James Ellison continued figuring at his desk.

"Well," said Colonel Witham after some ten minutes had passed, "Suppose you didn't get me down here just to smoke. What d'ye want?"

"Oh, I'm coming to that right away," replied Ellison, still writing. "You know what I want, I guess." He turned abruptly in his seat, and his keen face shaded with anger. He pointed a long lean finger in the direction of the town of Benton. "You know 'em, Dan Witham," he said, "as well as I do. Though you didn't get skinned as I did. You didn't go down to town, as I did twenty odd years ago, with eight thousand dollars, and come back cleaned out. You didn't invest in mines and things they said were good as gold, and have 'em turn out rubbish. You didn't lose a fortune and have to start all over again. But you know em, eh?"

Colonel Witham nodded assent, and added mentally, "Yes, and I know you, too. Benton don't have the only sharp folks."

"And now," added James Ellison, "when I've got some of it back by hard work, you know how I keep it from them, and from others, too. Well, here's some more of the papers. The mill and a good part of the farm and some more land 'round here go to you this time. All right, eh? You get your pay on commission. Here's the deeds conveying it all to you—for valuable consideration—valuable consideration, see?"

The miller gave a prodigious wink at his visitor, and laughed.

"You don't mind being thought pretty comfortably fixed, eh—all these properties put in your name? Don't do you any harm, and people around here think you're mighty smart. Your deeds from me are all recorded, eh? People look at the record, and what do they see? All this stuff in your name. Well, what do I get out of that? You know. There are some claims they don't bother me with, because they think I'm not so rich as I am. There's property out of their reach, if anything goes wrong with some business I'm in.

"Why? Well, we know why, all right, you and I. Here's the deeds of the same property which you give back to me. Only I don't have them put on record. I keep them hidden—up my sleeve—clear up my sleeve, don't I?"

"You keep 'em hidden all right, I guess," responded Colonel Witham; and made a mental observation that he'd like to know where the miller really did hide them.

"So here they are," continued the miller. "It's a little more of the same game. The property's all yours—and it isn't. You'll oblige, of course, for the same consideration?"

Colonel Witham nodded assent, and the business was closed.

And, some time later, as Colonel Witham plodded up the road again, he uttered audibly the wish he had formed when he had sat in the miller's office.

"I'd like to know where he keeps those deeds hidden," he said, apparently addressing his remark to a clump of weeds that grew by the roadside. The weeds withholding whatever information they may have had on the question, Colonel Witham snipped their heads off with a vicious sweep of his stick, and went on. "I don't know as it would do me any good to know," he continued, "but I'd just like to know, all the same."

And James Ellison, his visitor departed, wandered about for some time through the rooms of his mill. One might have thought, from the sly and confidential way in which he drew an eye-lid down now and again, as he passed here and there, that the wink was directed at the mill itself, and that the crazy old structure was really in its owner's confidence; that perhaps the mill knew where the miller hid his papers.

At all events, James Ellison, sitting down to his supper table that evening, was in a genial mood.

"Lizzie," he said, smiling across the table at his wife, "I saw an old beau of yours to-day—Dan Witham. He didn't send any love to you, though."

"No," responded Mrs. Ellison, and added, somewhat seriously, "and he has no love for you, either. I hope you don't have much business dealing with him."

"Ho, he's all right, is Dan Witham," returned her husband. "He's gruff, but he's not such a bad sort. Those old times are all forgotten now."

"I'm not so certain of that, James," said Mrs. Ellison.



CHAPTER VI

CAPTURING AN INDIAN

Tim Reardon, a barefoot, sunburned urchin, who might be perhaps twelve years old, judging from his diminutive figure, and anywhere from that to fifteen, by the shrewdness of his face, stood, with arms akimbo, gazing in rapturous admiration at a bill-board. It was a gorgeous and thrilling sight that met his eyes. Lines in huge coloured letters, extending across the top of the board, proclaimed the subject of the display:

Bagley & Blondin's Gigantic Circus Two Colossal Aggregations in One Stupendous—Startling—Scintillating Moral—Scientific Applauded by all the Crowned Heads of Europe.

The pictorial nightmare that bore evidence to the veracity of these assertions was indeed wonderful and convincing. A trapeze performer, describing a series of turns in the air that would clearly take him from one end of the long bill-board to the other, was in manifest peril, should he miss the swinging trapeze at the finish of his flight, of landing within the wide open jaws of an enormous hippopotamus—designated in the picture as, "The Behemoth of Holy Writ." An alligator, sitting upright, and bearing the legend that he was one of the "Sacred Crocodiles of the Nile, to which the Indian Mothers Throw Their Babes," was leering with a hopeful smile at the proximity of a be-spangled lady equestrian, balanced on the tip of one toe upon the back of a galloping horse.

The jungle element was generously supplied by troops of trumpeting elephants, tigers with tails lashing, bloated serpents dangling ominously from the overhanging tree branches, while bands of lean and angular monkeys jabbered and chattered throughout all the picture.

Little Tim heaved a sigh.

"Gee!" he exclaimed. "I'd like to see that Royal Bengal tiger that ate up three of his keepers alive."

Little Tim, fired with the very thought, and emulative of an athlete in distorted attitude and gaudy fleshings, proceeded to turn himself upside down and walk upon his hands, waving his bare feet fraternally at the pictured gymnasts. He found himself suddenly caught by the ankles, however, and slung roughly across someone's shoulder.

"Hello, Tim," said his captor, good naturedly, "going to join the circus?"

Little Tim grinned, sheepishly.

"Guess not, Jack," he replied. "Say, wouldn't you like to see that tiger eat up a keeper?"

Jack Harvey laughed, setting Tim on his feet again.

"I'll bet that tiger isn't as great a man-eater as old Witham," he said. "They put that in to make people think he's awful fierce, so they'll go to the show. You going?"

Tim Reardon, thrusting his hands into his pockets and closing his fingers on a single five cent piece, three wire nails and a broken bladed jack-knife, looked expressively at Harvey.

"I dunno," he replied. "P'raps so."

Jack Harvey took the hint.

"Come along with us," he said. "Where's the rest of the crew?"

"They're going—got the money," said Tim.

Harvey looked surprised. His crew, so called because the three other members of it besides Tim Reardon had sailed with him on his sloop in Samoset bay, were generally hard up.

"All right," said Harvey, "you can go with Henry Burns and George Warren and me. Come on. Let's go down town and see the parade."

The blare of trumpets and the clashing of brass was shaking the very walls of the city of Benton. A steam calliope, shrieking a tune mechanically above the music of the band and the roar of carts, was frightening farmers' horses to the point of frenzy. Handsome, sleek horses, stepping proudly, were bearing their gaily dressed riders in cavalcade. And the rumble of the heavy, gilded carts gave an undertone to the sound. Bagley & Blondin's great moral and scientific show was making its street parade, prior to the performance.

Tim Reardon stood between Henry Burns and Jack Harvey on a street corner, with George Warren close by. Tim Reardon's eyes seemed likely to pop clean out of his head.

"There he is! There he is, Jack!" he exclaimed all at once, fairly gasping with excitement.

"Who is?" asked Harvey.

"The man-eating tiger," cried Tim. "It says so on the cage."

Harvey chuckled. "I'd like to throw you in there, Tim," he said. "He'd be scared to death of you. Here's the real thing coming, though. Say, what do you think of that?"

The float that approached was certainly calculated to fire the brain of youth. On the platform, open to view from all sides, there was set up in the centre the trunk of a small tree, to which was securely bound, by hand and foot, the figure of a huntsman, clad in garb of skins, buckskin leggings and moccasins. A powder horn was slung picturesquely from one shoulder, and a great hunting-knife—alas useless to him now—stuck conspicuously in his belt.

Around this hapless captive there moved the figures of three savages, their faces streaked with various hues of paint, their war-bonnets of eagles' feathers flaunting, and wonderful to behold. Each bore in his right hand a gleaming tomahawk, which now and then was raised menacingly toward the unfortunate huntsman. Again one would put his hand to his lips, and a shrill war-whoop would rival the screaming of the steam calliope.

Close by, a wigwam, of painted skins thrown over a light frame-work of poles, added to the picture. At the entrance to this there stood now a man in ordinary dress, who thus addressed the crowd through a megaphone:

"Ladies and Gentlemen, this historical representation which you now see before you is a scene from real life. It represents the perils of the plainsman in the midst of bands of cruel savages. It shows a captive bound to the stake and about to be put to torture. (Increased activity on the part of the Indians, and a suggestive squirming on the part of the prisoner.)

"Ladies and Gentlemen, this daring scout was one of General Miles's most trusted and heroic followers. (Name not mentioned.) He was captured by these three chiefs, Leaping Panther, Crazy Bear and Red Bull—a kinsman of the famous Sitting Bull—after one of the most desperate struggles ever known, and after twice disarming his adversaries and nearly killing them all. (Revengeful gestures on the part of the three toward the captive.)

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the continuation of this thrilling adventure, the rescue of this famous scout and the capture of Leaping Panther, Crazy Bear and Red Bull, will be enacted under canvas at the great Bagley & Blondin moral and scientific show this afternoon and evening."

"Hi! yi!" yelled Little Tim, "Real Injuns, Jack. Look at the big one, with the red streak across his chin."

Tim's shrill voice rang out above the noise of the procession. Perhaps it may have penetrated, even, to the group upon the float; for, at that moment, the great chief, Red Bull—kinsman to the sitting variety—turned and shook his tomahawk in the direction of the group of boys. Little Tim squealed in an ecstasy of pleasurable alarm.

"Look out; he'll get you, Tim," said George Warren.

"Gee!" exclaimed Little Tim. "Bet I wouldn't like to be tied to that tree, though."

"Why not?" asked Jack Harvey, grinning at Tim's serious expression.

"Because, how'd I know they wouldn't forget some time and go ahead and really scalp me? Oh, they might do it, all right. You needn't laugh. I wouldn't like to be mas-sick-ered the way they were at that Fort some-thing-or-other in the Last of the Mohigginses."

"Ho, you mean the 'Last of the Mohicans,'—the book I told you about, eh?" said Henry Burns—"all about Uncas and the rest."

"That's it," cried Little Tim. "Wouldn't I like to be Un-cuss, though, and scalp Red Bull."

"Fine!" laughed Henry Burns. "Come on, we'll go up to the circus grounds."

To Little Tim the afternoon was one glorious dream; a dream through which there pranced horses in bright trappings, ridden by be-spangled men and women; chariots rumbled in mad races; bicyclists shot down fearful inclines; and the whole proceedings made glad to the heart of the youngster by the roaring of wild beasts.

The impending torture of Gen. Miles's scout was happily averted by the timely arrival of a band of mounted soldiers, whose cracking rifles laid in the dust the painted warriors—barely in time to save Little Tim, also, from utter collapse. He emerged from the tent, some hours later, wild eyed; so freighted down with red lemonade and peanuts that if dropped overboard he must surely have sunk without a struggle.

Evening came, and with it the night performance. Night found Little Tim again on the grounds. True, he had no money for a ticket, but it was a delight to wander about the grounds; to climb upon the great carts and be chased off by angry circus men. The gaudy canvases, stretched here and there, reminded him of what he had seen inside; and he eyed them affectionately.

Once there was a thrill of excitement for him, when the Indian warriors, their evening act over, hurried past him in a group and disappeared within the opening of a small tent, on the outskirts of the grounds.

Time passed, and it had struck nine o'clock a half hour ago. The show would be over in half an hour more. Young Joe Warren, who had seen the main circus in the afternoon and who was strolling in and about the side-shows, suddenly found himself accosted by Tim Reardon, who gasped out a greeting as though the words choked him.

"Hello, Tim," replied Joe, eying him with astonishment. "Say, what's the matter? Any of the snakes got loose? You look as though they were after you."

Tim was breathless, sure enough, as though he were being pursued. His very eyes seemed to have grown larger, and he was hardly able to stand still long enough to reply.

"Come on, Joe," he whispered. "I'll show you something. Better'n snakes, a big sight. Easy now, don't talk. Follow me."

Young Joe Warren, a boy slightly taller than Tim and perhaps a year older, ready at all times for a lark, followed his barefoot guide, but on the look-out, half suspecting it was one of Tim's tricks. They threaded their way through a maze of carts and circus paraphernalia, out to the edge of the grounds; past a line of small tents, used as the encampment of the performers, to a grove of maple trees skirting the field.

"I say, Tim, what's up, anyway?" inquired Joe Warren presently. "You needn't think you can fool me—"

"Sh-h-h," warned Tim, turning and raising a hand to silence his companion. "Here he is."

He took a few steps forward, grasped Joe Warren's arm, brought him to a stand-still and pointed toward a figure that reclined upon a blanket spread beneath a tree.

"Well, what of it—what is it?" asked Joe Warren, "I don't see anything but somebody asleep."

Tim Reardon again gestured for silence and induced his companion to approach nearer. Whereupon he pointed gleefully at the face of the sleeper. Young Joe, bending down softly, beheld the painted features of the great chief, Red Bull.

"Hmph!" he exclaimed. "It's only one of the Injuns. Saw 'em at the show this afternoon."

Little Tim, in reply, seized Young Joe mysteriously by an arm, drew him away a few paces and whispered something, excitedly.

Young Joe gave a subdued roar.

"Cracky!" he cried, doubling up. "Tim, you're the craziest youngster. What put it into your head? We couldn't do it."

"No, you and I couldn't," answered Tim; "but the whole of us could—Jack Harvey and Henry Burns, and the rest of the fellers. Gee! Joe, just think of it. A real live Injun—a live one-'twould be just like the Last of the Mohigginses."

"What would we do with him if we got him?" asked Joe.

"Nothin'," replied Little Tim—"Oh, yes, we could,—take him off up stream to the camp and—dance 'round him, like they do in the show."

"Come on," said Joe Warren. "Let's find Jack and Henry Burns and George. They won't do it, though."

If one could have seen Henry Burns's eyes twinkle, when they had found the three a few moments later, however, they would have thought differently.

"Tim, you're all right," he said. "But how could we get him away from here?"

"Why, get the wagon," said Young Joe. "Come on, George, will you? I'll go down to the house for it, if you'll join. 'Twon't take more'n half an hour. You find Tom and Bob; they're 'round somewhere. Then wait here till I come back."

Young Joe, reading a half consent in his elder brother's hesitation, darted away. George Warren was not keen for it, however.

"Tim, you and Joe are a couple of young idiots," he exclaimed. "We're not going to do any such fool thing as that. We couldn't do it, in the first place."

"Yes we can," argued Little Tim. "He ain't got his tomahawk nor any scalping knife. And he ain't very much bigger than Jack."

Harvey drew himself up and felt of his muscle.

"Tom and Bob could lick him, without the rest of us," continued Little Tim.

Tom and Bob, who had been added to the group, likewise flexed their biceps and thought how strong they were.

"I ain't afraid," said Harvey.

"Nor I," said Tom and Bob, respectively.

Thus they argued. A half hour went by, and the band inside the tent was making loud music as a youth darted up to them, out of breath with running.

"Come on," cried Young Joe, softly. "I've got the wagon over back in the grove, and some ropes, and some cloth. Come and take a look."

To look was to yield. The sleeping, snoring figure of the great chief, Red Bull, gave no signs of suspicious dreams when, some moments later, a band of boys approached noiselessly the place where he lay. The moment could not have been timed more opportunely for success. The circus was about breaking up for the night, and the great tent was buzzing and resounding with noise.

A half dozen figures suddenly sprang forward upon the slumbering chieftain. The arms of the dread Red Bull, seized respectively by Jack Harvey and Tom Harris, were quickly bound behind him. A light rope, wound securely about his ankles by George Warren, and made fast in sailor fashion, rendered him further helpless; while, at the same time, a long strip of cloth, procured by Young Joe for the purpose, and swathed about his head, stifled his roars of rage and fright. Red Bull, the great Indian chief, the terror of the plains, was most assuredly a captive—an astounded and helpless Indian, if ever there was one.

Borne on the sturdy shoulders of his pale-face captors, Red Bull, bound and swathed, uttering smothered ejaculations through the cloth, was conveyed to the waiting wagon and driven away.

A little less than an hour from this time there arrived at the shore of Mill Stream a strange party, the strangest beyond all doubt that had come down to these shores since the days when the forefathers of circus chiefs had skimmed its waters in their birch canoes, carrying their captives not to pretended but to real torture.

Two canoes, brought down from an old shed, were launched now and floated close to shore. Into one of these was carried the helpless and enraged Red Bull, where he was propped up against a thwart. In front of him, on guard, squatted Little Tim. Jack Harvey and Henry Burns took their places, respectively, at stern and bow, equipped with paddles. The second canoe was hastily filled with the four others. They made a heavy load for each canoe, and brought them down low in the water.

"Easy now," cautioned Tom Harris, as the party started forth. "We're well down to the gunwales. No monkeying, or we'll upset."

They proceeded carefully and silently up stream, with the moon coming up over the still water to light them on their way.

A mile and a half up the stream, they paused where a shabby structure of rough boards, eked out with odds and ends of shingle stuff, with a rusty funnel protruding from the roof, showed a little back from shore, on a cleared spot amid some trees.

"Here's the camp," cried Harvey; and they grounded the canoes within its shadow.

The chief, Red Bull, clearly not resigned to his fate, but squirming helplessly, was conveyed up the bank and set down against a convenient stump. The canoes were drawn on shore, and the party gathered about him.

"What are we going to do with him, anyway, now we've got him?" inquired George Warren.

"Oh, he's got to be tried by a war council," said Henry Burns; "and all of us are scouts, and we've got to tell how many pale-faces he's scalped, and then he's got to be sentenced to be put to torture and scalped and—and all that sort of thing. And then we'll dance around him and—and then by and by—well, I suppose we'll have to let him go. I don't know just how, but we'll arrange that. But we've got to have a fire first, to make it a real war council."

They had one going shortly, down near the shore, and casting a weird glare upon the scene.

After a preliminary dance about their captive, in which they lent colour to the picture by brandishing war-clubs and improvised tomahawks, they sat in solemn council on the chief.

"Fellow scouts," said Henry Burns, addressing his assembled followers, "this is the great Indian chief, Magua, the dog of the Wyandots—"

"Whoopee!" yelled Little Tim, "that's him. He killed Un-cuss, didn't he, Henry?"

"The brave scout has spoken well," replied Henry Burns. "This is the cruel dog of the Wyandots; slayer of the brave Uncas; shot at by Hawkeye, the friend of the Delawares—"

"I thought you said he killed him—in the book," cried Little Tim.

"Shut up, Tim," said Joe Warren.

"He's alive again," declared Henry Burns, solemnly. "He was only wounded.

"Here is the cruel Huron," continued Henry Burns, "delivered into our hands by that daring scout who knows no fear."

Little Tim grinned joyously at this praise from his leader.

"What shall we do with our captive?" solemnly inquired Henry Burns. "Shall we show mercy to the slayer of the brave Uncas? Shall we be women and let him go, to roam the forests and ravage the homes of our settlers, or shall he be put to death?"

"He must die," growled Scout Harvey. "The daring leader has spoken well. Is it not so, men?"

The doom of Red Bull, otherwise Magua, the dog of the Wyandots, was declared.

The death of the captive followed swiftly—in pantomime—the brave scouts, under the leadership of Henry Burns, performing a series of dances about the helpless one, accomplishing his end with imaginary tomahawk blows.

"Now he must be scalped," said Henry Burns. "What say you, men, shall we cast the lot to see who takes the scalp of Magua, the great chief of the Hurons?"

It was done. The short stick was drawn by Little Tim—to his inexpressible joy.

"Take the scalping-knife, brave scout," said Henry Burns, handing him a huge wooden affair, whittled out for the purpose. "The scalp of Magua the chief shall hang at the cabin of Swift Foot, the scout who captured him."

Swift Foot advanced to perform the last act in the drama. It was a weird and dreadful moment. The fire-light cast its flickering glow upon the doomed chief, his captors and the executioner. The form of Magua was seen to quiver, as though life was indeed not all extinct.

Swift Foot performed his grim office with a flourish. The wooden scalping-knife descended upon the gorgeous head-piece of the victim, which the scout grasped with his other hand and pulled as he drew the knife.

But at this moment the form beneath the knife wriggled in the hands of the executioner; lurched to one side, and the head-piece fell away, so true to life that an involuntary shudder went through the group, as though the act had really been accomplished. The flaunting head-piece of eagle feathers fell indeed away, clutched in the hand of Little Tim. And, at the same instant, by some loosening of the cloth, that, too, dropped down, freeing the jaws of the Indian chief.

To their amazement, the fire-light shone now not on the straight black hair of an Indian, but upon a towsled top-knot of unmistakable red. While from the parted lips of the figure there issued a sound that was not of the child of the forest.

"Tim Reardon, yer little divvle," cried the victim, glaring at the astounded youth with unfeigned rage, "it's yerself I'll be takin the hair off—yer little scallerwag—an the hide of yer, too. Sure an ye'll be doin some lively dancin' around when I git me two hands on yer. Scoutin' is it ye'll be doin? I'll scout ye and the likes of all er ye. Lemme go, I tell yer,—"

The scalping knife dropped from the palsied hand of Swift Foot, the scout. He stood, glaring wildly at the outraged captive.

"Danny O'Reilly!" he exclaimed, gasping for breath. "Oh, gimminy crickets!"

"Yes, an it's Danny O'Reilly that'll be scalpin' ye all over from head to foot to-morrow," cried the captive, wriggling in his bonds. "Lemme out er this, I tell yez. Sure an I've got a hand out now, and in a minnit I'll be showin' the likes of ye what it is to take an honest man away from his job with the circus."

True enough, in some way, by his wriggling, Danny O'Reilly was rapidly emerging, not only from his disguise as an Indian chief, but from his bonds as well. Panic seized upon the brave scouts—a panic born of dread of what might be in store in days to come. There was a rush to the canoes; a hasty scrambling aboard; a frenzied launching of the craft, and an ignominious flight from the place of execution.

Five minutes later, one walking the highway leading up from Benton might have beheld a strange figure, striding in to the city, breathing words of wrath upon the night air; a figure clad in Indian finery, but bearing the likeness beneath his war-paint of Daniel O'Reilly, a stalwart labourer of Benton, for the time being a valuable accession to the Bagley & Blondin great moral and scientific show.



CHAPTER VII

A LONG RACE BEGUN

The circus remained two days longer in Benton, but there were certain youths who kept away from it. A solemn oath of secrecy bound them as to the reason why. Only Tim Reardon and Joe Warren couldn't resist the temptation of stealing in among the wagons and watching for the appearance of Danny O'Reilly in all the glory of his paint and feathers; and, when they beheld a crowd of farmers gaze upon him admiringly as he passed in for the Wild West performance, they nearly choked to death with laughter, and couldn't have run if he had espied them.

"Guess we won't get licked, after all," whispered Little Tim. "Not if we keep dark, we won't. Danny's going on with the show up the state. He told Jimmy Nolan, his cousin, and Jimmy told me. 'You'd never guessed he wasn't an Injun,' says Jimmy to me, 'unless I'd told yer. Don't you ever let on,' he says—and I like to died—hello, who's that coming?"

Looking in the direction pointed out by Tim Reardon, Young Joe beheld an old wagon, drawn by a lean horse, the seat of the wagon nearly bent down to the axles on one side by the weight of the occupant.

"Well, if it isn't Colonel Witham!" exclaimed Young Joe. "Didn't suppose he'd pay to go to a circus."

It seemed, however, that Colonel Witham had no immediate intention of entering the main tent, for he proceeded to walk along the line of smaller pavilions, where the side-shows proclaimed their many and monstrous attractions. The canvas of one of these presently attracted the colonel's attention, for he paused in front of it and stood studying it contemplatively.

Little Tim and Young Joe, stealing around in the rear of Colonel Witham, beheld the object of his curiosity. There was a full length portrait on the canvas, painted in brilliant colours, of a woman standing before an urn from which vague vapours were arising. She held in one hand a wand, with which she seemed in the act of conjuring forth a shadowy figure from within the vapours. A little black satanic imp peered coyly over her right shoulder. The inscription beneath her portrait read:

Lorelei, the Sorceress. Your Future Foretold—All Mysteries Explained—Your Fate Read by the Stars—Hidden Things Revealed—Lost Property Recovered.

Something about the gaudy and pretentious sign seemed to fascinate Colonel Witham. He walked past it once, reading it out of the corner of one eye; but he went only a little way beyond, then turned and stopped and surveyed it once more. He edged up to the canvas, sidled into the entrance and disappeared.

"Cracky!" cried Young Joe. "Isn't that rich? The colonel's going to have his fortune told. Wow! wow! Suppose he's fallen in love?"

"Not much," said Little Tim. "He wants to know where he's lost a dollar, probably. Hello, Allan, come over here."

Little Tim, in high glee, bawled out a greeting to a comrade, Allan Harding, and conveyed the great news. The three stood awaiting the colonel's reappearance.

If they could have seen within the tent, they might have beheld Colonel Witham, seated at a table upon which a light was thrown, its object being not so much to illuminate the occupant of the seat as to obscure his vision. It served to render more shadowy a vague figure that occupied a little booth across which a gauze curtain hung, and from which a voice now issued:

"I see a dusty road, with fields running back from it," droned the voice, with mysterious monotony, while the person behind the veil scrutinized keenly the figure and dress of her visitor. "I see a great house a little way back from the road, with—with what seems to be a porch in front."

"Yes, yes," said Colonel Witham, beginning to be impressed, ignoring the fact that his person indicated his occupation and that the description would answer almost every farmhouse along the road from Benton.

"I see a figure sitting on the porch, and it resembles—yes, it is yourself. You are thinking. There is something that you want to know. You do not seem to be in love—"

Colonel Witham snorted—and the hint to the sorceress was sufficient.

"The stars are very clear on that point," continued the voice. "Your mind is bent on more serious things. You have a business matter that troubles you."

"Wonderful!" ejaculated Colonel Witham, under his breath. "What else do you see?" he inquired, eagerly.

"Let me read the stars," continued the voice. "I see what looks like another man."

"Yes, yes," said Witham, forgetting in his eagerness that he had come in, half skeptical, and meant to reveal nothing on his own part. "Is he hiding anything?"

"Wait—not so fast," replied the voice. Then, after a pause, "No, he is not hiding anything."

Colonel Witham's jaw dropped.

"But," continued the sorceress, "there is something strange about him. Wait, until I ask the spirits. They will tell something. Yes, he has something already hidden. It is secreted. He has hidden something away. Let me see, are they papers? They look like papers, but it is vague—"

"And where are they hidden?" cried Colonel Witham, rising from his seat eagerly.

"The spirits will not say," answered the voice. "They seem to be angry at something. Ah, they say they must have more money."

"But I paid at the door," protested Colonel Witham.

"Yes, but they are angry," said the voice. "They are angry at me for taking so little for all I impart. They will have two dollars more, or—yes, they are already disappearing—quick, or you will be too late."

Colonel Witham groaned in anguish; slowly produced a shabby wallet, took therefrom two greasy dollar bills and passed them across the table to an outstretched hand.

"Ah, they are coming back," said the voice. "Another moment and it would have been too late. Now the stars are coming out clearer also. What is it they tell? Ah, they say—listen—they say the man has concealed papers that are wanted by you—concealed them in his place of business."

"Yes, yes, but where?" cried Colonel Witham. "In the safe, or around the machinery—where-abouts?"

"Listen," said the voice. "The spirits seem angry again—"

"Let 'em be angry!" bellowed Colonel Witham. "They'll not get another cent, confound 'em!"

"Softly, softly," said the voice soothingly, "The spirits are greatly agitated by loud words. And the stars are growing dim once more. The spirits want no more money. They will tell you all; that is, all you need to know. Listen: They say you will find the papers. But you must be patient. They are hidden in a building where there are wheels turning rapidly. And the spirits say the noise hurts their ears. They say, though, that you must wait a little while, and then you will go into the building and find them. That is all now. You will certainly get them. The spirits are gone. They will not come back again to-day."

The voice became silent; and Colonel Witham sat sheepishly in his chair. Then he arose and walked slowly to the doorway. Had he been fooled? He did not know. It was certainly strange: how the voice had described his hotel—a big house with a porch—and he looking out—and the other man—the man that had hidden the papers. No, there was something remarkable about it all. He would surely get them. Colonel Witham emerged from the tent.

A chorus of three young voices greeted him:

"Hello, Colonel Witham, been having your fortune told? Tell us what the witch said, will you, colonel?"

The colonel, gazing at the grinning faces of Tim and Joe Warren and Allan Harding, flushed purple and raised his cane, wrathfully.

"You little ras—" he began, but bethought himself and halted. "Ho, ho," he said, looking half ashamed. "That was only a joke. Just took a notion to see how funny it was. Here boy, give these lads some peanuts." The colonel produced a dime from his trousers pocket.

"Say, Tim," said Joe Warren some moments later, "I guess the colonel is in love, after all. Ten cents' worth of peanuts! My, he's got it bad. Let's go tell Henry Burns."

A day or two following, toward the end of a pleasant afternoon, Tim Reardon and his friend, Allan Harding, sat by the shore of Mill stream watching a small fleet of canoes engaged in active manoeuvring. It was at a point on the stream opposite the scene of the execution of the great Indian chief, where the small cabin stood. Back from this a few rods was an old barn, of which the boys of Benton rented a small section for the storage of canoes and paddles.

There were four canoes now upon the stream, each containing two occupants. The eight canoeists were stripped for the work, showing a gorgeous, if somewhat worn, array of sleeveless jerseys. The boys were bronzed and healthy looking. Back and forth they darted across the stream from shore to shore; or again, tried short spurts up and down stream.

"What are they going to do, Tim?" inquired his companion.

"Don't you know?" queried Tim, by way of reply. "Say, it's going to be the dandiest race ever. Start to-morrow morning right after breakfast from in front of the cabin, and go straight up stream all day long. Only when Jack blows the horn at noon everybody's got to stop and go ashore and eat something. Then they start again when Jack blows for 'em to. And paddle like everything all the afternoon till six o'clock. Then stop again when Jack blows, and leave every canoe just where it is.

"Then they get together and pitch tents and camp all night, and race back next day. And everybody has got to come up to where the first canoe is before they turn back. Henry Burns, he got it up. I'll bet he and Jack win the race, too."

"What'll you bet?" demanded Allan Harding, who had been eying the canoeists sharply.

"Thousand dollars," replied Tim, promptly, shoving his grimy hands into pockets that contained several marbles, a broken-bladed knife and other valuables.

"Well," replied Allan Harding, cautiously, "mebbe you're right, but I guess those fellows in the green canoe stand a good chance. Look how strong they are. Say, who are they, anyway?"

"Hm! Jack Harvey's stronger'n any of them," asserted Jim loyally, eying his stalwart friend, as a canoe passed containing Harvey and Henry Burns. "Those other chaps are Jim and John Ellison. They live up on the farm above here. That's what makes 'em strong. But you know Jack. Didn't he make us stand around, aboard the Surprise?"

"Well, who's going to win, Tim?" called Tom Harris, as he skilfully turned the canoe paddled by himself and Bob White, to avoid collision with one which held George and Arthur Warren.

"'Spose you think you are," answered Tim, "because you and Bob know how to paddle best. Look out for Jack, though."

Tom Harris laughed. "You'd bet on Jack if he had a broken arm," he said.

"Count us last, I guess," said George Warren, good-naturedly. "We're pretty new at it. Going in for the fun of it. Hello, who's this coming?"

"Look out, Jim, it's Benny," exclaimed the elder of the Ellison brothers.

"I don't care. I won't stand any nonsense from him," replied his brother, a handsome young fellow, athletic, but slightly smaller than the other.

Just what he meant by this remark was best explained when Benjamin Ellison, strolling lazily down to the shore, paused in the process of devouring a huge piece of molasses cake and said, in a sneering tone:

"My, Johnnie, don't you and Jim look fine though, with city chaps? What'll Uncle Jim say when I tell him—"

He didn't get much further, for a canoe shot in to shore, and from the bow of it sprang John Ellison. He seized his cousin by the shoulder.

"You will tell tales, will you?" he cried.

"Let me alone," replied the other, striving to shake off John Ellison's grasp, but failing. Then he added, as the other canoes came in to shore and the boys stepped out of them. "Can't you take a joke?"

"No, not when you've done the same kind of a thing before," exclaimed John Ellison. "Come on, fellows, in with him."

Ready for any kind of a rough joke, several of the canoeists laid hands on the unfortunate Benjamin.

"Most too many against one," remarked Henry Burns, quietly. "Better let him go."

"No, he's got to be ducked," insisted John Ellison, whose anger was aroused.

"Well, only a little one," assented Harvey, grinning good-naturedly. So they held the luckless youth heels over head and plunged his head beneath the surface up to his coat-collar. He was sputtering wrathfully as they lifted him out again.

"Going to tell on us?" cried John Ellison.

Benjamin Ellison glared at his cousin, doubtfully.

"Once more," said John Ellison; and they put the victim's head under again.

He wasn't hurt and his clothes were still dry; but he was whining, and he begged for mercy after the second ducking.

"I won't tell," he said.

"Honest?"

"Honest Injun!"

They let him go, and he departed hastily up through the field.

"Tell, will he?" queried Harvey, as Benjamin departed.

"Guess not," replied John Ellison. "He's got enough. He'd like to, though. He don't like you city fellows any better than father does. He hasn't got anything against you, either. He's too lazy to paddle. Come on, Jim, let's follow him up. Well be on hand to-morrow, if there's no trouble."

The brothers took up their canoe and left the party.

"They're all right, those Ellison chaps," said Harvey; "all except Benny. He's no good. Come on, fellows, let's lock up, and no walking in to town, remember. Running's good for the wind. Coming along, Tim?"

"No, I'm going to sleep in the cabin," replied Tim Reardon, "and see the start in the morning."

"Guess I will, too," said Allan Harding. So the two remained, while the troop of canoeists set off soon after, on the run back to Benton.

The following morning, the first of a double holiday, came in bright and clear. Little Tim and his companion were early astir, and cooking a mess of oatmeal from the cabin's scanty stores over a cracked sheet iron stove.

"There they come," cried Tim presently, as the sounds of fresh, boyish voices came from outside. "Hooray! I wish 'twas a yacht race, though. Wouldn't I go along?"

By nine o'clock the four canoes were fully equipped, drawn up in line off the cabin, and the canoeists, paddles in hand, arms bared, and sweaters tied around the thwarts, were ready to start. Jim and John Ellison were there, a sturdy pair of farm lads; Jack Harvey, apparently much over-matching his mate in physique, but with something in the slighter figure of Henry Burns that indicated resource and staying powers; Tom and Bob, old and hardened canoeists; and George and Arthur Warren, clean-cut and athletic.

"Ready for the horn!" called Harvey, holding his paddle in his right hand and a long, tin horn in the other.

"All ready!" sang out the canoeists.

Harvey put the horn to his lips and blew a loud, full blast. The paddles struck the water with a vigour, and the race was begun.

The three canoes shot ahead of Harvey's at the start, owing to the slight delay caused him in dropping the horn.

"Let them lead, Jack," said Henry Burns, quietly. "It's a two days' race. Take it easy."

"That's so," said Harvey, half pausing in a stroke in which he had started to exert his strength to the utmost. "Lucky I've got you. You always keep cool. How do you manage to do it?"

Henry Burns smiled, but made no reply. Instead, he pointed ahead to where the Ellison brothers, putting their strength into their work, were showing several rods of clear water between them and the two nearest canoes, which were going along side by side.

"They've got the race won in the first five minutes," said Henry Burns. "See Tom and Bob take it easy till they get limbered up."

The two thus indicated were, indeed, setting an example worthy to be followed. They had started off at an easy, regular stroke, one which they could keep up for hours and increase when they should see fit. They were paying no attention to the leading canoe, but were exchanging a word or two with the Warrens, who were striving to imitate their course and pace.

The first mile and a half that intervened between the starting point and the Ellison dam was quickly covered. The Ellison boys, still leading, were out on shore and carrying their canoe up the bank when the others were still some rods away. It was a steep pitch of the shore, and Tom and Bob, when they came to it, took it leisurely, saving their wind. The others followed, in like fashion. Harvey and Henry Burns were the last to make the portage.

Once around the dam, on higher level, the canoes were launched again, and the race continued.

A little way up the shore from the dam, Tom and Bob and the Warren boys, some distance ahead of the rear canoe, saw an odd little figure swinging and swaying in the top of a birch tree overhanging the water. The Ellison boys had passed her unnoticed. Her bit of skirt fluttering, and her hair waving, showed that the occupant of this novel swing was a girl.

All at once, to their horror, she seemed to slip and fall. Down she came from her perch, struck the water with a splash and sank beneath the surface.

Tom and Bob, driving their paddles into the water with desperate energy, darted on ahead of the Warren boys, who bent to the paddles and shot after them. The two canoes fairly flew through the water, while the four occupants gazed anxiously ahead over the surface for signs of the girl's reappearance.

To their amazement, a laughing voice hailed them most unexpectedly, from shore. They looked toward the bank, where, just emerging, dripping wet, the girl was waving a hand to them.

"How was that for a dive?" she called, pushing her wet hair back from her eyes, and looking at them roguishly.

"Bully!" exclaimed George Warren, wiping the drops of perspiration from his forehead. "We thought you had fallen. My, but it gave me a scare."

The girl's eyes danced with merriment. Then espying the other canoe coming up, she called, "Hello, you back again? Look out Ellison don't catch you."

"It's Bess Thornton," said Henry Burns, and the two boys called out a greeting to her.

"Say, do you know Tim Reardon?" she asked abruptly.

"Why, yes," answered Henry Burns. "Should say we did."

"Well," said Bess Thornton, "tell him you saw me dive from the tree, will you? He didn't think I dared, when I told him." Then she added, laughing, "Don't get rained on again. But if you do, remember the mill." And she danced away, wringing the water from the hem of her short skirt.

"Confound her!" exclaimed Harvey. "Look at the start Jim and John have got. Come on, Henry."

They pushed on again, Tom and Bob soon taking the lead of the three rear canoes, with a strong steady stroke that meant business. The first canoe was by this time a quarter of a mile ahead.



CHAPTER VIII

CONQUERING THE RAPIDS

This part of the stream, for some two miles above the Ellison dam, was deep, still water, lying between quite steep banks, and there was little perceptible current. So that now, the water being unruffled by any wind, the four canoes shot ahead at good speed, retaining generally their relative positions.

Tom and Bob gradually quickened their stroke, hoping to make some slight but sure gain on the leaders; but the Ellison brothers were evidently of a mind to hold their lead as long as possible, and continued to do so. This, however, was at the cost of some extra exertion, which might tell in the long run.

In the course of half an hour, after leaving the dam, the current began to flow faster against them; now and then it came down over shoals of quite an incline, so that they made better headway by getting out their setting-poles and using them, instead of the paddles.

Then, at a point a mile farther up stream, they came to rapids of some considerable extent, flowing quite swiftly and boiling here and there around sunken rocks. The Ellison brothers had avoided this place, and were to be seen now, on the right bank of the shore, carrying their canoe with difficulty.

The shore here was broken up by the out-cropping of ledges, amid the breaks of which a canoe must be carried with great care, as a false step would mean a bad fall and perhaps the smashing of the canoe. The only other alternative, besides the water, was to make a long detour through the off-lying fields, with loss of time.

Tom and Bob guided their craft swiftly in to land and proceeded to drag it ashore, as the Ellison boys had done. The Warren brothers followed, and Jack Harvey was turning his canoe in the same direction when a word from his companion caused him to cease paddling.

"Jack," said Henry Burns, "I think we could make the rapids. What do you say? If we win out, we may be in time to call the Ellison fellows back."

It was a rule of the race that, if a canoe succeeded in ascending any difficult place in the stream, the successful pair was entitled to call back any of the other canoes that were still carrying around the place, and make them do likewise. If, however, any of the canoeists had made the carry completely, and had launched their craft above, they could not be called back.

The Ellison brothers were about half way up the carry at this time.

"I don't think we could do it, Henry," answered Harvey, to the other's suggestion. "We could get part of the way up, all right, but the last few rods are too steep."

He pointed, as he spoke, to the upper incline of the rapids, which was, indeed, much sharper than the first of the ascent, bending over from the higher level of the stream abruptly, like a sheet of rounded, polished ebony; flowing smoothly but with great swiftness; then broken here and there below with rocks, sharp and jagged, and foaming threateningly as it whirled past them.

"I think we can do it, Jack," insisted Henry Burns, quietly. "I remember the place. The water was a little higher when we came through in the rain; but we ran these rapids, and don't you remember, half way down that steepest part, we thought we were going to hit a sunken ledge—just to the right of the middle of the slope?"

"Why, yes, seems to me I do," replied Harvey, gazing ahead. "But I didn't care much what we hit that evening, I was so wet and tired."

"Well, look now," continued Henry Burns. "You can see the water whirling at that very spot. The ledge doesn't show above water, but it's there. What's the matter with working up to that, hanging on it till we get rested, and then make one quick push up over the top?"

"Oh, well," said Harvey, "I'm game. You seem to guess things right. We'll try it, anyway."

They pushed on into the first of the rapids, while the Ellison brothers, turning and espying what they were attempting, redoubled their efforts to make the carry. Tom and Bob cast a glance back, and also continued along the carry; but George and Arthur Warren, having seen Henry Burns's schemes work successfully before, turned and came out to the rapids. There they waited, ready to make the attempt should they see it prove successful, or to be in a position to put hurriedly for shore should it prove a failure.

"Better come on. You're wasting time," called Tom Harris once, as he set his end of their canoe down on a shelf of ledge. But Henry Burns made no reply, while Harvey only waved his paddle defiantly.

For several rods, Harvey and Henry Burns made fair progress, working quick and sharp, plying their paddles with rapid thrusts. Little clumps of white froth floated fast by them, indicating the swift running of the water, and its disturbance. Then the stronger current caught them, and they barely forged ahead. By the appearance of the water, looking down upon it as they struggled, they seemed to be flying; but it was the water, and not they, that was moving rapidly. They hung close by the little points of projecting ledge for moments at a time, making no headway. They redoubled their efforts, drove their paddles through the water with desperate energy, and gained the first mark they had set.

Slowly the bow of the canoe crept up to a spot where the keen eyes of Henry Burns had noted the sunken ledge, at a point only a rod from the upper incline. This ledge did not show above water, but the boiling of the stream and an almost imperceptible sloping of the surface on either hand showed that it was there.

Henry Burns leaned over the side of the canoe and gazed anxiously. Should the water there prove deeper than he had hoped, they would not ground, and must be carried back, their strength exhausted. But he had not been mistaken.

In a moment the water suddenly shallowed. A hard thrust with the paddles, and the canoe grated gently.

"Easy, Jack," cried Henry Burns. "She's hit. Get out the pole."

Harvey seized the setting-pole from the bottom of the canoe, dropping his paddle in its place. He thrust it quick and with all his strength into the swift-running water. At a depth of about three feet it caught the rocky bottom and held. Harvey braced with the pole and shoved the bow of the canoe, which had touched on the part of the ledge that was close to the surface, a little farther ahead.

"Great!" shouted Henry Burns. "Take it easy now. She'll stay if the pole don't slip."

Harvey relaxed his exertions, holding the pole at an angle sufficient to keep the canoe where it was, with only slight pressure. Henry Burns, dropping his own paddle and likewise taking up his setting-pole, got a grip in the rocks and aided his companion. They could rest now, with the swift water rushing past them on either bow, and recover their wind and strength for the final struggle.

Their plan was, when they should have rested, to let the canoe drop back about a foot, enough to clear the sunken ledge; then, before the current should catch them, to shove out into it quickly, turn the bow of the canoe to meet the rush of the rapids, and push over with the poles, by main strength. They could do it, if, as Henry Burns expressed it, the canoe "did not get away from them."

The five minutes they waited seemed like hours. Away up along the carry, they could see the Ellison brothers, lifting their canoe across the broken bits of shore; Tom and Bob some way behind these, hurrying as fast as they dared over the treacherous footing. But now, as they gathered their strength, and gently shoved their canoe back, a cry from Tom, who had noted their move, arrested the progress of the Ellison boys. They paused for a moment and, with Tom and Bob, watched the outcome, eagerly.

Alas! it was sharp and bitter for Henry Burns. The canoe hung for a moment, as they arrested its drifting with strong thrusts of the poles. Then it shot ahead, as they pushed its nose diagonally out into the sharp slope of the rapids. Henry Burns thrust his pole down hard, as they cleared the sunken ledge, to swing the bow straight into the current. But the bottom proved treacherous.

It was all over so quickly that neither he nor Harvey knew hardly how it had happened. He only knew that the pole did not catch, but instead, struck the slippery face of a smooth bit of the rocky channel, slipped, gave way, and that he barely recovered his balance to avoid going overboard.

The next moment, the canoe had swung around, receiving the full force of the current broadside. A moment more, they were running with it and being borne down to where George and Arthur Warren greeted them with cries—not all sympathetic—of "hard luck."

They had hardly got their canoe under control and turned it into an eddy, and had realized the unhappy turn of affairs, when a shout of derision and triumph came down to them from the Ellisons. They had made the carry successfully and were launching their canoe in the smooth water above.

The Warren boys lost no time in paddling for shore. Tom and Bob, seeing the discomfiture of their rivals, quickly picked up their canoe and proceeded along the carry. Harvey looked inquiringly at Henry Burns, who turned, smiling and unruffled.

"Well?" said Harvey, "got enough?"

"No," replied Henry Burns, and added deliberately, with a twinkle in his eyes, "we might as well do it, now we've started. We've got two days to get up over there in, you know."

"Good for you!" exclaimed Harvey. "Come on, if you're ready. We've got time yet before Tom and Bob make the carry."

They bent to the paddles and got once more to the sunken ledge, panting and perspiring, for they had worked hard and the current seemed, therefore, even swifter now than before. There, holding their canoe in place, they waited a little longer than on the first attempt, to rest and study the current.

"Let's try the right hand from the ledge this time," said Henry Burns. "Those whirls mean shallow places. Perhaps the bottom isn't so slippery."

He pointed at some almost imperceptible breaks in the ebony surface of the slope, and Harvey agreed.

"I can shove this canoe up over there as sure as you're alive," said Harvey, gazing proudly at a pair of muscular arms that were certainly eloquent of strength; "that is, if you can keep her head straight. Don't try to do much of the poling. Just try to hold what I gain each time, till I can get a fresh hold. What do you say—rested enough?"

"Aye, aye, captain," replied Henry Burns, coolly. "Up we go."

Again the canoe dropped back a little from the ledge, and again they caught and held it and shoved out into the current—this time on the right, instead of the left side.

Their comrades ashore watched anxiously. They saw the canoe strike the swift running of the water and hang for a moment, as if irresolute, uncertain whether it would turn its bow upstream or be swerved broadside. The moment it hung there seemed minutes in duration. They saw Henry Burns, lithe and agile, but cool and self-possessed, strike his pole into the slope of the water where he had seen a shallow spot. And the pole held.

The watchers ashore saw the canoe slowly turn and face the swift current, lying upon its polished slope as though upon a sheet of glass. They saw Harvey in the stern set his pole and shove mightily, his muscles knotted and his face drawn and grim with determination. They saw the canoe slowly gain against the current.



At the edge of the slope it stood still for what seemed an age. They saw the two in bow and stern struggle desperately again and again to wrest their craft from the clutch of the current. Then, almost with a leap, freed from the fierce resistance of the rapids, the canoe slid over the brink of the incline, into the deeper part of the stream above.

A moment later, they saw the poles dropped and the paddles snatched up. The canoe shot swiftly ahead, propelled by triumphant arms. The rapids were conquered. Henry Burns and Harvey had won their hard fight.

In vain had Tom and Bob, hurrying recklessly, bumping their canoe along the rough shore, essayed to complete the carry before it would be too late. To their chagrin and dismay, the sound of a horn blown three times with a vigour announced to them the triumph of their comrades. Sadly they shouldered their canoe, which they had set down at the first blast of the horn, and turned their faces back along the trail, toward the foot of the rapids.

Likewise, the Warren boys, accepting the inevitable, turned back and prepared to attempt the difficult feat which they had seen accomplished. At all events, they were, by reason of their position in the rear of Tom and Bob, in possession of that much advantage over the more skilled canoeists.

"Whew! but that was a tough one," exclaimed Harvey, dipping his paddle leisurely, and recovering his breath. "Say, look at poor old Tom and Bob—the champion canoeists. Bet they feel sore."

Henry Burns turned, looked back and smiled. Then, gazing up stream again, he said, "Yes, but look there."

At a bend of the stream, fully a half mile ahead, the first canoe was gliding easily along.

Harvey groaned. "And they'd be back there, too," he exclaimed, "if we hadn't made that slip. Never mind, there's another day coming."

It seemed a long, long time, and they, themselves, had reached a point fully a half mile above the rapids, before they espied first one canoe and then another achieving the incline. They could not discern which was in the lead, but it proved later to be the canoe handled by Tom and Bob, the Warrens having made two failures before succeeding, giving time to the others to come up and pass them. They were about abreast now, coming along slowly.

It was smooth paddling now, along the shores of green meadows and pasture land, until noon arrived. Then, at the signal of four blasts of the horn, by Harvey, answered in turn by all the others above and below, the canoes were drawn out on shore and luncheon was eaten. They built no fires, but ate what they had brought, cold. With an hour to rest in, the leaders strolled back to where Harvey and Henry Burns were, and chaffed them good-naturedly on their failure to make them take the rapids, and over their own strong lead. To which, Harvey and Henry Burns, being good sportsmen, replied good-humouredly, assuring the Ellisons they should beat them on "the next hard place."

The other canoeists remained where they were, and ate their luncheons together.



CHAPTER IX

AN EXCITING FINISH

When, at about two o'clock that afternoon, the sound of the horn, blown four times by Jack Harvey, announced that the race was resumed, there was a do-or-die expression on the faces of Tom Harris and Bob White. Harvey and Henry Burns were a good half mile ahead of them; the Ellisons fully a mile.

Not that this was disheartening to athletic lads in good training, who had learned in many a contest of skill and strength to accept a result fairly won, even though they were beaten. On the contrary, here was a contest worth the winning, now that the odds were against them. Their first pique, over the clever move of Henry Burns that had set them back in the race, having subsided, they were ready to give him credit for carrying it out.

But they were still bound to win. So that soon, settling down to a strong, vigorous stroke, which had often carried them over miles of rough water in Samoset Bay, they gradually drew ahead of George and Arthur Warren. They seemed tireless. Their muscles, trained and hardened, worked like well oiled machinery. In vain the Warren brothers strove to keep up the pace. They were forced finally to fall back. That quick, powerful thrust of the paddles, as Tom and Bob struck the water with perfect precision, sent the light canoe spurting ahead in a way that could not be equalled by less trained rivals.

Henry Burns and Jack Harvey, toiling manfully, seemed to feel that they, too, were being out-paddled; for ever and again one of them would glance back over his shoulder; after which he would strike the water with a sharper thrust, and the canoe would respond to the fresh endeavour.

"They'll gain some," said Henry Burns once, calmly. "We can't help that. They've had too many years of it, not to be able to set a stronger pace. But they can't catch us in one afternoon. If they do, we're beaten. We'll hold some of our advantage, eh, Jack?"

"You bet we will!" exclaimed Harvey, jabbing the water savagely. "I'm going to make a gain, myself, if only for a spurt."

So saying, he called to his companion to "give it to 'em lively," and they set a pace for the next fifteen minutes that did, indeed, exceed the speed at which Tom and Bob were travelling. But spurts such as that would not win a two days' race. Gradually they fell back into their normal swing, and Tom and Bob crept up on them once more.

The Ellisons, too, were feeling the strain of the long test of skill and endurance. Now, as the afternoon hours went by, their stroke fell off slower and slower. Heavier built somewhat than Tom and Bob, their muscles, hardened and more sluggish with harder work, did not respond to the call. Harvey and Henry Burns were gaining on them; and Tom and Bob were gaining on both.

On went the four canoes; up rapids or around them, as proved necessary according to the depth of the water. Harvey and Henry Burns, seeing they were gaining on the leaders, would take no more chances on questionable rapids, but carried around those that the Ellisons did. Tom and Bob and the Warrens also took the readiest way around each difficulty.

Had the race a few more hours to run for that afternoon, it is certain Tom and Bob must have overtaken and passed their rivals. But now the time for the end of the first day's contest was at hand, and presently Harvey, after a glance at his watch, lifted the horn to his lips. Four blasts sounded far up and down the still waters, and four answering blasts came from each canoe. The first day's race was done. The canoes headed for shore. It was six o'clock, and the Ellisons were still in the lead.

But the margin was not now so great. Between them and the nearest canoe there was not over a quarter of a mile of winding stream. Harvey and Henry Burns had done well. But Tom and Bob had accomplished even more. Scarcely more than an eighth of a mile intervened between their craft and the canoe of Harvey and Henry Burns. The Warrens had paddled gamely, also, but were fully three quarters of a mile behind the leaders.

Leaving their canoes drawn up on shore, at precisely the spot where each had been at the sound of the horn, the boys met together now and shook hands all around. It was clean, honest sport, and no mean jealousy.

"But look out for to-morrow," said Tom Harris, good-naturedly shaking a fist at Jim Ellison.

They brought forth now from each canoe a light frame-work of three bamboo poles, standards and cross-piece, and a thin, unbleached cotton "A" tent, and quickly pitched the four tents on a level piece of ground, in a semi-circle. The tents were flimsy affairs, light to carry, and would not do in rainy weather; but they had picked their day, and it was clear and no danger of a wetting.

Then, for there had been a careful division of weight, each canoe furnished some necessary article for getting the supper: a pail for boiling coffee from one, fry-pan from another, and so on; with bacon for frying, and bread and potatoes. They soon had a fire going in the open space in front of the four tents, with a log rolled close to it, and the coffee-pail hung on a crotched stick, set aslant the log and braced in the ground. The bacon sizzled later in the pan, set on some glowing coals. The potatoes were buried in the hot ashes, under the blaze, just out of reach of burning.

The canoeists stretched themselves on the ground around the fire, hungry and healthfully wearied. Twilight was upon them when all was ready, and they had removed the feast away from the warmth of the fire, piling on more wood and making it blaze up brightly for its cheer.

Then they fell to with amazing appetites; and the amount of crisp bacon and hot potatoes and bread they made way with would have appalled the proprietor of the Half Way House, or any other hotel keeper, if he had had to supply it. Then, when they had startled the cattle in near-by pastures with a few songs, heartily if not so musically bawled, they were ready to turn in for the night, almost with the glowing of the first stars. It was surprising how soon they were off to sleep, each rolled in his single blanket, slumbering soundly on the bare turf.

"Well?" remarked Henry Burns inquiringly, next morning, sitting up and looking at his companion, who had scarcely got his eyes open. Harvey gave a yawn, stretched and roused up. "I feel fine," he answered. "Lame any?" "Not a bit," replied Henry Burns.

Stepping outside the tent, he found, to his surprise, Tom and Bob already up and their tent and blankets snugly packed and stowed.

"Have a plunge?" asked Bob.

"Yes," said Henry Burns. "Come on, Jack?"

The four went down to the shore, leaving the others still finishing their morning naps. One quick plunge and they were out again, ready for breakfast. It was plain they were ready for the day's race. So said Jim and John Ellison, when they were out, some minutes later. But Henry Burns gave a sly wink at Harvey, as his sharp eye observed the motions of the brothers when they came to strike their tent. Nor did he fail to note the quickness with which Jim Ellison dropped his right arm, when he had raised it once over his head.

"Just a bit lame," said Henry Burns, softly. "We'll give it to 'em hard at the start, before they get limbered up."

Breakfast eaten, and the camp equipments stowed, they all proceeded now to the spot where the Ellisons' canoe was drawn ashore. There they set up a pole cut for the purpose. It marked the turning point of the race. At the signal, the Ellisons could start down stream from there; and each canoe must go up stream to that point before it could begin its home run.

It was a race now, as Henry Burns expressed it, for glory and for dinner. They had eaten their stock of food and would stop for nothing more till they reached camp. They had covered some fifteen miles of water, up stream against rapids and the current, in the preceding day's paddling; but they could make it down stream in about half the time.

They were soon afloat now, for Harvey was impatient to be off, and he was by consent the one to give the signal. The Ellison brothers would gladly have delayed, but Harvey, at a word from Henry Burns, was firm.

They took their places, struck the water together at the sound of the horn, and the second day's race was begun.

Confident as were the occupants of the second and third canoes, it was a bit disconcerting, at the outset, to see the leaders go swiftly past them on the way down stream, while they had still to go on against the current up to the turning point. Moreover, the leading canoe quickly caught a patch of swift running water, which the Ellisons had carried around the day before, but could run now, by merely guiding their canoe. So, at the start, they made an encouraging gain, and turned once, at the foot of some rapids, to wave back defiance at their opponents.

Skill and training were bound to tell, however. In the miles that were reeled off rapidly now, the second and third canoes gained on the leaders in the calm, still, sluggish places. There was more spring and snap to their muscles. Their canoes moved faster through the water.

Eight miles down stream, they were overhauling the foremost canoe rapidly, the canoes of Tom and Bob and Henry Burns and Harvey being nearly abreast, and the four straining every nerve and muscle. The Warrens had fallen at least a half mile behind them.

Luck had been with the Ellisons, surely; for running rapids in shallow water is most uncertain work. Tom and Bob, old canoeists, knew well the appearance of water that denotes a sunken rock, and by sheer skill and watchfulness turned their canoe aside ever and again with a quick sweep of the paddles, to avoid a treacherous place, where the water whirled ominously. Henry Burns and Harvey had lately come down the stream, and knew by that experience how easy it was to get hung up when it was least expected.

Yet, with all experience, now and again a canoe would grate and perhaps hang for a moment in some rapid; and once, when the canoe of Tom and Bob would have shot ahead of Harvey's, they went hard aground, and lost precious minutes.

When they were within a mile of the rapids where Henry Burns had won honours on the preceding day, however, Tom and Bob had shown the proof of their superior training and skill; they were leading Harvey and Henry Burns and were close upon the leaders.

"Cheer up, Jack," said Henry Burns, coolly, to his comrade; "they ought to win, but we've given them a good race, anyway. Something may happen yet."

And something did happen—but not to the canoe steered by Tom Harris.

The three foremost canoes were now upon the brink of the worst rapids, and each youth was bracing himself for the run. They saw the Ellisons shoot quickly over the brink, go swiftly down the smooth incline into the rougher water. All at once, the canoe seemed to be checked abruptly and hang for a moment. Then it slid on again. But the damage had been done. A sharp point of ledge had penetrated the canvas, and the canoe was leaking.

Down went the two next canoes, one after the other; deftly handled; sheering a little this way and that, as the watchful eyes detected the signs of danger; riding gallantly through the frothing, fretting rapids into clear water beyond. Their pace was not abated much as they got into their swing again, and, one by one, they passed the Ellisons. The latter's canoe, encumbered by water that leaked slightly but steadily through the rent in the canvas, dragged somewhat and had to be bailed before they had gone a half mile further.

That afternoon, a boy, barefoot and hatless, stood by the shore at a point a little way above the Ellison dam, anxiously watching up stream as far as he could see. That he was intensely excited was evident by the way he fidgeted about; and once he climbed a birch tree that overhung the water and gazed away from that perch.

"Hello, Tim," said a voice close by him, suddenly. "What are you looking for?"

"Oh, hello, Bess," responded Tim Reardon, turning about in surprise. "How you startled me! I'm watching for the canoes—don't you know about it? Cracky, but don't I hope Jack'll win."

"Why don't you go out on the logs?" queried the girl. "You can see up stream farther from there. Come on."

Without waiting for a reply, Bess Thornton darted out across a treacherous pathway of light cedar and spruce logs that lay, confined by a log-boom, waiting to be sawed into shingle stuff; for the old mill occasionally did that work, also, as well as grinding corn. Many of the logs were not of sufficient size to support even the girl's light weight, but sank beneath her, wetting her bare feet. She sprang lightly from one to another, pausing now and then to rest and balance herself on some larger log that sustained her. Little Tim, equally at home about the water, followed.

The boom confining this lot of logs was made of larger and longer logs, chained together at the ends, and extending in a long irregular line from a point up the shore down toward the dam, to a point just above the landing place for the canoes. Tim Reardon and Bess Thornton ran along this boom as far as it extended up stream.

Presently Little Tim gave a yell and nearly pitched head-first into the stream.

"They're coming! they're coming!" he cried. "Who's ahead? Can you see?"

The next moment he gave an exclamation of dismay. Two canoes shot around a bend of the stream, one not far behind the other—but the second canoe, to Little Tim's disappointment, that guided by Jack Harvey. Tom and Bob had a fair lead, and, by the way they were putting life into their strokes, seemed likely to maintain it.

"Ow wow," bawled Little Tim. "Come on, Jack! Come on, Henry! You can beat 'em yet. Give it to 'em!"

Bess Thornton, catching the enthusiasm and spirit of her companion, and espying who the occupants of the second canoe were, added her cries of encouragement to those of Little Tim.

But the leaders came on steadily and surely, heading in slightly toward the point on shore where they would disembark to make the carry about the dam.

Away up the stream, two more canoes could be seen, about abreast, the four boys plying their paddles with all the strength in them.

So the leading canoe passed the boy and girl, Little Tim yelling himself hoarse, with encouragement to Harvey and Henry Burns to come on. Surely if there had been any impelling power in noise, Tim's cries would have turned the scale in favour of his friends.

The leading canoe touched shore, and Tom and Bob sprang lightly out; snatched up their craft and were off up the bank, to make the carry. Henry Burns and Harvey headed in to do likewise. But now Bess Thornton, catching Tim suddenly by an arm, started back down the boom, saying to him, "Come on quick." He, surprised, wondering what she meant, followed.

The girl ran swiftly along the line of logs to a point a little way above the dam. There the line of the boom swung inshore in a sweep to the left. To the right of them, as they stood, was the deep, black water, flowing powerfully in the middle of the stream, and with a strong current, toward an opening in the dam. This was the long flume, a steep, long incline, down which the water of the stream raced with great velocity. It was built to carry rafts of logs through from time to time—a chute, planked in on either side, with the entrance formed by the cutting down of the top of the dam there a few feet. There was no great depth of water in the flume—no one seemed to know just how much. It depended on the height of water in the stream.

Now the girl, waving to Harvey and Henry Burns, cried shrilly for them to watch. Surprised, they ceased their paddling for a moment and looked over to where she stood.

To their amazement and Little Tim's horror, the girl, barefoot and bare-armed, and clad in a light calico frock, gave a laugh and dived into the stream. A moment more, she reappeared a few feet from the boom, and was unmistakably heading for the swift water beyond running down to the flume.

"Come back!" cried Little Tim. "You'll get drowned there. You're going into the flume."

The girl turned on her side as she swam, calling out:

"Tell 'em to come on. They'll beat the others. I've been through once before."

Again she turned, while Little Tim stood with knees shaking. Henry Burns and Harvey, seeing the girl's apparent peril, uttered each an exclamation of alarm, and headed out once more into the stream.

But they were helpless. A moment more, and they saw the girl caught by the swift rush of the water. Waving an arm just as she went over the edge of the incline, she straightened out and lay at full length, so as to keep as nearly as she could at the surface. She disappeared, and they waited what seemed an age, but was scarcely more than two minutes. Then, all at once, there came up to their ears, from far below, the clear, yodelling cry of Bess Thornton. She had gone safely through.

It was a serious moment for Tim Reardon. There wasn't a better swimmer of his size in all Benton. Only a few of the larger lads dared to dive with him from the very top of Pulpit Rock, a high point on the bank of the stream, some miles below. Now he was stumped by a girl no bigger than himself, and he felt his knees wabbling in uncertain fashion at the thought of attempting the flume. And there was his big friend, Harvey, and Henry Burns, waiting out on the water, uncertain as to what they should do. He might aid them to win the race. Or he might hang back, be beaten, himself, by a girl, and Harvey and Henry Burns would lose.

Little Tim gazed for one moment out into midstream, to where the water, black and gleaming, rushed smoothly and swiftly into the opening of the sluice-way. Then he got his voice under control as best he could, waved toward the canoe and shouted:

"Come on, Jack. I'll show yer. It's e-e-asy."

Little Tim shut his eyes, swallowed a lump in his throat, dived from the boom and made a long swim under water. When he reappeared, he was near the swift current, a little way below where the canoe lay.

"Come on, fellers," he cried again—and the next moment Henry Burns and Harvey saw him disappear over the edge of the dam. It seemed as though there had been hardly time for him to be borne down to the foot of the descent before they heard his voice, calling triumphantly back to them.

Henry Burns turned and gave one quick, inquiring glance at his companion. In return, Harvey gave a whistle that denoted his surprise at the odd turn of affairs, and said shortly, "Got to do it now. We can go through if they can. Hang that girl! Get a good brace now. Gimminy, look at that water run!"

They were on the very brink, as he spoke; and, even as he muttered the last exclamation, the canoe dipped to the incline of the chute and went darting down its smooth surface. They hardly saw the sides of the flume as they shot by. Almost instantly, it seemed, they were in the tumbling, boiling waters at the foot of it, Henry Burns crouching low in the bow, so as not to be pitched overboard; Harvey bracing for one moment with his paddle and striking the water furiously the next, to keep it on its course.

The canoe shipped water, and they feared it would be swamped; but they kept on. Then, as they swept past a jutting of ledge that bordered the lower shore, two figures standing together waved to them and cried out joyously:

"Paddle hard! Go it, Jack! Give it to her, Henry! You're way ahead. They're not half 'round the bank yet. Hooray!"

Spurred by the cries, the two canoeists plied their paddles with renewed zeal. So on they emerged into smooth water. Away up the bank, Tom and Bob, dismayed, saw their rivals take the lead in the long race—a lead that could not be overcome.

Sitting up proudly, Henry Burns and Harvey raced past the familiar shores, saw the old camp come into view, shot across the finishing line, and the race was won. Standing on the bank, they watched the others come trailing in: Tom and Bob not far behind; the Warren boys third, and the Ellisons last.

"Yes," said Tom Harris, good-naturedly, as they sat outside the camp a little later, "but you had to get a girl to show you how to beat us."

"How'd you know you could go through there, anyway?" he added, turning to the girl who, with Little Tim had come down the shore to see the finish.

"Did it to get away from gran' once," replied Bess Thornton, her eyes twinkling. "My, but wasn't she scared. It's easy, though, isn't it, Tim?"

"Easy! It's nothin'," said Little Tim.



CHAPTER X

HENRY BURNS MAKES A GIFT

It was evening, and the streets of Benton's shopping section were lighted; the illumination of windows serving to display the attractions arranged therein to best advantage. The night was warm and pleasant, and the passers-by moved leisurely, enjoying the sights, or pausing now and then to gaze in, as some object caught their eye.

Three boys, sauntering along one of the principal thoroughfares, stopped abruptly as one of their number called them to a halt and pointed on ahead. The object to which he pointed was a fourth youth, who was standing, with hands in his pockets, intently absorbed in the display in one of the shop windows.

"Sh-h-h!" whispered young Joe Warren to his companions, his brother George and Bob White, "look at Henry Burns. My, but that's rich. We've got one on him, all right. Hold on, let's come up on him easy."

The boys drew a little nearer to Henry Burns, grinning broadly. Henry Burns, all unmindful of such concerted observation, continued to gaze in at the brilliantly lighted window.

The contents of the window-case were, indeed, such as one would hardly have supposed to be of interest to a youth of his age. The shop was one of Benton's largest dry-goods establishments, and the particular window was devoted wholly to an assortment of women's and misses' dresses. Several more or less life-like figures, arrayed in garments of the season, occupied prominent positions in the display.

Directly in line with Henry Burns's vision was one of these: the figure of a girl, dressed in a neat summer sailor suit, the yellow curls of the head surmounted with a dashing sailor hat; its waxen cheeks tinted a most decided pink; its blue, staring eyes apparently returning the gaze of Henry Burns, unabashed at his admiration.

There was no mistaking Henry Burns's desire to form a closer acquaintance with the wax figure, for presently he approached closer to the window and stood studying it with undisguised interest.

"Seems to like the looks of her, don't he?" chuckled Young Joe, nudging Bob White and doubling up with laughter. "Wish Jack Harvey was here now to see him. Come on, let's wake him up."

Approaching softly, the three neared the unsuspecting admirer of the yellow-haired, waxen miss.

Still lost in contemplation of her, Henry Burns was suddenly greeted by a series of yells and hoots of derision that would have done credit to a wild west performance. Then roars of laughter followed, as he turned and faced them.

It was not in the nature of Henry Burns to be startled or easily disconcerted, however, and, although taken by surprise, he turned slowly and faced the three.

"Hello," he said coolly.

"Hello, Henry," snickered Young Joe. "Say, what's her name?"

"Yes, who is she?" echoed the other two; whereupon all three went off again into mingled roars of laughter and yells of delight.

"Dunno," responded Henry Burns. "I'll go in and ask, though, if you want."

"Isn't she sweet?" said Bob White. "How long have you known her?"

"Oh, not so long as you've known Kitty Clark," replied Henry Burns.

"Ow! wow!" squealed Young Joe; an exclamation which began in great satisfaction and terminated in a howl, as he felt the force of a punch from Bob's vigorous right arm.

It wasn't so easy getting the best of Henry Burns, in spite of his disadvantage.

"Seen Jack?" he inquired.

"No—yes, there he comes now," answered George Warren, pointing back in the direction whence they had come.

Henry Burns left them abruptly, and they went along, calling back at him mockingly. But he paid little heed. Anyone familiar with the youth would have known that he had something particular in mind; and in such case, Henry Burns was not to be turned aside by bantering.

Some five minutes later, Henry Burns and Harvey stood looking in at the very same shop window, whither Henry Burns had conducted his companion.

"Say—er—Jack, what do you think of that?" inquired Henry Burns, pointing in at the wax figure.

Harvey looked at his companion and grinned.

"Think of what!" he exclaimed. "The curls?"

"No, hang the curls!" said Henry Burns. "The dress."

Harvey stared at him, open-mouthed.

"Oh, yes," he said at length, as though endeavouring to grasp the meaning of so extraordinary an inquiry; "looks like Bob White's sister. What of it?"

"Oh, nothing," replied Henry Burns, "only you and I are going to buy it."

Harvey's grin expanded.

"Sure," he responded. "You'd look nice in it, Henry. Only you need the curls, too—"

"And give it to Bess Thornton," continued Henry Burns, unmindful of his comrade's remark.

Harvey whistled.

"Well, I'll be skinned if I don't think you're in earnest!" he exclaimed.

"I am," said Henry Burns. "It's eight dollars and eighty-seven cents—marked down—they always are, ain't they? Half of that's four dollars and something or other apiece. Come in with me?"

"Not much!" cried Harvey, turning red at the very thought of it. "I'll pay half, though, if you'll get somebody to buy it. It's worth more than that to me, to win that race. Well, if you don't beat all thinking up queer things. What put it into your head?"