounder, and as he ran Chub flashed behind him. Gathering up the ball, short-stop turned toward third, saw that he was too late, and threw to first, putting the batsman out by the narrowest of margins. “Two out!”
Chub Eaton was lying in a cloud of dust
The Crimson captain stepped to the plate, looking determined, and hit the first delivery safely. But it was a bunt near the plate and, although Chub was ready to run in, he had no chance. The captain stole second and Chub looked for a chance to get home; but they were watching him. The Crimson supporters were on their feet, their shouts imploring victory. The next man up was an erratic batsman, one who had made home runs before this in time of stress and who had, quite as often, failed to “make good.” Amid the wildest excitement, the Blue pitcher pulled down his cap, calmly studied the signal, and sped the ball toward the plate.
“Strike!” Again, and the batsman swung and the ball glanced back against the netting.
“Foul! Strike two!”
Then came a ball. The batsman was plainly discouraged, plainly nervous. Chub, dancing around at third, worrying the pitcher to the best of his ability, decided that it was now or never for him. Taking a long lead, he waited poised on his toes. As the ball left the pitcher’s hand he raced for home.
“Hit it! Hit it!” shrieked the men on the bench. The batsman, awakening suddenly to the demands, struck wildly as the ball came to him, struck without hitting. But the catcher, with that red-stockinged figure racing toward him, made his one error of the game. The ball glanced from his mitt and rolled back of the plate, and although he had thrown off his mask and was after it like a cat after a mouse, he was too late. Chub Eaton was lying in a cloud of dust with one hand on the plate, and the crowd was streaming, shouting and dancing, onto the field.
CHAPTER II
LETTERS AND PLANS
That 4 to 3 victory took place on a Thursday, in the third week of June.
Some two hours later the hero of the conflict lay stretched at full length on a window-seat in the front room of a house within sound of the college bell. His hands were under his head, one foot nestled inelegantly amidst the cushions at the far end of the seat and the other was sprawled upon the floor. The window beside him was wide open and through it came the soft, warm air, redolent of things growing, of moist pavements, of freshly-sprinkled lawns. The sounds of passing footsteps and voices entered, too; and from across the shaded street came the tinkle of a banjo. The voices were joyous and care-free. To-morrow was Class-Day; the year’s work was over; books had been tossed aside, and already the exodus from college had begun. The twilight deepened and the long June day came unwillingly to its end. The shadows darkened under the elms and here and there a light glared out from an open window. But in the room the twilight held undisputed sway, hiding the half-packed trunks and the untidy disorder of the study.
Chub lay on the window-seat and a few feet away, where he could look through the wide open casement, Roy Porter was stretched out in a morris chair. We have already caught a brief glimpse of Roy in the cheering section during the game, but in the excitement we did not, I fancy, observe him very closely. He is a good-looking, even handsome, boy, with light, curly hair and very blue eyes. He is tall and well developed, with broad shoulders and wide hips. Roy and Chub have been firm friends for three years: for two years at Ferry Hill School and for one at college. In age there is but a month or two of difference between them. Both are freshmen, having come up together from Ferry Hill last September, since which time they have led a very interesting and, withal, happy existence in the quarters, in which we now find them. And they have each had their successes. Chub has made the captaincy of the freshman Nine, they have both played on the freshman foot-ball team, and each has been recently taken into one of the societies. In studies Roy has accomplished rather more than his friend, having finished the year well up in his class. But Chub has kept his end up and has passed the finals, if not in triumph, at least without disgrace.
“Another big day for you, Chub,” said Roy. Chub stretched himself luxuriously and yawned.
“Yes. There have been quite a few ‘big days,’ Roy, since we met at school, haven’t there? There was the day when you lammed out that home run and won us the game from Hammond, two years ago. That was one of your ‘big days,’ old chap, but it was mine, too. Then, last year, when we won on the track. That was Dick’s ‘big day,’ but we all shared in it, especially since it brought that check from Kearney and brought the affairs of the Ferry Hill School Improvement Society to a glorious close. And then there was the baseball game last year—”
“That was your day, Chub, and none other’s.”
“Well, if I recollect rightly, there was a little old two-bagger by one Roy Porter which had something to do with the result,” returned Chub, dryly.
“Oh, we’d have won without that. Say, do you remember Harry after the game?”
“Do I! Shall I ever forget her? She was just about half crazy, wasn’t she? And wouldn’t she have loved to have been here to-day?”
They both chuckled at the idea.
“By the way,” said Chub presently, “did we get any mail this evening?”
“I don’t think so,” said Roy; “but I didn’t look. Expecting a check?”
“Go to thunder! We ought to hear from Dick to-day or to-morrow. And Mr. Cole, too, about the boat.”
“That’s so. Maybe we’ll hear in the morning.”
“Light the gas and have a look around,” begged Chub. “Sometimes Mrs. Moore picks the letters up and puts them on the table, and we don’t find them for weeks and weeks.”
“If you’d keep the table picked up,” said Roy, severely, as he arose with a grunt and fumbled for matches, “such things wouldn’t occur.”
“Listen to him!” murmured Chub, apparently addressing the ceiling. “I’d like to know which of us is the neat little housekeeper! I’d like to know—”
The study was suddenly illuminated with a ghastly glow as Roy applied the match to the drop-light. Chub groaned and turned his face away.
“I give you notice, Roy, that next year we’re going to have a different shade on that thing. Green may be all very nice for the optic nerves, but it’s extremely offensive to my—my sensibilities. Besides, it doesn’t suit my complexion. I’ve mentioned that before. Now a red shade—”
“Here’s a whole bunch of mail,” exclaimed Roy, mildly indignant. “I wish she’d let it alone. Here’s two for you and one for me. This looks like—yes, it’s from Dick. And I guess this one—” he studied it under the light—“I guess this is from the artist man. Anyway, the postmark’s New York, and—”
“Well, hand ’em over, you idiot,” said Chub.
“Come and get them. You can’t see to read over there,” replied Roy tranquilly. Chub hesitated, groaned, and finally followed the suggestion.
“Yes, this is from Dickums,” he muttered as he tore off the end of the envelop. “I hope he can come. Who’s yours from?”
“Dad,” answered Roy, settling into his chair and beginning to read. But he wasn’t destined to finish his letter just then, for in a moment Chub had rudely disturbed him.
“It’s all right!” he cried. “Listen, Roy; let me read this to you.”
“He’s coming?” asked Roy eagerly, abandoning his own letter.
“Yes. Listen.” Chub pulled up a chair, sat down, and began to read: “‘Dear Chub: Yours of no date—’”
“Stung!” murmured Roy. Chub grinned and went on.
—“‘received the day before yesterday. I’d have answered before, but things have been pretty busy here. If we can get the house-boat, I’ll go along in a minute. It will be a fine lark. I’m leaving here to-morrow for New York. My dad’s there now, and we’re going to stay somewhere around there for the summer, he says. You let me know just as soon as you can. Send your letter to the Waldorf. I can start any time. I haven’t written to Dad about it, but I know he will let me go. I hope we can get the boat. I told Harry about it yesterday, and read your letter to her, and she’s wild to go along. Says we might wait until she gets back from her Aunt Harriet’s. I told her there wouldn’t be room but she says she’d sleep up on top! So I had to tell her I’d see what you fellows thought about it. Maybe we might have her along for a little while. What do you think? I suppose her father or mother could come, too, as—’”
“Chaperon,” said Roy. “Harry’s getting ‘growed up,’ you know.”
“Well, we’ll see. Here, where’s that other letter? Let’s find out what Mr. Cole says.” He opened the second epistle and glanced through it quickly, his face lighting as he read. “It’s all right!” he cried. “We can have her! Only—” he looked through the brief note again—“only he doesn’t say anything about the price. ‘When you get here we’ll talk over the matter of terms.’ That doesn’t sound encouraging, does it?” Chub looked across at Roy dubiously, and Roy shook his head.
“Not very,” he answered; “but you can’t tell. I guess he will let us down easy. He’s a good sort, is the Floating Artist.”
“Well—” Chub tossed the note aside and went back to Dick Somes’s letter. “‘I suppose her father or mother or some one would have to go along, but that needn’t make much difference. She’s wild to know, so you’d better drop her a line pretty soon and tell her what you think about it. If you don’t she’s likely to explode!’”
“And that’s so, too, I guess!” chuckled Roy. “Say, it would be awfully jolly if we four could get together again this summer, wouldn’t it?”
“Dandy!” answered Chub. “And we’ll do it, too,” he added stoutly.
“I don’t believe so. Something will happen at the last moment,” said Roy dejectedly. “You’ll see.”
“My gentle croaker, let me finish this.... ‘I got through exams O. K. and got my diploma to-day. So I’ll see you fellows in the fall if we don’t make it before. That is, if I can pass at college. I wish you’d speak a good word for me to the president. I suppose you know we won the boat-race by almost three lengths. That makes up for losing the ball-game. We missed you on the team this year. They’ve elected Sid Welch captain for next year. Sid’s so pleased he can’t see straight. To-day was Class-Day and we had a fine time. You ought to have heard me orate. How’s old Roy? He owes me a letter, the scoundrel. Write as soon as you can to the Waldorf. I’ll be there to-morrow evening. Tell Roy to come and see me as soon as he gets home. You, too, if you stop over there. I’ve got lots of news for you that I can tell better than I can write. Hope you fellows win your game to-morrow. They’d ought to have taken you on, Chub. But next year, when I get there, I’ll fix that for you. So long. Don’t forget to let me know whether we can have the house-boat. Yours, Dick.’”
“Good old Dickums,” murmured Chub as he folded the letter. “Well, it’s all settled,” he went on animatedly. “We’ll take the midnight train to-morrow, Roy; see Mr. Cole; look up Dick, and get ready for the cruise! Won’t we have fun, though?”
“Did Mr. Cole say whether he’d let the boat to us furnished?”
“Yes.” Chub referred to the note. “‘The Jolly Roger is quite at your disposal as soon as you want her. I’m going abroad in August, and won’t want her at all this summer. She needs paint, but you’ll have to attend to that if you’re fussy. You’ll find her all ready for you. I won’t say anything about the engine, for you know that engine yourself. Treat it kindly and perhaps it will stand by you. When you get here we’ll talk over the matter of terms. Regards to your friend and to you. Very truly yours, Forbes Cole.’ That’s all he says. I don’t believe he will want us to pay him much if he’s going abroad and can’t use the boat himself anyway, do you?”
“I hope not,” answered Roy, “for it’s going to be rather an expensive trip, Chub.”
“Nonsense! We can run her on ten dollars a week, I’ll bet.”
“You forget that we have to eat. You forget your appetite, Chub.”
“Well, if we have Harry along she can make doughnuts for us!”
“Well, if she does,” laughed Roy, “I’ll see that there’s no almond flavoring aboard. Do you remember last summer when she put almond into the doughnuts and—”
“Do I remember! I thought I’d never get that taste out of my mouth!” Chub grinned reminiscently. Roy arose determinedly and threw back the lid of his steamer trunk.
“What are you going to do?” asked Chub.
“Finish my packing. There won’t be any time to-morrow, and—”
But alas for good resolutions! There was a charge of feet outside on the brick walk, a hammering at the door, and a covey of happy, irresponsible freshmen burst into the room. There was no packing that night. But what did it matter? There was to-morrow and many, many other to-morrows stretching away in a seemingly limitless vista of happy holidays, and the fact that when the visitors finally took their departure the few things that the roommates had already packed had been seized upon by rude hands and strewn about the study worried no one. Nothing matters when “finals” are over and summer beckons.
CHAPTER III
AN INVITATION TO MISS EMERY
Two days later three boys were seated about an up-stairs room in a house in West 57th Street, New York City. The room was large and square and tastefully furnished, but you would have guessed at once that it was a boy’s room; and the guess would have been correct. Roy Porter was the host, and his guests were Mr. Thomas H. Eaton, otherwise known as Chub, and Mr. Richard Somes, better known as Dick. Dick, as we have learned through his letter, has just graduated from Ferry Hill School, and for the present is staying with his father at a New York hotel. While Roy lives in New York, and Chub hails from Pittsburg, Dick claims the distinction of living nowhere in particular. If you ask him he will tell you that he lives “out West.” As a matter of fact, however, he is a nomad. Born in Ohio, he has successively resided in Nebraska, Montana, Colorado, Nevada, London, and one or two other places. His father is a mining man whose business of buying, selling, and operating mines takes him to many places. Dick’s mother has been dead for three years.
Dick himself is big, blond, and seventeen. He isn’t exactly handsome, judged by accepted standards of masculine beauty, but he has nice gray eyes, a smile that wins you at once, and a pleasant voice. Somehow, in spite of the fact that nature has endowed him with a miscellaneous lot of features he is rather attractive; as Chub has once remarked: “He’s just about as homely as a mud fence, only somehow you forget all about it.” It is the crowning sorrow of Dick’s young life that, owing to his nomadic existence, his schooling has been somewhat neglected, with the result that he is a year behind his two friends and that when he reaches college in the fall—if he’s lucky enough to get in—he will be only a freshman, while Roy and Chub are dignified and superior sophomores. Chub, however, tries to console him by telling him not to worry, that like as not he won’t pass the exams!
Chub is staying with Roy, as his guest, and Dick has taken dinner with them this evening. And now, having left Mr. Porter to his paper in the library and Mrs. Porter to her book, they have scurried up to Roy’s room for a good long talk; for there is much to be said. At the present moment Roy, sprawled on his bed, is doing the talking.
“It was Chub’s scheme in the first place, Dick. He thought of it two months ago when we were down by the river one day. There’s an old boat-house on a raft down there, and Chub said it reminded him of the Jolly Roger. I said I didn’t see the resemblance, and he said all you had to do was to turn it around and it would be just like the Jolly Roger.”
“Turn it around?” asked Dick, mystified.
“Sure,” said Chub. “Turn a boat-house around and you have a house-boat. See?”
“College hasn’t taught you much sense, Chub, has it?” laughed Dick. “Then what, Roy?”
“Oh, then Chub got to talking about what fun Mr. Cole must have in his house-boat and how he’d like to go knocking around in one. And then we remembered that Mr. Cole had told us last summer that the Jolly Roger was for sale. Of course, we knew we couldn’t buy it, but we thought maybe he’d be willing to rent it for the summer. And, finally a week or so ago, we wrote him—”
“We?” queried Chub.
“Well, then, you wrote him, Chubbie my boy; but I supplied the stamp. And yesterday—no, the day before yesterday—we got his note; and to-morrow we’re all going to call at his studio and find out how much he wants for it for the summer.”
“Bully!” cried Dick enthusiastically. “And where are we going in it?”
“I thought it would be fun to go down Long Island Sound, but Chub wants to go up the river.”
“Up the Hudson? That would be great! We could go away up to—to Buffalo—”
“Yes, we’d get there about November,” laughed Chub. “The Jolly Roger goes about as fast as—as a mule walks!”
“Bet you Dick really thinks Buffalo is on the Hudson,” said Roy.
“Isn’t it?” asked Dick in surprise. “I did think it was; honest. Where is it, then?”
“It—it’s on—you tell him, Roy.”
“It’s on a lake.”
“It’s on Niagara Falls,” added Chub knowingly. “Bounded on the north by Canada, on the east by the St. Lawrence River, on the south by the United States of America and on the west by—by water. Its principal exports are buffaloes and—and—”
“Oh, dry up!” said Roy. “Anyhow, we could go up as far as Troy—”
“And get our laundry done,” suggested Chub.
“And we could stop for a while at Ferry Hill and see the school and the Doctor and Mrs. Em and Harry—”
“What I want to know—” began Dick.
“And we could stay at Fox Island a day or two. It would be like old times.”
“You mean Harry’s Island,” corrected Dick. “What I want to know, though, is whether we can take Harry along.”
“Chub thinks we can,” answered Roy; “but I don’t see how we could manage it.”
“Easy enough,” said Chub. “There’s three rooms we can use for sleeping. Harry and her mother, or whoever came along with her, could have the big room up front or the little room at the rear, the one Mr. Cole used as a studio.”
“It’s only as big as a piece of cheese,” said Dick.
“Well, they’d only want to sleep in it. They could have that, and the rest of us could have the bedroom and living-room. We’d need some cot-beds—there’s a bully bed in the bedroom now, you know—and some sheets and blankets and things. Pshaw, we could fix it up easy!”
“Well, she’s crazy to go,” said Dick; “and she made me promise to ask you chaps.”
“When does she go away to her aunt’s?” asked Roy.
“The day after to-morrow; and she’s going to stay two weeks. That is, if she can come with us. If not she’ll stay three, I believe. Did you write to her, Roy?”
“Not yet,” Roy answered. “I thought we’d get together and talk it over. If you fellows think we can arrange it I’d be mighty glad to have her. She’s a whole lot of fun, Harry is.”
“Then let’s take her along,” said Dick eagerly.
“Sure,” said Chub. “Let’s write to her now. Where’s your paper and things, Roy?”
They all had a hand in the composition of that letter, and when finished and signed it ran as follows;
Miss Harriet Emery,
Ferry Hill School,
Ferry Hill, N. Y.
My Dear Miss Emery: You are cordially invited to join us in a cruise up the Hudson River in the good ship Jolly Roger, which will call for you at Ferry Hill in about three weeks, the exact date to be decided on later. Please bring your doughnut recipe, and any one else you want to. Come prepared for a good time. All principal foreign ports will be visited, including Troy, Athens, Cairo, and Schenectady. The catering will be in the hands of that world-renowned chef, Mr. Dickums Somes, formerly of Camp Torohadik, Harry’s Island. Kindly reply as soon as possible to address above. Trusting that you will consent to grace the house-boat with your charming presence, we subscribe ourselves your devoted servants,
Chub, Master,
Roy, A. B.,
Dick, Steward.
“What’s A.B. mean?” asked Roy, suspiciously.
“It means Able Seaman,” replied Chub. “I put it that way because it’s probably the only chance you’ll ever have of getting your A.B.”
Writing the invitation to Harry
“You don’t suppose, do you,” asked Dick anxiously, “that she’ll take that literally: about bringing any one else she wants to? She might think we meant her to bring a crowd, a bunch of girls from that school of hers.”
“Maybe we’d better change that a little,” agreed Roy.
“Well, we’ll say ‘Bring your doughnut recipe and any other one person you want to.’ How’s that?”
“All right; although, of course, a doughnut recipe isn’t a person.”
“Oh, that’s just a joke,” laughed Chub.
“Hadn’t you better label it?” asked Dick innocently. “How is she going to know it’s a joke?”
“She has more discernment than some others I wot of,” replied Chub loftily.
“Well, if she wots that that’s a joke,” muttered Dick, “she’s certainly a pretty good wotter.”
“Who’s got a stamp?” asked Chub as he finished scrawling the address on the envelop. “Thanks. What a very nasty tasting one! I wonder why the government doesn’t flavor its stamps better. It might turn them out in different flavors, you know; peppermint, vanilla, wintergreen, chocolate—”
“Almond,” suggested Roy.
“And then when you went to the post-office you could say: ‘I’d like ten twos, please; peppermint, if you have it.’”
“You’re an awful idiot,” laughed Dick. “Give me the letter and I’ll post it on the way to the hotel. Now, let’s talk about what we’ll have to buy. Let’s figure up and see what it’ll cost us.”
“Go ahead,” said Chub readily. “I’ve got a pencil.”
“First of all, then, we’ll need a lot of provisions.”
“Unless we can persuade Chub to stay behind,” suggested Roy.
“Who thought of this scheme?” asked Chub indignantly. “I guess if any one stays behind it won’t be Chub. And likewise and moreover if Chub doesn’t have enough to eat he will mutiny.”
“Then you’ll have to put yourself in irons,” said Dick, “if you’re in command.”
“I never thought of that!” Chub bit the end of the pencil and frowned. “Maybe I’d rather be the crew than the captain. If you’re captain you can’t mutiny, and I’ve always wanted to mutiny. Say, wouldn’t it be great if we could be pirates? We could put up that skull-and-cross-bones flag and board one of the Day Line steamboats. Think of the sport we could have! We’d swipe all the grub on board of her and make the officers walk the plank! Then—then we’d scuttle her!”
“How do you scuttle a boat?” asked Dick curiously.
Chub for a moment was at a loss, and glanced doubtfully at Roy. But finding no assistance there he plunged bravely.
“Well, you first get a scuttle, just an ordinary scuttle, you know; and I think you have to have a coal-shovel, too, but I’m not quite certain about that. Armed with the scuttle you descend to the—the cellar of the ship—”
“You bore holes in it,” said Roy contemptuously. “Thunder! I’m not going to ship under a captain who doesn’t know the rudiments of navigation.”
“I’m not talking navigation,” said Chub with dignity. “I’m talking piracy. Piracy is a much more advanced study. Anybody can navigate, but good pirates are few and far between, these days.”
“Oh, come on and talk sense,” begged Dick. “How much will it cost us for grub?”
“Well, let me see,” responded Chub, turning to his paper. “I suppose about two cases of eggs—But, look here, we haven’t decided how long we’re going to cruise.”
“A month,” said Roy.
“Two months,” said Dick. “Anyway, we can’t buy enough eggs at the start to last us all the time. Eggs should be fresh.”
“We’ll get eggs and vegetables as we go along,” said Roy. “What we have to have to start with are staples.”
“Mighty hard eating,” murmured Chub. “Why not use plain nails?”
This was treated by the others with contemptuous silence.
“We’ll need flour, coffee, tea, salt, rice, cheese—”
“Pepper,” interpolated Dick.
“Baking-powder, sugar, flavoring extracts—”
“Mustard,” proposed Chub, “for mustard plasters, you know.”
“And lots of things like that,” ended Roy triumphantly.
“What we need is a grocery,” sighed Chub. “Aren’t we going to have any meat at all? I have a very delicate stomach, fellows, and the doctor insists on meat three times a day. Personally, I don’t care for it much; I’m a vegetarian by conviction and early training; but one can’t go against the doctor’s orders, you know. Now, for breakfast a small rasher of bacon—”
“What’s a rasher?” Roy demanded.
“For luncheon a—er—two or three simple little chops, and for dinner a small roast of beef or lamb or a friendly steak. Those, with a few vegetables and an occasional egg, suffice my simple needs. I might mention, however, that a suggestion of sweet, such as a plum-pudding, a mince-pie or a dab of ice-cream, has always seemed to me a proper topping off to a meal, if I may use the expression.”
“You may use any expression you like,” answered Roy cruelly, “but if you think we’re going to have roasts you’ve got another guess coming to you. Why, that kitchen—”
“Galley,” corrected Chub helpfully.
—“is too small for anything bigger than a French chop!”
“When Chub gets awfully hungry,” observed Dick, “we might tie up to the shore and cook him something over the fire; have a barbecue, you know.”
“Cook a whole ox for him,” laughed Roy. “I guess that’s the only way Chub will ever get enough to eat.”
“You quit bothering about me,” said Chub scornfully, “and study seamanship. Remember you’re to be an able seaman and if you don’t come up to the standard for able seaman I’ll do things to you with a belaying-pin.”
“Isn’t he the cruel-hearted captain?” asked Dick. “I don’t believe I want to ship with him, Roy.”
“Oh, you’ll be all right. Chub won’t dare to touch you for fear he won’t get his dinner.”
“There you go again!” Chub groaned. “You fellows simply talk a subject to death. Your conversation lacks—lacks variety, diversity. If you are quite through vilifying me—”
“Doesn’t he use lovely language?” murmured Roy in an aside to Dick.
“We will now proceed with our estimate,” concluded Chub. “As I was saying, eggs—”
“I tell you what we might use,” interrupted Dick. “Have you ever seen any of this powdered egg?”
“Is this a joke?” asked Chub darkly.
“No, really! You buy it in cans. It’s eggs, just the yolks, you know, with all the moisture taken out of them. It’s a yellow powder. And when you want an omelet you just mix some milk with it and stir it up and there you are!”
But Chub was suspicious.
“And how do you make a fried egg out of it?” he asked.
“You can’t, of course, because the whites aren’t there; but—”
“Then we want none of it! An egg that you can’t fry isn’t a respectable egg. If I can’t have real eggs I’ll starve like a gentleman.”
“Well, let’s leave the eggs out of it for the present,” suggested Roy. “Let’s figure on the other things.”
“Let’s not,” said Dick, rising. “I’m going home. We’ve got lots of time to figure. Besides, the best way to do is to buy the things and let the groceryman do the figuring. We’ve got to have them, no matter what they cost. What time are we going around to see the Floating Artist?”
“Right after breakfast,” answered Chub. “You come up at about ten o’clock—”
“What’s the matter with you fellows coming to the hotel and having breakfast with me?” asked Dick.
“All right, then, luncheon. I’ll be around at ten in the morning. See if you can at least get him up by that time, Roy.”
“With a glance of scathing contempt,” murmured Chub, “our hero turned upon his heel and strode rapidly away into the fast-gathering darkness.”
But where he really strode was down the stairs, with one arm over Dick’s shoulder, while Roy brought up the rear and gently prodded them with the toe of his shoe.
CHAPTER IV
LEASING A HOUSE-BOAT
The preceding summer, while camping out on Fox Island—or Harry’s Island, as they called it now—the boys had made the acquaintance of the Floating Artist. He had appeared one day in his house-boat, the Jolly Roger, in which he was cruising down the Hudson, sketching as he went. His real name was Forbes Cole, a name of much importance in the art world, as the boys discovered later on. He had proved an agreeable acquaintance, and when camp had been broken the three boys, together with Harry Emery, the daughter of the school principal, had voyaged with him as far as New York.
Mr. Cole lived in a rather imposing white stone house within sight of the Park. The entrance was on the level with the sidewalk. Bay-trees in green tubs flanked the door which was guarded by a bronze grilling. The three boys were admitted by a uniformed butler and conducted into a tiny white-and-gold reception-room. As the heavy curtain fell again at the doorway after the retreating servant the visitors gazed at each other with awed surprise. Chub pretended to be fearful of trusting his weight to the slender chairs, and all three were grinning and giggling when the man appeared again, suddenly and noiselessly. Down a marble-tiled hall carpeted with narrow Oriental rugs in dull colors they were led to an elevator. When they were inside, the butler touched a button and the tiny car, white-and-gold like the reception-room, shot up past two floors and stopped, apparently of its own volition, at the third, and the boys emerged to find themselves in a great studio that evidently occupied the whole fourth floor of the house.
“Talk about your Arabian Nights!” murmured Chub in Roy’s ear.
The grating closed quietly behind them, the car disappeared and they stood looking about them in bewilderment and pleasure. So far as they could see the big apartment was empty of any persons save themselves, but they couldn’t be certain of that for there were shadowy recesses where the white light from the big skylights didn’t penetrate, and a balcony of dark, richly carved oak, screened and curtained, stretched across the front end of the studio.
In a great studio
At the other end a broad fireplace was flanked by a tall screen of Spanish leather which glowed warmly where the light found it. A white bearskin was laid in front of it. Other rugs were scattered here and there, queer, low-toned prayer rugs many of them, with tattered borders and silky sheen. The walls were hung with tapestries against which was the dull glitter of armor. Strange vessels of pottery and copper and brass stood about, and two big, black oak chests, elaborately carved, half hidden by silken cushions and embroideries, guarded the fireplace. There was a dais under the skylight, and on it was a chair. At a little distance was a big easel holding a canvas, and beside it a cabinet for paints and brushes. There were few pictures in sight, but over the room hung a faint and not unpleasant odor of paint and oil and turpentine.
At one of the broad, low windows—there were only two and both were wide open—was a great jar of yellow roses. Under the window was a wide seat upholstered in green leather and piled with cushions. And amidst the cushions, a fact only now discerned by the visitors, lay a red setter viewing them calmly with big brown eyes.
“It’s Jack,” Chub whispered. “I’ve met him before. He’s sure to chew holes in us if we stir. Little Chub stays right here until help comes.”
But evidently Jack had become interested, for he slowly descended from the window-seat and came across the room, his tail wagging slowly.
“We’d better run,” counseled Chub in pretended terror.
But the red setter’s intentions were apparently friendly. He sniffed at Roy and allowed himself to be patted. Then he walked around to Dick and Chub and completed his investigations, finally becoming quite enthusiastic in his welcome and digging his nose into Chub’s hand.
“Bet you he knows us!” cried Chub, softly and delightedly. “The rascal forgets that the first time we met he made a face at me and growled. Well, all is forgiven, Jack. Where’s your master, sir?”
“I suppose we might as well sit down,” said Roy, “instead of standing here like a lot of ninnies.”
“Did you ever see such a place in your life?” asked Dick. “It looks like a museum and a palace all rolled into one!”
“Gee, but I wish I was an artist!” sighed Chub. “I wonder what’s on the easel. Do you think we could look?”
“No, I think we’ll go over there and sit down and not snoop,” answered Roy severely. “Come on.”
But at that moment the elevator door rolled softly open and with a start the boys turned to see their host step out of the car. Forbes Cole was one of the biggest men they had ever seen. He was well over six feet high and, it seemed, more than proportionately broad. He was a fine, handsome looking man with a big head of wavy brown hair, kindly, twinkling blue eyes, and a brown beard trimmed to a point under a strong chin.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said as he shook hands all around. “I was just finishing breakfast. And how are you all? Let me see, this is Roy, isn’t it? I remember every one of you perfectly, but I have a bad memory for names. Chub, though, I recollect very well; that name happens to stick. And this is Dick Somes. Yes, yes, now I’ve got you all. Jack seems to have remembered you, too. Come over here and sit down and tell me what great things have happened to you since we parted last year. I suppose each one of you has done something fine for your school or college. Dear, dear, what a beautiful thing it is to be young! We never realize it until it’s too late. Now what’s the news?”
They perched themselves side by side on the broad window-seat and the artist lifted the heavy chair from the dais with one hand as though it weighed but an ounce and sprawled his great body in it. Jack settled back amongst the cushions with his head on Dick’s knee.
“I guess there isn’t much to tell,” said Roy. “Chub and I have been at college and Dick here is coming up in the fall.”
“If I can pass,” muttered Dick.
“And Miss Harry? How is she?” asked Mr. Cole.
“Fine,” said Dick. “I saw her the other day. We often talk about you, sir, and the good times we had on the Jolly Roger.”
“And so you think you’d like to have more good times on it, eh?” laughed the artist in his jovial roar. “I wish I could go along, if you’d have me; but I’m going across after awhile. But the boat’s yours when you want it, and I hope you’ll have the jolliest sort of a time, boys.”
“It’s mighty nice of you to want us to have it,” said Roy. “We’ll take very good care of it, Mr. Cole, and—”
“Oh, don’t bother about that,” laughed the painter. “You know I’ve got tired of it, boys. Besides, it’s well insured and if it happens to go to the bottom, why, I sha’n’t mind a bit—as long as you get out first! She’s at Loving’s Landing, if you know where that is; about fifteen miles up the river. You’ll find her in good condition, I guess. I wrote the man day before yesterday to open her up and get her in shape. She needs paint, as I wrote you; but I don’t believe I want to go to the expense of having her done over. But if you think you’d rather have her freshened up it won’t cost much to have Higgins put on one coat for you.”
“I guess she’s all right as she is,” said Chub. He looked at Roy and that youth took the hint.
“We were wondering,” he began, “how much you’d want for her for a couple of months, Mr. Cole.”
“You can have her all summer for the same price,” answered the painter with his eyes twinkling.
“Well, I suppose we couldn’t stay in her more than two months, sir; but of course we realize that if we took her we ought to pay for the whole time, because it would be too late to rent her again after we were through with her, I guess. About how much would she be, sir?”
Mr. Cole looked at them thoughtfully for a moment. Finally,
“Well, I was going to ask you to take her and use her rent free,” he answered, “but there’s something in Roy’s expression that tells me I’d get sat on if I did.” He laughed merrily. “Am I right?”
“We wouldn’t sit on you,” answered Chub, “but we’d feel—feel better about it if we rented it regularly from you. It’s mighty good of you, though.”
“No, it isn’t, Chub. It isn’t mighty good for anyone to be generous when it doesn’t cost him anything. The boat’s of no use to me this summer and I shouldn’t rent it under any conditions—except to you boys. But if you’d rather not take it as a gift, why, I’ll have to put a price on it.” He thought a moment. “Suppose we say fifty dollars for the summer?”
Chub eyed Roy doubtfully and Roy eyed Dick.
“That sounds like an awful little bit,” said Roy at last.
“I don’t think so,” replied their host. “I doubt if the Jolly Roger’s worth much more, fellows. I’m satisfied and I don’t see why you shouldn’t be. You won’t let me do you a favor, although I thought we were pretty good friends last summer, but, on the other hand, I don’t think you ought to insist on my driving a hard bargain with you. Fifty dollars is my valuation, and there you are; I refuse to go up another cent!”
“In that case,” laughed Roy, “I guess we’d better accept your terms, sir. And we’re very much obliged.”
“That’s all right then. I’ll give you a note to Higgins; the boat’s in his yard up there; and you can take her over as soon as you like and keep her as long as you wish. That’s settled. Now tell me what you’ve been doing the three of you. How do you like your college?”
The boys stayed for another hour and talked and were shown over the studio and were invited to luncheon. But although Chub frowned and nodded his head emphatically Roy politely declined. They finally left with the lease of the house-boat Jolly Roger in Roy’s pocket, promising to call again after they had looked over the craft. Then they shook hands, entered the elevator car and were dropped to the street floor.
On the sidewalk Roy turned to the others.
“Let’s go up and see the boat this afternoon,” he said.
“Let’s go now!” exclaimed Chub with enthusiasm.
“Can’t; after making up that fifty dollars there isn’t enough money in the crowd to pay the car-fares. No, we’ll go along with Dick and have luncheon. When we get to the hotel we’ll find out how to get to Loving’s Landing, and then we’ll start out right after luncheon. What do you say?”
Chub and Dick agreed to the plan and the three strode off toward Dick’s hostelry.
Roy
CHAPTER V
A TRIP OF INSPECTION
It turned out when they got there that the real host was not Dick, but Dick’s father. Neither Roy nor Chub had met Mr. Somes before. Like Mr. Cole he was a large man, but his size was rather a matter of breadth and thickness than height. He had a round, clean-shaven, jovial face lighted by a pair of keen steel-gray eyes, and a deep, rumbly voice that seemed to come from the heavy-soled shoes he affected. But he was kindness itself, and by the time they had gathered about the table beside the open window in the big hotel dining-room Roy and Chub were quite captivated. And that luncheon! Chub talks of it yet! There was ice-cold cantaloupe to start with, and then cold bouillon, and tiny clams lying on shells no larger than half-dollars, and chops not much larger than the clams—so small, in fact, that Chub viewed them with dismay until he discovered that there were many, many of them,—and potato croquettes, and pease no larger than birdshot, and Romaine salad, and—but, dear me, no one save Chub can give the entire program at this late day! I know there were lemon tarts and strawberry ice-cream and all sorts of astonishing cakes at the end, though; and I know that Chub was never much more miserable in his life than when he was obliged to stop eating with half his portion of ice-cream unconsumed! Of course such a repast took time, and after it was over no one seemed in any very great hurry to leave the table. So they sat there contentedly while Mr. Somes, craftily led on by Dick, told marvelous stories of mines and discoveries, until Chub was for abandoning the cruise in the Jolly Roger and starting west to prospect for gold. It was almost the middle of the afternoon when they finally left the dining-room, and then a hasty consultation of the time-table showed them that to reach Loving’s Landing that day and return in time for dinner was quite out of the question. Roy and Dick were a little disappointed, but Chub took it philosophically.
“We can go up in the morning just as well,” he said. “We can go any day, but it isn’t every day a chap gets the chance of a feed like that. It’s all right for you fellows to make fun, but you haven’t been in training for two months, living on beef and potatoes and rice puddings! I’m not kicking though,” he added softly and reverently, “for that luncheon pretty nearly made up for it all!”
So instead of going to Loving’s Landing they ambled downtown, feeling very contented and peaceful, and obtained a price-list from one of the big grocery houses. Armed with this they returned to Dick’s room and made out a long list of purchases. There is no use in setting it down here, for when they reckoned up they found that it came to over ninety dollars! In disgust Roy crumpled it up and threw it into the waste-basket.
“We’re awful idiots,” he said. “What’s the good of wasting our time up here when we might be out of doors? Let’s go and have a walk in the Park.”
Chub, reclining at full length on Dick’s bed, groaned dismally.
“‘Strenuous’ is a much over-worked word, Roy,” he said, “but it certainly applies to you. Just when I’m beginning to feel comfortable you ask me to get up and walk! Walk! If you’d said ride, now—”
“Well, let’s,” said Dick. “Let’s get on the top of one of those silly Fifth Avenue stages and bump uptown. It’s lots of fun, honest; you think every minute that the fool thing’s going to topple over!”
“What joy!” murmured Chub. “Let us go. I’m the neat little toppler. Besides, maybe it will help settle my luncheon and give me an appetite for dinner.”
“Great Scott!” exclaimed Roy. “You’re not thinking about dinner already are you?”
“I’m thinking of nothing else,” responded Chub. “Hang it, you fellows don’t seem to realize that I’ve got two months of starvation to make up for! Come on and let us topple.”
But although they went to the end of the route in both directions the coach failed to turn over, but there were several occasions when Chub screamed with delight and told the others that the moment was at hand.
“Now we’re going!” Chub cried. “Stand back, men! Women and children first!” And when the danger was over he shook his head disappointedly. “I shall ask for my money back,” he declared warmly. “What kind of service do you call this, anyway? Here I am out for a pleasant afternoon topple and nothing doing! I believe I could have some one arrested for this.” He looked darkly about him in search of a victim. “The first policeman I see I shall make complaint to. It’s an outrage, a perfect outrage!”
But when they reached Roy’s house the prospect of dinner had restored his good-humor. Dick dined with them, and in the evening they went to the theater.
Theoretically it is a simple matter to journey from New York to Loving’s Landing. Actually it is much more difficult, especially when you mistake the train as the three did the next forenoon and find yourself hurrying off in quite the wrong direction. By the time they were able to get out of that train they had wasted fourteen miles. By the time they were back in the station, ready to start over again, they had squandered nearly three quarters of an hour. Roy was inclined to be angry, laying the blame, by some remarkable method of reasoning, on the railroad company.
“What did that fellow tell us Track 12 for?” he asked irascibly.
“There, there,” said Chub soothingly, “don’t waste your time trying to find out why anybody does anything in a railroad station. They have laws of their own, Roy, laws that you and I will never comprehend. It was our fault. We ought to know by this time that no one in a station ever tells the truth on any subject. I’ll just bet you that if I go over there and ask that gateman how to get to Loving’s Landing he will tell me all wrong.”
“Well, we’ve got to ask someone,” said Dick, “and it might as well be him. He looks as intelligent as most of them I’ve seen.”
“Then I’ll ask him, but of course he will lie to me.” Chub was back in a minute shaking his head dismally. “He says Track 8, and that there’s a train in about four minutes, but of course—”
“Come on,” said Roy impatiently, “don’t let’s lose another.”
They sought Track 8, Chub expostulating against the folly of believing the gateman. But both the conductor and the brakeman assured them earnestly that the train did go to Loving’s Landing, and after some persuasion Chub allowed himself to be dragged aboard.
“Have your own way,” he sighed. “But when you get out in Chicago or Cincinnati or New Orleans don’t blame me, don’t blame me! I wash my hands of the whole undertaking.”
“I guess it won’t hurt them,” answered Dick cruelly.
Loving’s Landing, at first sight, didn’t appear to be worth the trouble they had taken to find it. It was largely composed of lumberyards, machine-shops and wharves in front of which dirty little canal-boats were lying. Higgins’s Boat Yard was difficult to discover, each informant directing them differently, but at last they found it tucked away between the railroad and the river and hidden by a lumberyard. They presented their credentials at the office and were directed to where the Jolly Roger lay ready for launching. By that time Chub was speculating on the chances of obtaining luncheon in such a “one-horse metropolis.”
The Jolly Roger lay at the top of the way, one end tilted high in air. It was something of a feat to board her and more of a feat to move around after they were there. The doors and windows had been opened but the interior still had a musty odor that caused Roy to sniff in displeasure. For the next half-hour they roamed around in and out, planning and making memoranda of things to buy. The boat was furnished just as when they had last seen it, although the hauling out had seriously displaced many of the articles. In the forward cabin,—or living-room, just as you had a mind to call it,—chairs and table had congregated against one wall as though holding a conference.
“Seems to me,” said Chub, “we’re going to need a lot of things. We ought to have new curtains all over the shop, cot-beds, bedding, some more chairs—”
“Well, we’ve got those all down,” answered Roy shortly. “What is most important. I fancy, is to have someone go over the engine.”
“You bet,” Dick agreed. “We can do without new curtains better than we can do without an engine. I’ve been looking at the batteries and wiring and they’re all out of kilter. We’d better consult Higgins and find some one who can fix up that part of it.”
“She doesn’t look much as she did last summer,” said Chub disappointedly.
“Oh, she will when she gets in the water and we have her fixed up,” Dick replied. “How about painting her outside?”
They climbed down and had a look at her from the wharf, finally agreeing that a coat of white on the house was necessary. Then they found the boat builder and talked it all over with him. As soon as he found that there was a prospect of work to be done he was all attention. He agreed to take charge of the matter, paint her as directed, have the engine and batteries thoroughly gone over and deliver her at a certain dock in the North River, New York, in one week’s time.
“Of course he’s lying, too,” said Chub gloomily as they made their way out of the yard, “but it’s a sweet lie. I don’t suppose he will have her ready before the middle of July. Some one of us will have to come up here every day or so and get after him.”
“Don’t you worry,” answered Dick, “Roy and I will camp on his trail, and by the time you come back she’ll be all ready.”
Chub allowed himself to be comforted, and they set forth in search of luncheon. They found it, but the least said of it the better. The next morning Chub left for Pittsburg, having bound himself as one condition of the agreement with his father to spend a week at home before beginning the cruise in the house-boat. While he was away Roy and Dick fulfilled their promise to keep after Mr. Higgins, and that worthy responded finely to encouragement. The boys went to Loving’s Landing three times during the week, the last time bearing with them the new curtains which had been purchased by Mrs. Porter and made under her directions.
Chub descended at the Porter’s bag and baggage
There were other purchases, too; cot-beds that folded into almost nothing when not in use, blankets, sheets, mattresses, and pillows, dishes and a few extra cooking utensils, new records for Mr. Cole’s talking machine, two brightly-hued and inexpensive Japanese rugs for the upper deck and numerous lesser things. The provisions were left to the last. They kept up an incessant and animated correspondence with Chub who hated to have anything done without getting a finger in it, and altogether that was a busy week. At the end of it, strange to say, the Jolly Roger actually appeared in her berth in the river, and the next afternoon Chub descended at the Porter’s bag and baggage.
CHAPTER VI
THE JOLLY ROGER
When I say that Chub arrived “bag and baggage,” I mean every word of it.
It was a delightful afternoon—July was almost a week old—and Roy, pausing before his front door and fumbling for his latch-key, looked westward along the street into a golden haze of sunlight. And as he looked, suddenly there appeared, huge and formless in the sunset glow, something that arrested his attention. For a moment he couldn’t make it out, but presently, with a rattle of wheels, it drew near and resolved into a “four-wheeler” piled high with luggage. It pulled up at the curb before the door, and Chub leaped out, bringing with him numerous packages.
“Hello,” greeted Roy; “come to spend the rest of your days with us? Why didn’t you bring the grand piano? Or is it in the big trunk there?”
Chub grinned and directed the transfer of his belongings from cab to house. There was a small steamer trunk, a whopping wicker trunk, a suit case, a case containing fishing rods, a case containing a shot-gun, three brown paper parcels, an umbrella, and a rain coat. The largest trunk was placed in the rear hall down-stairs, but the other things were carried up to Chub’s room. And when the confusion was over and the cabman, liberally rewarded, had rattled away, Chub deigned to explain.
“Isn’t that a raft of stuff?” he asked, throwing himself into a chair. “You see, Roy, after I’d got all packed up I came across two or three things I thought would be nice for the boat, and as there wasn’t time to do anything else, I just wrapped them up and brought them along. That big bundle is a corn and asparagus boiler, and—”
“A what?”
“Corn and asparagus boiler. It’s a great thing. I found it in the kitchen cupboard. It’s sort of oblong, you know, and there’s a tray that lifts out with the corn on it when it’s done. You see, we’re likely to have a lot of green corn and I was pretty sure we didn’t have anything big enough to cook it in. Good idea, wasn’t it?”
“Splendid!” said Roy. “Did they know you were taking it?”
“They do by this time,” laughed Chub. “I forget whether I made any special mention of it. There were so many things at the last moment, you see. That littlest bundle is a barometer. Every boat ought to have a barometer, so I borrowed it from the front porch. And the other—”
“Oh, you needn’t tell me,” sighed Roy. “I know what’s in that. It’s a sewing machine.”
“You run away and play! It’s a pair of white canvas shoes. I found them after the trunks had gone and there wasn’t room for them in the bag.”
“And, without wishing to appear unduly inquisitive,” said Roy, “may I ask what the large trunk down-stairs contains? You said it wasn’t the piano, I believe?”
“I’ll show you after dinner,” answered Chub. “I’ve got a lot of useful things in there. What time is it? After six? Then I must wash off some of this dust. My! it was a grimy old trip.”
“It must have been. How are the folks?”
“Splendid! They’re getting ready to go to the Water Gap. My, but I’m glad I don’t have to go too! I suppose, though, I’ll have to go there for a while in September. Is the boat done yet? Have you seen it?”
After dinner Dick appeared and Chub solved the mystery of the wicker trunk. The entire household gathered in the back hall while he displayed his treasures.
“What do you say to those?” asked Chub, pulling four sofa cushions out. “They’ll be just the thing for the window-seat in the forward cabin, eh?”
“We’ve got pillows for that window-seat,” said Dick.
“How many?” asked Chub, scathingly. “About six! We need a lot. Mother said I could have these just as well as not for the summer, so I bagged them. And look here! Camp-stools, don’t you see? You open them out like—like this—no, like this!—yes, this must be the way they go—how the dickens?—there we are! See? When we don’t need them they fold up out of the way—ouch!” Chub had folded one of his fingers in the operation.
“They’re fine!” laughed Roy. “We can use them on the roof.”
“Upper deck, please,” Dick requested. “What’s the red blanket, Chub?”
“That’s a steamer rug, and it’s a fine one. Feel the warmth of it. I thought maybe we’d want extra covers some time. And there’s an old foot-ball—”
“What’s that for?” asked Roy.
“Oh, we may want to kick it around some time when we’re ashore. It’ll be something to do. And this is an old sweater; I thought I’d just bring it along. And here’s a small ice-cream freezer. It only makes a quart, but that’ll be enough, I guess. And that’s a bag of salt. Mother thought I might as well bring it as buy new.”
By this time the audience was frankly hilarious.
“But do you know how to make ice-cream, Chub?” asked Mrs. Porter.
“Oh, anybody can make ice-cream,” he answered carelessly. “You just mix some cream and sugar and flavoring stuff up and freeze it. I’ve seen our cook do it lots of times. Here’s my electric torch. That’ll be handy, you’ll admit. And here’s a collapsible bucket. It’s great! I saw it in a store window one day. See how it folds up when you aren’t using it? That’s a box of soap; I knew you fellows would forget to put soap on your list.”
Neither Dick nor Roy had anything to say; they had forgotten.
“Those are some books I want to read. Have you read that one, Roy? It’s a thriller! Take it along with you. It’ll keep you awake half the night. These old trousers I thought might come in handy in case anyone fell in the water.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed Roy’s mother. “You don’t expect to fall overboard do you?”
“No, Mrs. Porter, but you never can tell what will happen,” replied Chub, wisely. “Those are shells for the shot-gun and that’s my fly-book. I should think we might find some good fishing, eh? Here’s a ‘first aid’ case. Mother insisted on my bringing that. I don’t know what’s in it, but I suppose there’s no harm having it along. Here are some curtains; I used to have them in my room until they got faded. I thought maybe we’d find a place for them. And this is an extra blanket. I just put it in so that the bottom of the trunk would be soft. And a hair pillow; it’s rather soiled, but that’s just shoe-dressing I spilled on it once. The laundress couldn’t get it all out. And I guess that’s all except this thermometer. Oh, the mischief! The plaguey thing’s broken! Throw it away. It was just a cheap one, anyhow. There, that’s the lot. What do you say?”
“I don’t know how we’d have got along without those things, Chub,” said Roy, very, very earnestly. “How we could have expected to go on a cruise without a foot-ball and a hair pillow and a collapsible bucket—”
“And a pair of old trousers and a thermometer,” added Dick.
“I don’t see. Do you Dick?” Dick shook his head gravely.
“We must have been crazy,” he said, sadly.
“Oh, you say what you like!” responded Chub. “You’ll find that all these things will come in mighty handy before we get back.”
“Of course,” said Roy, “even if we have to load them in another boat and tow it along behind.”
“Oh, get out; there’s plenty of room for this truck. You fellows are just jealous because you didn’t think of them.”
“I quite approve of the ice-cream freezer,” remarked Mr. Porter, “but I don’t just see how you’re going to work it without the dasher.”
“What!” exclaimed Chub. “Didn’t I put that in?”
“Well, I don’t see it anywhere; do you?” Then followed a wild search for the dasher. At last Chub gave it up and looked a trifle foolish.
“I remember now,” he muttered. “I took it out of the can so that it wouldn’t rattle around. I—I must have forgotten to pack it.”
He joined good-naturedly in the laugh that arose.
“Anyhow,” he said presently, “I dare say we can get along without ice-cream. It’s a bother to have to freeze it. And maybe we can use the tub as a bucket and keep something in the can; we could keep our milk in it.”
“I imagine that most of the milk we’ll have will come in cans,” said Roy. “You don’t expect fresh milk, do you?”
“I surely do. We can buy it at the farm-houses.”
“Condensed milk is cheaper, though,” said Dick, “because you don’t have to use much sugar with it.”
“Listen to Dickums!” jeered Chub. “He’s getting economical!”
It was finally decided to leave the ice-cream freezer behind, and the bag of salt was donated to Mrs. Porter “as a slight testimonial of esteem from the master and crew of the Jolly Roger.” Then the boys went up to Roy’s room and sat there very late, planning and discussing.
The next morning found them at the wharf bright and early, even Chub disdaining for once what he called his “beauty sleep.” The wharf belonged to a company in which Mr. Porter was interested and accommodations for the Jolly Roger had been gladly accorded. She lay in the slip looking very clean and neat. The new coat of paint had worked wonders in her appearance. Each of the boys had brought a suit case filled with things, and Chub carried besides the two camp-stools and a large crimson pillow. And while they are aboard unloading let us look over the house-boat.
The boys arrive at the wharf
At first glance the Jolly Roger looked like a scow with a little one-story white cottage on top, and a tiny cupola at one end of that. The hull was thirty-three feet long and thirteen feet wide and drew about four feet. There was a bluntly curving bow and the merest suggestion of a stern, but had it not been for the white cupola on top, which was in reality a tiny wheel-house, it would have been difficult to decide which was the bow end and which the stern end of the craft. The hull was painted pea-green to a point just above the water-line. Beyond that there was a strip of faded rose-pink, and then a narrow margin of white. The decks were gray, or had been at one time, the house and railings were white and the window and door trimming was green. So she didn’t lack for color.
Small as the boat was she was well built and, in spite of having been in use for several years, was in first-rate condition. It was nothing short of a miracle that so many rooms and passages and cubbyholes were to be found on her. Chub, in commenting on this feature, had said once:
“If you gave this hull to a regular carpenter and told him to build one room and a closet on it he’d be distracted. And if he did do it he’d have the closet sticking out over the water somewhere. But just look what a boat-builder does! He makes three rooms, a kitchen, and an engine compartment, all sorts of closets and cupboards, puts a roof garden and a pilot-house on top and runs a piazza all around it! Why, a fellow I know at home has a little old launch about twenty feet long and six feet wide and I’m blessed if he hasn’t pretty nearly everything inside of her except a ball-room! I’m blamed if I see how they do it!”
On the Jolly Roger, beginning forward, there was a living-room nine feet by ten. There were five one-sash windows in it, two on each side and one in front. Under the front window and running from side to side was a broad window-seat comfortably upholstered and supplied with pillows. Between two of the windows was a bookcase, in one corner was a cabinet holding a talking-machine and records, in the center of the room was a three-foot round table, and three wicker chairs were distributed about. Forward, in front of the window, a tiny spiral stairway of iron led up into the wheel-house above. It had been decided that if Harry and her father or mother joined them, a cot-bed was to be placed in this room, which, with the window-seat, would give accommodations for two persons. The living room gave into a narrow passage which traversed the boat. Across the passage at the other end was a door leading into a little bedroom, nine feet by five. This held a three-foot brass bedstead, one chair, and a lavatory. Above the bed drawers and shelves and a mirror had been built.
Back of the bedroom, opening from the deck, was the engine-room. The engine was of six horse-power and a very good one, in spite of Mr. Cole’s aspersions. The gasolene tank was on the roof above. The Jolly Roger had a guaranteed speed of five miles an hour, but the boys soon discovered that the guaranteed speed and the actual speed didn’t agree by a whole mile. The engine-room had no window but was lighted by a deadlight set in the roof. Beyond the engine-room, on the other side of the boat, was a tiny kitchen, or, as the boys preferred to call it, galley. This opened into the after cabin and was so small that one person entirely filled it. But in spite of its size it was a model of convenience. There was an oil-stove, a sink—you forced water from a tank under the deck by means of a little nickel-plated pump—an ice-chest, shelves for dishes, hooks overhead for pots and kettles, cupboards underneath for supplies and a dozen other conveniences. As Dick said, all you had to do was to stand in front of the sink and reach for anything you wanted. There was a window above the sink and Dick discovered that it was very handy to throw potato peelings and such things out of.
The remaining apartment was a room nine by seven which the owner had used principally to store his painting materials in. Previously it had contained only a cupboard, table, chair, and a small, green chest. But now two cot-beds were established on opposite sides. There wasn’t much room left, but it was quite possible to move around and to reach the galley. This after cabin opened on to the rear deck, about five feet broad, from whence a flight of steps led up to the roof, or, again quoting the boys, the upper deck.
This was one of the best features of the little craft. It was covered with canvas save where panes of thick glass gave light to the rooms below, and was railed all around. Outside the railing were green wooden boxes for flowers. Last summer these had been filled with geraniums and periwinkle and had made a brave showing. And the boys had decided that they would have them so again. Stanchions held a striped awning which covered the entire deck. At the forward end was the wheel-house, a little six by four compartment glassed on all sides, in which was a steering wheel—the boat could also be steered from the engine-room—various pulls for controlling the engine, a rack for charts, a clock, and a comfortable swivel chair. Near the stairs there was a little cedar tender, but this was usually towed astern. Stowed away below were some inexpensive rugs which belonged up here, and three willow chairs and a willow table. A side ladder led from the upper deck to the lower so that one could get quickly from engine-room to wheel-house. Topping the latter was a short pole for a flag. Such was the house-boat Jolly Roger, Eaton, master.
“Tell you what I’m going to do,” said Dick, when they had unloaded their bags and distributed the contents. “I’m going to try the engine. We’d better find out as soon as we can whether she’s going to run.”
“What do you mean?” asked Roy, anxiously. “Go monkeying around here among all these ferry-boats and things?”
But Dick explained that his idea was to keep the boat tied up. So they looked to their two lines which ran from bow and stern and Dick slipped into the engine-room. Presently there was a mild commotion at the stern of the boat which gradually increased as Dick advanced the spark. The lines tightened, but held, and Roy and Chub joined the engineer.
“How does she go?” asked Chub.
“All right,” Dick answered, cheerfully. The engine was chugging away busily and Dick was moving about it with his oil-can. “I didn’t have any trouble starting it. I don’t believe Mr. Cole knows much about engines.” There was a tone of superiority in Dick’s voice that caused the others to smile, recalling, as they did, his own vast ignorance of the subject less than a year ago. The summer before Dick had purchased a small launch and what he now knew of gas engines had been learned in the short space of a few months’ experience chugging about Ferry Hill in the Pup.
“Oh, Mr. Cole always said he didn’t understand that engine,” answered Roy. “Turn her off, Dick, or we’ll break away from the dock.”
“Wait till I see how she reverses,” said Dick.
“Well, start her back easy,” Chub cautioned, glancing anxiously at the lines which held them to the wharf. So Dick slowed the engine down and then threw back the clutch. The Jolly Roger obeyed beautifully, and Dick was finally persuaded to bring the trial to an end. Then they went over the boat again.
“If Harry brings her mother with her,” said Roy, “they’ll have to have this room.” They were in the forward cabin or living room. “We can put up a cot along here for Mrs. Emery and Harry can have the window-seat!”
“That’s all right,” said Chub, “but the only place to wash is in the bedroom. We’ll have to put a bowl and pitcher in here, and a looking-glass, too; ladies can’t get along without a looking-glass.”
“If her father comes with her,” said Dick, “Harry can have the bedroom, Doctor Emery can sleep in here on the cot and one of us fellows can have the window-seat. Then the other two can sleep in the after cabin.”
“Where’ll we eat our meals?” Roy asked. They looked at each other in perplexity.
“Mr. Cole ate in the after cabin,” said Chub, finally, “but there isn’t room there with those two cots set up.”
“I tell you,” said Dick. “While we’re alone we’ll take the cots out of the after cabin and use it for a dining-room. Roy can have the cot in here and I’ll sleep on the window-seat. Chub can have the bedroom; he’s captain, you know.”
“That’s a good scheme,” answered Roy, “but how about when the others come?”
“Oh, we’ll fix it somehow. Besides, maybe they won’t come. We haven’t heard a word from Harry yet.”
“Well, the letter had to be forwarded from Ferry Hill to her aunt’s, I suppose,” explained Roy. “We’ll probably hear from her to-day or to-morrow. Half the time we’ll be tied up to the shore, any way, and we can easily enough set that little table on the ground.”
“Maybe there’d be room for it on the rear deck,” suggested Dick. “Kind of under the stairs, you know. Let’s go and see.”
A survey of the space showed that the plan was quite feasible, especially as Dick volunteered to sit on the railing.
“There’s another thing we’ll have to have,” said Chub, “and that’s a place to wash when Harry’s with us. Suppose we haul that little green chest out here and put a tin basin on it. We could bring water from the kitch—the galley.”
“That’s all right,” laughed Roy, “but why not use your precious folding bucket and dip the water out of the river?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Chub responded. “That’s a good scheme. We’ll hang it on a nail, over the basin.”
“Where the mischief are we going to keep those extra cots when we’re not using them?” Dick asked.
“I found just the place for them,” Chub replied. “We’ll lean them up in the passage beyond the bedroom door and keep the outside door at that end closed. We don’t need to use it anyway.”
Other problems were solved, and then luncheon, which they had brought with them, was spread on the table in the forward cabin and they set to with a will. Before they had finished the florist appeared on the scene with geraniums and periwinkle for the flower boxes. By the time he had transferred the plants from pots to the boxes along the edge of the upper deck, he had managed to mess the new white paint up pretty badly and the boys spent the better part of half an hour cleaning up with water and brushes. By that time it was well toward the middle of the afternoon and they were quite ready to go home.
“If we can get the rest of the supplies in to-morrow morning,” observed Chub as he locked the last door and slipped the key in his pocket, “I don’t see why we shouldn’t start to-morrow after luncheon instead of waiting until the next morning. We could easily get up the river far enough to spend the night. What do you think?”
Both Roy and Dick were quite as eager to get off as he was, and it was agreed that if the groceries arrived in time they would begin their cruise at one o’clock on the morrow. When they reached Roy’s house they found a letter from Harry. Roy read it aloud.
Miss Emery accepts with pleasure the kind invitation of Messrs. Chub, Roy, and Dick, and will be ready to embark on the Jolly Roger at Ferry Hill at the time appointed.
P. S. Isn’t it lovely? Mama says I can come home the 20th and papa will go with me, although he says we can’t stay with you more than two weeks. But perhaps you didn’t want us for more than that. Did you? Do you think I might take Snip along? He will behave beautifully. Aunt Harriet says I’m certain to be drowned and wants me to carry a life preserver around in my hand all the time. Isn’t that funny? She’s taught me to make pie-crust and so I’ll make you all the pies you want. Won’t that be fine? I can make three kinds: apple, cherry, rhubarb. I can make mince, too, if I have the mincemeat. Don’t forget to write at once and let me know when you will get to Ferry Hill. Remembrances to Chub and Dick.
Yours truly, Harry.
“Well, I’m rather glad it’s the Doctor that’s coming and not Mrs. Emery,” said Dick. “Mrs. Emery is charming and kind, but a man will be less trouble. Hello, what’s the matter with you, Chub?”
Chub was gazing into space with an ecstatic smile on his face.
“Me?” he asked, coming out of his trance. “Nothing! I was just thinking of those pies!”
CHAPTER VII
THE CRUISE BEGINS
Behold, then, the Jolly Roger proceeding, as Chub phrased it, “under her own sail” up the Hudson River in the middle of a glorious July afternoon. There was a fresh little breeze quartering down the river and the surface of the broad stream was merry with whitecaps. The long, blue pennant which Dick had discovered in the wheel-house snapped and waved from the pole. Chub said he didn’t know what a blue pennant meant, but that since it looked mighty well they’d fly it. Roy hoped it wasn’t a demand for assistance or a token of sickness on board. They wanted to dip it as they passed Grant’s tomb, white and stately on the crest of the hill, but the halyards had got twisted, and by the time they were righted there was nothing to salute but a dingy little tugboat.
With both tide and wind against her the house-boat made slow progress, and Chub was inclined to be impatient.
“We’ll never get to Ferry Hill this side of Christmas!” he declared. “I vote we name her over, and call her the Slow Poke.”
Dick and Roy applauded instantly. Chub was at the wheel and the others were standing behind him at the open door of the wheel-house, ready with suggestions and assistance, Dick having been dragged away from the engine almost by main force.
“Fine!” said Dick. “Only she’s got Jolly Roger painted on her bow.”
“That’s all right,” said Chub. “Mr. Cole said we could do anything we liked with her. When we get to a town we’ll buy some paint and rename her.”
“It’s a good name,” laughed Roy. “I wonder Mr. Cole never thought of it himself.”
“Maybe he did; she’s had all sorts of names; he said so. Now what’s that little sail-boat trying to do? If she doesn’t look out she’ll get run over.” Chub blew the whistle warningly.
“We’ve got to get out of her way,” said Dick.
“What for?” asked Chub, haughtily. “Let her get out of our way.”
“Law requires sailing craft to give way to dories and such and steamboats to give way to sail-boats,” responded Dick, knowingly.
“Listen to the Ancient Mariner,” jeered Chub. But he pulled a lever that slowed down the engine, and so allowed the sail-boat to bob out of harm’s way. Chub had a chart spread out in front of him, and now and then he pointed out the places along the way with the manner of a discoverer, though Roy said it seemed more like a ride in a sight-seeing automobile.
“Manhattanville on our right, gentlemen. On the left historic Fort Lee.”
“What happened there?” asked Dick.
“I don’t know.”
“Then how do you know it’s historic?”
“All forts are historic,” answered Chub, loftily. “Across the river are historic Fort Washington and historic Fort George.”
“I suppose the next fort is historic Fort Cherry-tree,” muttered Dick, skeptically. “I don’t see any forts, anyhow. I’m going down again—”
The “Jolly Roger” begins her cruise up the Hudson River
“To throw more oil on that poor old engine,” mourned Roy. “Dick, let me remind you that oil costs money. You’ve already squandered about a gallon.”
“Get out! We only had a quart to begin with. I’m not going to put any more oil on, anyway; I just want to see how she’s working.”
“Dick thinks that if he isn’t sitting beside that engine holding its hand it’ll get mad and quit work,” laughed Chub. “Let him go, Roy, for goodness’ sake!” So Dick climbed over the side and disappeared into the tiny engine-room to sit on a camp-stool with a bunch of dirty waste in his hand and watch the engine fascinatedly.
The departure of the house-boat had been quite devoid of brilliant features. The groceries and supplies had been delivered early, suit cases and other luggage had been brought across town in a cab, and by noon all was in readiness. The boys had returned to the house for an early luncheon and afterward, accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Porter and Mr. Somes, had come down to the sea in two bright red taxicabs. The older folks had been shown over the boat and had then stood on the end of the wharf and waved good-by while the Jolly—pardon me, the Slow Poke had been warped out of the slip and had started up the river. But Roy’s parents and Dick’s father had not been the only spectators, and many and sarcastic had been the comments from the assembled wharf hands and loiterers. But the boys hadn’t cared. They had been far too excited and busy. The Slow Poke didn’t answer very readily to her helm, and as a result Chub, gallantly assisted by Roy, had run into the end of a pier and narrowly escaped colliding with a lighter.
At four o’clock Chub announced that the Slow Poke had accomplished about four miles. They were then off what Chub called “picturesque Tubby Hook.” Roy had to see the name on the chart before he would believe in the existence of any such place.
“What I want to know,” said Dick, who had again momentarily separated himself from the engine, “is where we’re going to lie up for the night.”
“Well, there’s no hurry,” said Roy. “By six we ought to be—where, Chub?” Chub did some lightning calculating.
“At Yonkers.”
“The mischief! That’s no place to spend the night,” said Dick, disgustedly.
“Why not?” Roy asked. “Some folks have to live there all the year round!”
“We don’t have to stop there,” said Chub. “We’ll cross the river and find a nice, quiet spot along the Palisades.”
“And as we’ll have to have some dinner—”
“Supper,” corrected Chub.
“You’d better start about now to get your hands clean, Dick. I never cared for the flavor of cylinder oil.”
“Seems to me,” said Dick, “I’m in for a lot of work. When I signed for this trip I didn’t know I was to be engineer and cook, too.”
“Oh, yes, you did, Dickums. You knew it, but you didn’t realize it.”
“Well, then, you fellows needn’t complain if you don’t get all your meals on time,” answered Dick, morosely.
“No, we won’t complain; we’ll simply throw you overboard. But I think Roy had better take lessons in engineering so that you can have your Thursday afternoons off. Dickums, take him down with you now and give him his first lesson.”
“I want to steer for a while,” said Roy. But Chub shook his head.
“I don’t feel that I can trust you,” he answered. “With all these young lives depending on careful navigation—”
The others howled.
“Considering that you hit everything in sight when we started out,” said Roy, “you’d better—” Chub viewed them scowlingly.
“This sounds to me like mutiny,” he muttered. “Kindly put yourselves in irons.”
Roy spent the next half hour studying “Somes on the Gas-Engine.” Toward six o’clock the Slow Poke chugged across to the Jersey shore and after some discussion a place was selected for anchorage. There was a break here in the rocky wall of the Palisades and a little stream meandered down through a tiny valley. The woods came closely to the river’s edge, and after getting the Slow Poke as near shore as her draft would permit, they carried lines from stern and bow and made them fast to trees. Then all hands set to to prepare supper. Chub established himself on the railing of the after deck and pared potatoes, pausing in his task whenever a boat went up or down the river.
“Say, Dick,” he called, “you ought to bestir yourself to-morrow and clean that oil stove. I can smell it out here.”
“Oil stoves always smell,” answered Dick from the galley.
“Not if you keep them clean. Maybe it needs new wicks.”
“Maybe it does. And maybe if you don’t finish paring those potatoes in the next hour or two we’ll have them for breakfast instead of supper.”
“I like your cheek,” murmured Chub resuming his task with a sigh. “I’m fairly working my hands off out here. What’s that loafer Roy doing anyhow? Why don’t you put him at work?”
“Don’t you worry about him. I’ve got him busy all right,” was the reply. “Say, did we order any salt, Chub? If we did I can’t find it.”
“Send Roy out here to pare these potatoes and I’ll look for it,” responded Chub insinuatingly.
“We’ve found it,” called Dick. “Aren’t you nearly done?”
“Sure; all done; been done for hours.” Chub slid off the railing and bore the potatoes indoors and watched them disappear into the pot of boiling water. Then he and Roy set the table. As each of them had his own convictions regarding the arrangement of knives, forks and spoons there was some confusion for a while. But half an hour later, all differences of opinion were forgotten. Sitting about the table in the tiny after cabin, they had their first meal on board. Through the open windows wandered a little evening breeze which, as Chub poetically remarked, “caressed their cheeks, flushed with the toil of the long day.” On one side the shadowed woods showed, on the other the broad expanse of the river, deeply golden in the late sunlight.
“It’s a perfect shame,” sighed Chub, “to spoil such an appetite as this. I feel as though I ought to keep it and treasure it as something valuable. Pass the ham, Dick.”
“I guess there’s no doubt about our being in New Jersey,” muttered Roy, slapping the back of his neck. “The place is full of mosquitoes.”
“That’s so,” said Chub. “I’ve been wondering what was getting after me so. I thought it was the bite of hunger.”
“I guess it is,” laughed Dick. “The bite of hungry mosquitoes. Say, they won’t do a thing to us to-night. Let’s move on.”
“Pshaw, we’ve got to get used to them sometime and we might as well start now. Mosquitoes don’t pay any attention to you after a while. Where’s the bread gone to?”
“You ought to know, Chub,” replied Dick, rising to cut a fresh supply.
“It’s a funny thing about mosquitoes,” continued Chub, helping himself to half a slice of bread which Roy had left unguarded. “Just you let them bite you a day or two and they get tired of you. I suppose they like a change of diet the same as the rest of us. Is there any more of the excellent tea, Dickums?”
Presently Chub pushed back his chair with a sigh of contentment.
“Come on, Roy,” he said. “Let us go up and sit on deck and watch the pageant of Nature while the hireling cleans up the dishes.”
“No you don’t!” retorted the hireling. “You and Roy will stay right here and help. You needn’t think I’m going to do everything on this blooming boat!”
“That smacks of mutiny, methinks,” said Chub. “What do you say, Roy? Still, I’ll stay and add my feeble assistance. I choose to wipe the dishes.”
Half an hour later they were sitting on the upper deck, their feet on the railing, feeling very much at peace with the world. To be sure, the mosquitoes were somewhat troublesome, but they strove to take Chub’s advice and bear the annoyance philosophically. A white light hung from the flag-pole above the wheel-house and from the after cabin a feeble glow spread itself over the water. They had left a lighted lamp there to fool the mosquitoes.
“They’ll think we’re going to sleep in there,” explained Chub. “And after they’re all on hand, sharpening their bills, we’ll sneak down and close the door.”
“And lock it,” counseled Roy.
“And stuff up the keyhole,” added Dick. “Only thing I’m afraid of, though, is that they’ll eat up all the provisions.”
But after a while Chub was obliged to acknowledge that his plan wasn’t proving entirely successful.
“I guess some of these mosquitoes haven’t seen that light,” he muttered, waving his hands about his head. “Suppose you run down and turn up the lamp, Dick.”
“I wouldn’t venture in there among all those angry mosquitoes for the world!” answered Dick. “They’d just simply tear me to pieces. I wish I had some pennyroyal.”
“I wish you had,” Roy agreed. “I’d borrow some. I wonder why mosquitoes always go for a fellow’s ankles.”
“They go for the biggest things they see,” explained Chub, “which, of course, are your feet. As they can’t bite through leather they tackle your ankles. They never trouble my ankles.”
“No, I suppose they go for your cheek,” retorted Roy. “What are you rubbing your ankles together for, if they don’t bite them?”
“Er—one of my feet is asleep.”
“So am I—almost,” said Dick, drowsily. “What time is it?”
“About half past eight,” said Roy. “What time do we have breakfast?”
“At eight, sharp,” answered Dick, yawning.
“That means getting up at seven,” murmured Chub. “Then I must go to bed at once or I shan’t have half enough sleep.”
“Being on the river certainly does make a fellow sleepy,” laughed Roy. “I suppose we’ll get used to it after a day or two, though.”
“Like the mosquitoes,” said Dick. “I wish I could believe that tale of Chub’s; it would help me to bear my present troubles with more—more—”
“Equanimity,” said Chub, helpfully. “It’s a scientific fact, though, Dickums. Why, after a week or so—”
“You said a day or two!”
“Or thereabouts, the mosquitoes simply won’t look at you. They won’t touch you even if you go down on your knees and beg ’em to!”
“I have a funny picture of myself doing it!” growled Dick.
“I don’t approve of these low expressions you use,” said Chub regretfully. “I suppose you learn them at school. You should choose your companions very carefully, Dickums.”
“I have since you fellows left,” answered Dick with a grin.
For a while the conversation turned to Ferry Hill and the fellows there, but as each of the three evinced an inclination to fall asleep in the middle of a sentence, the talk wasn’t very brilliant or interesting. Finally, Roy dropped his feet with a thud from the railing and stood up.
“There,” he said, calmly.
“Eh? What?” asked Chub, with a start.
“They’ve completed the circuit.”
“Circuit? What circuit? Who’s completed—”
“The mosquitoes have completed the circuit of my ankles. They have been around both and I am now going to bed. I’ve done my duty by them.” Roy stood on one foot and rubbed busily with the other.
“How nice,” murmured Chub. “Something accomplished, something done to earn a night’s repose. That’s me too. Let us go quietly and leave Dick to slumber peacefully on.”
“‘The yawning youth, scarce half awake, essays His lazy limbs and dozy head to raise,’”
observed Dick.
“Hello! I thought you were asleep!” said Chub.
“I was until some noisy brute awoke me,” complained Dick.
“Where’d you get the poetry?” Roy asked.
“That? I don’t just recall,” replied Dick sleepily. “I think I composed it myself. It was either I or Dryden.”
They stumbled down the steps to the lower deck, Chub begging them to go softly so as not to attract the attention of the mosquitoes in the after cabin, and sought their beds. Chub had the bedroom and the others shared the living-room, Roy using a cot and Dick the window-seat.
“Is everything all right for the night?” yawned Roy.
“I think so,” replied Chub from across the little passage. “I don’t know just what you do on a house-boat when you go to bed.”
“You lock the front door, fix the furnace, and turn down the gas in the front hall,” murmured Dick.
Sleepy as they were, slumber didn’t come to them at once. It was all rather new as yet.
“How’s your divan, Dickums?” asked Chub.
“Fine! I like a hard bed. How’s yours?”
“Great! Good-night.”
“Good-night. Oh, I say!”
“Well?”
“Got any mosquitoes where you are?”
“Have I. Plenty! Want some?”
“No, thanks.” A few minutes later,
“For goodness’ sake, you fellows,” called Chub, “what’s all that squeaking in there?”
“It’s my bed,” answered Roy. “It squeaks every time I turn over.”
“Well, don’t turn over then,” grumbled Chub.
And finally, just when Dick and Roy were on the borderland of slumber, Chub’s voice floated across again.
“Say, Dick!”
“What?”
“Did you let the cat in?”
Then there was peace and silence save for the contented, humming of the mosquitoes.
CHAPTER VIII
DRIVEN TO COVER
The next day after breakfast was over the Slow Poke took up her journey again. It had been decided that the proper thing to do was to get up the river to the neighborhood of Peekskill where, according to Roy, there was fishing to be had. “Besides,” said Chub, “we want to get away from all these towns. Civilization is wearying. I pine for the virgin forest.”
“I don’t believe you’ll find much of that around Peekskill,” responded Dick. “Look at the map!”
“Oh, you mustn’t believe all you see on the map,” answered Chub, cheerfully. “Something tells me—” placing a finger on the chart—“that here I shall find virgin forest. Also trout. Let us up and away.”
They chugged unhurriedly up the river all the morning, the engine much to Dick’s delight, working beautifully. At noon they tied up near Ossining and had dinner.
“I’d hate to travel on that,” said Chub, pointing with his fork to a steamer which was gliding by out in the river. “It goes so fast those people can’t begin to see the beauties of the country. Now with us it’s different. We catch sight of an object of interest at ten in the morning. At eleven we approach it. At twelve we reach it. At one we are by but still have it in plain sight. It fades from view at four in the afternoon. That’s something like. We have time to study and—er—assimilate, you see. Why, every feature of the landscape we have passed is indelibly engraven on my memory.”
“Oh, come now,” laughed Roy, “the Slow Poke hasn’t done so badly. We’ve come a good thirteen miles since breakfast.”
“What I’m afraid of,” said Dick, “is that if we keep on going like this we’ll be at the end of the river before we know it. How much more is there?”
“Only about two hundred and twenty-five miles,” replied Roy, dryly. “If we keep on at the present rate of progress we’ll reach the end of it in about eleven days—if we don’t stop on the way.” Dick looked relieved.
“Oh, that’s all right, then. Because we are going to stop, of course.”
“We’re going to do more stopping than anything else,” said Chub. “House-boats are intended primarily to stop in. As—as vehicles of travel they are not to be taken seriously.”
“My!” murmured Dick, “what a college education does do for a fellow!”
“English A is a great course,” agreed Roy, smilingly. “You’ll be so happy next year with your little daily themes, Dick!”
Dick groaned.
They wandered on again in the afternoon, Roy taking another lesson on the gas-engine, and stopped for the night in a little cove on the east side near Cortlandt. As it still lacked almost an hour of supper-time, they left the boat to stretch their legs on shore. They found a road and tramped along it for a quarter of an hour without finding anything more interesting than a farm-house. But the farm-house put an idea into Chub’s head. He stopped at the gate and pointed.
“Milk,” he ejaculated.
“Yes, but we didn’t bring anything to put it in,” Roy objected.
“It doesn’t matter. They’ll lend us a can, maybe. Come on.”
So they trudged up the long lane and knocked on the front door. Receiving no answer after a decent interval of waiting, they proceeded around back. At a little distance stood a big barn. Near-by was a well with a number of big milk cans beside it.
“There you are,” said Chub. “Maybe they’ll lend us one of those. Come on.”
The back door was open and from the little covered porch they had a glimpse of a very clean and tidy kitchen. Chub knocked. There was no answer.
“All out, it seems,” he muttered. He knocked again and then raised his voice. “Any one at home?” he asked.
There was. A big, rough-coated yellow dog bounded across the yard, the hair along his back bristling unpleasantly. His onslaught was so sudden and fierce that Dick, who saw him first, was the first one inside the door. But Chub and Roy were tied for second place, and the dog—well, the dog would have made a good third if Roy hadn’t had the presence of mind to slam the door a few inches in front of his nose.
“I say!” gasped Chub. “Did you see him? Isn’t he an ugly brute?”
“He certainly is,” agreed Dick, with an uneasy laugh. “Hear him, will you?”
The dog was growling savagely and sniffing along the bottom of the door.
“Nice doggie,” called Chub, soothingly. “Nice doggie! Go away, Rover!”
“Try ‘Prince,’” Roy suggested.
“Try it yourself! I wonder if there’s any one in here. You fellows look after the door and I’ll go and see.”
Chub walked through the kitchen into a little narrow entry and called loudly. But there was no answer.
He returned to the others.
“Still there?” he asked, in a whisper.
“I don’t know,” muttered Roy. “I don’t hear anything. Maybe he’s gone. Can you see from the window?”
Chub walked over to the nearest casement and looked out.
“He’s lying on the porch with his nose about half an inch from the door,” he reported, disgustedly. “He’s a Saint Bernard, I guess.”
“I don’t care what he is,” said Roy. “He’s a nuisance. What shall we do?”
“Put your head out of the window and yell,” suggested Dick. “They’re probably in the barn.”
“All right, but not that window,” Chub answered. He went to the farther side of the kitchen, raised the window there and yelled loudly.
“Hello! You in the barn! Call off your dog! Hello! Hello!”
But the dog started such a barking that Chub’s efforts were quite wasted.
“I suppose we’ll just have to make ourselves comfortable and wait for Mr. Farmer to come back,” he said, closing the window again.
“I tell you what,” said Dick, in a hoarse whisper. “We’ll get out the front door. If we close it quietly he won’t hear us.”
They looked at each other doubtfully. The plan didn’t seem to awaken much enthusiasm.
“That’s all right,” said Roy, “but if he did hear us—”
“I don’t believe he’d actually attack us,” said Dick.
“It didn’t look like it, did it?” asked Chub, sarcastically. “Oh, no, he’s a nice little playful pet, he is.”
“Well, we can’t stay here all night,” said Dick. “And for all we know there may not be anybody in the barn.”
“Of course there is! Do you think they’d go away and leave the back of the house all open like this?”
“Well, with that animal out there I guess they’d be safe to put the family silver on the front piazza,” retorted Roy. “But I guess there’s some one around somewhere. There’s a fire in the stove and that looks as though they meant to get supper.” The mention of supper brought back Chub’s valor.
“Well, come on, and let’s try the front-door trick. Go easy, fellows.”
They tiptoed across the kitchen, through the entry, and reached the front door only to find that it was locked and that there was no key in sight.
“Sometimes they hang it on a nail alongside the door,” muttered Chub, running his hand around the frame.
“Or put it under the mat,” said Roy.
“There isn’t any mat. Let’s try a window. Come on in here.”
He led the way into a dim and deserted parlor, a stuffy, uncanny apartment in which the curtains were closely drawn at the three windows.
“See if you can see Fido,” counseled Chub. Roy raised the shade at one of the windows on the front of the house and looked out. Beneath was a bed of purple phlox and beyond was a walk and a little space of grass. At the right was the lane—and safety.
“He isn’t in sight,” Roy answered in whispers. “But he may come.”
“That doesn’t matter,” answered Chub, recklessly. “I want to go home to supper. Push up the window.”
Roy obeyed. The sash creaked and screamed as he forced it up and they paused and held their breath, expecting to see the dog come bounding into sight. But nothing happened.
“You go first, Roy,” said Chub. “Dick and I can run faster than you.”
“Want me to have the first bite, eh?” laughed Roy, as he put a knee over the sill.
“Be quiet! Don’t make so much noise,” said Chub. “Get on out.”
Roy was sitting on the sill, his feet dangling above the flower bed.
“That’s all right,” he muttered, “but—say, Dick, go back and take a peek out of the window and see if he’s still there.”
“All right.” Dick tiptoed back to the kitchen.
“I don’t know,” said Chub, “that I should want the family to walk in now and discover us. We might have some difficulty in—Hello!”
He darted away from the window, leaving Roy blankly confronting a very tall man with a tangled black beard, who had suddenly and noiselessly come around the corner of the house. He wore dirty brown jumpers, carried a single barreled shot-gun, and wasn’t at all prepossessing. And beside him, still growling and bristling, was the yellow dog. Roy stared silently with open mouth.
Roy stared silently, with open mouth
