the pedestrian excursion spoken of by miss stackpole promised to be an enjoyable affair to those of the helicon guests who could venture upon it. a writer of oddly entertaining and preposterously impossible short stories, john b. cattleton, had been mousing among the ravines of mt. boab, and had stumbled upon what he described as a “very obscure little cabin, jammed under a cliff in an angle of the cañon and right over a bright stream of cold, pure spring-water. it’s a miserably picturesque and forlornly prepossessing place,” he went on in his droll way, “where all sorts of engaging ghosts and entertaining ogres might be supposed to congregate at midnight. i didn’t go quite down to it, but i was near enough to it to make out its main features, and i saw the queerest being imaginable poking around the premises. a veritable hermit, i should call[104] him, as old as the rocks themselves. his dress was absurdly old-fashioned, a caricature of the uniform of our soldier sires of revolutionary renown. a long spike-tailed blue coat with notable brass buttons, a triangular hat somewhat bell-crowned and tow or cotton trousers. shirt? vest? yes, if i remember well they were of copperas homespun. his hair and beard were white, fine and thin, hanging in tags and wisps as fluffy as lint. i sat upon a rock in the shadow of a cedar tree and watched his queer manœuvres for a good while. all his movements were furtive and peculiar, like those of a shy, wild beast.”
“it’s the prophet of the smoky mountain,” said miss crabb in an earnest stage whisper. “he’s craddock’s material, we can’t touch him.”
“touch him! i’ll interview him on dialect in politics,” said hubbard, “and get his views on sex in genius.”
“i should like a sketch of his life. there must be a human interest to serve as straw for my brick,” remarked miss stackpole. “the motive that induced him to become a hermit, and all that.”
miss crabb dared not confess that she desired a sketch of the old man for the newspaper syndicate, so she merely drummed on her front teeth with her pencil.
dufour joined the pedestrian party with great enthusiasm, having dressed himself for the occasion in a pair of tennis trousers, a blue flannel shirt, a loose jacket and a shooting cap.
[105]
his shoes were genuine alpine foot-gear with short spikes in their heels and soles.
“lead on cattleton,” he cried jovially, “and let our motto be, ‘on to the hut of friar tuck’!”
“good,” answered cattleton in like spirit, “and you shall be my lieutenant, come, walk beside me.”
“thank you, from the bottom of my heart,” replied dufour, “but i cannot accept. i have contracted to be miss moyne’s servant instead.”
that was a gay procession filing away from hotel helicon through the thin forest that fringed one shoulder of stately mt. boab. cattleton led the column, flinging back from time to time his odd sayings and preposterous conceits.
the day was delightfully cool with a steady wind running over the mountain and eddying in the sheltered coves where the ferns were thick and tall. in the sky were a few pale clouds slowly vanishing, whilst some broad-pinioned buzzards wheeled round and round above the blue-green abyss of the valley. there were sounds of a vague, dreamy sort abroad in the woods, like the whisperings and laughter of legions of invisible beings. everybody felt exhilarated and buoyant, tramping gaily away to the hut of the hermit.
at a certain point cattleton commanded a halt, and pointing out the entrance to the ravine, said:
“now, good friends, we must have perfect[106] silence during the descent, or our visit will be all in vain. furthermore, the attraction of gravitation demands that, in going down, we must preserve our uprightness, else our progress may be facilitated to an alarming degree, and our advent at the hut be far from becomingly dignified.”
like a snake, flecked with touches of gay color, the procession crawled down the ravine, the way becoming steeper and more tortuous at every step. thicker and thicker and thicker grew the trees, saving where the rock broke forth from the soil, and closer drew the zig-zags of the barely possible route. cattleton silenced every voice and rebuked every person who showed signs of weakening.
“it’s just a few steps farther,” he whispered back from his advanced position, “don’t make the least sound.”
but the ravine proved, upon this second descent much more difficult and dangerous than it had appeared to cattleton at first, and it was with the most heroic exertions that he finally led the party down to the point whence he had viewed the cabin. by this time the column was pressing upon him and he could not stop. down he went, faster and faster, barely able to keep his feet, now sliding, now clutching a tree or rock, with the breathless and excited line of followers gathering dangerous momentum behind him.
it was too late now to command silence or to control the company in any way. an avalanche[107] of little stones, loosened by scrambling feet, swept past him and went leaping on down below. he heard miss moyne utter a little scream of terror that mingled with many exclamations from both men and women, and then he lost his feet and began to slide. down he sped and down sped the party after him, till in a cataract of mightily frightened, but unharmed men and women, they all went over a little precipice and landed in a scattered heap on a great bed of oak leaves that the winds had drifted against the rock.
a few moments of strange silence followed, then everybody sprang up, disheveled and red-faced, to look around and see what was the matter.
they found themselves close to the long, low cabin, from under which flowed a stream of water. a little column of smoke was wandering out of a curious clay chimney. beside the low door-way stood a long, deep trough filled with water in which a metal pipe was coiled fantastically. two earthen jugs with cob stoppers sat hard by. a sourish smell assaulted their sense and a faint spirituous flavor burdened the air.
cattleton, who was first upon his feet, shook himself together and drolly remarked:
“we have arrived in good order, let’s interview the——”
just then rushed forth from the door the old man of the place, who halted outside and snatched from its rack on the wall a long tin[108] horn, which he proceeded to blow vigorously, the echoes prowling through the woods and over the foot-hills and scampering far away up and down the valley.
not a soul present ever could forget that sketch, the old man with his shrunken legs bent and wide apart, his arms akimbo as he leaned far back and held up that wailing, howling, bellowing horn, and his long coat-tail almost touching the ground, whilst his fantastic hat quivered in unison with the strain he was blowing. how his shriveled cheeks puffed out, and how his eyes appeared to be starting from their bony sockets!
“that is what i call a fitting reception,” said cattleton, gazing at the trumpeter.
“see here,” exclaimed crane with evident excitement, “i smell whisky! this——”
“hyer! what d’ye mean hyer, you all a comin’ down hyer?” broke forth a wrathful voice, and wesley tolliver rushed with melodramatic fierceness upon the scene.
“oh! i—i—wa—want to g—go home!” cried little mrs. philpot, clutching bartley hubbard’s arm.
“so do i,” said he with phlegmatic cleverness. “i should like to see my mother. i’m feeling a little lonely and——”
“what upon yearth do this yer mean, anyhow?” thundered tolliver. “who invited you all down yer, tell me thet, will ye?”
“oh, mr. tolliver, mr. tolliver!” exclaimed[109] miss crabb, rushing upon him excitedly, “i’m so glad you are here!”
“well, i’ll ber dorged!” he ejaculated, “you down hyer again! well, i never seed the like afore in all my born days.”
he gazed at first one and then another of the party, and a sudden light flashed into his face.
“well i’ll ber dorged ef ther whole kepoodle of ’em hain’t done jest gone and tumbled off’n the mounting an’ jest rolled down hyer!”
“you’re a very accurate reasoner, my friend,” said cattleton, trying to get his hat into shape. “i think we touched at two or three points as we came down, however.”
about this time four or five more mountaineers appeared bearing guns and looking savage.
“bandits,” said miss stackpole with a shudder.
“moonshiners,” muttered crane.
“oh, for heaven’s sake, mr. hubbard, do t—t—take m—me home!” wailed mrs. philpot.
“i should be delighted,” said hubbard, his voice concealing the uneasiness he felt. “indeed i should.”
more men appeared and at the same time a roll of thunder tumbled across the darkening sky. a sudden mountain storm had arisen.
the pedestrians found themselves surrounded by a line of grim and silent men who appeared to be waiting for orders from tolliver.
a few large drops of rain come slanting down[110] from the advancing fringe of the sable-cloud, and again the thunder bounded across the heavens.
“i guess you’d better invite us in,” suggested cattleton, turning to the old man, who stood leaning on his tin horn. “the ladies will get wet.”
“i say, cattleton,” called out bartley hubbard, “if a fellow only had a little supply of stockton’s negative gravity he could ameliorate his condition, don’t you think?”
“yes, i’d like to fall up hill just now. the excitement would be refreshing.”
there came a spiteful dash of rain and a flurry of wind.
“you’ns had better go inter the still-house,” said tolliver. “hit air goin’ ter rain yearlin’ calves. go right erlong in, ye sha’n’t be hurt.”
another gush of rain enforced the invitation, and they all scrambled into the cabin pell-mell, glad of the relief from a strain that had become almost unbearable to some of them, but they stared at each other when they found the door closed and securely locked on the outside.
“prisoners!” cried some one whose voice was drowned by a deafening crash of thunder and a mighty flood of rain that threatened to crush in the rickety roof of the house.
“the treacherous villain!” exclaimed dufour, speaking of tolliver and holding miss moyne’s hand. the poor girl was so frightened that it was a comfort to her to have her hand held.
“how grand, how noble it is in mr. tolliver[111] and his friends,” said miss crabb, “to stand out there in the rain and let us have the shelter! i never saw a more virile and thoroughly unselfish man than he is. he is one of nature’s unshorn heroes, a man of the ancient god-like race.”
mrs. nancy jones black gave the young woman a look of profound contempt.
then a crash of thunder, wind, and rain scattered everybody’s thoughts.
