with september a tint of scarlet crept into the foliage bordering the little creeks that stole from the river into the aldercliffe meadows; tangles of goldenrod and purple asters breathed of autumn, and the mornings were now too chilly for a swim. had it not been for the great fireplace the shack would not have been livable. for the first time both ted and laurie realized that the summer they had each enjoyed so heartily was at an end and they were face to face with a different phase of life.
the harvest, with its horde of vegetables and fruit, had been gathered into the yawning barns and cellars and the earth that had given so patiently of its increase had earned the right to lay fallow until the planting of another spring. ted's work was done. he had helped deposit the last barrel of ruddy apples, the last golden pumpkins within doors, and now he had nothing more to do but to pack up his possessions preparatory to returning to freeman's falls, there to rejoin his family and continue his studies.
once the thought that the drudgery of summer was over would have been a delightful one. why, he could remember the exultation with which he had burned the last cornstalks at the end of the season when at home in vermont. the ceremony had been a rite of hilarious rejoicing. but this year, strange to say, a dull sadness stole over him whenever he looked upon the devastated gardens and the reaches of bare brown earth. there was nothing to keep him longer either at aldercliffe or pine lea. his work henceforth lay at school.
it was strange that a little sigh accompanied the thought for had he not always looked forward to this very prospect? what was the matter now? was not studying the thing he had longed to be free to do? why this regret and depression? and why was his own vague sadness reflected in laurie's eyes and in those of mr. hazen? summer could not last forever; it was childish to ask that it should. they all had known from the beginning that these days of companionship must slip away and come to an end. and yet the end had come so quickly. why, it had scarcely been midsummer before the twilight had deepened and the days mellowed into autumn.
well, they had held many happy, happy hours for ted, at least. never had he dreamed of such pleasures. he had enjoyed his work, constant though it had been, and had come to cherish as much pride in the gardens of aldercliffe and pine lea, in the vast crops of hay that bulged from the barn lofts, as if they had been his own. and when working hours were over there was laurie fernald and the new and pleasant friendship that existed between them.
as ted began to drag out from beneath his bunk the empty wooden boxes he purposed to pack his books in, his heart sank. soon the cosy house in which he had passed so many perfect hours would be quite denuded. frosts would nip the flowers nodding in a final glory of color outside the windows; the telephone would be disconnected; his belongings would once more be crowded into the stuffy little flat at home; and the door of the camp on the river's edge would be tightly locked on a deserted paradise.
of course, everything had to come to an end some time and often when he had been weeding long, and what seemed interminable rows of seedlings and had been making only feeble progress at the task, the thought that termination of his task was an ultimate certainty had been a consolation mighty and sustaining. such an uninteresting undertaking could not last forever, he told himself over and over again; nothing ever did. and now with ironic conformity to law, his philosophy had turned on him, demonstrating beyond cavil that not only did the things one longed to be free of come to a sure finality but so did those one pined to have linger.
although night was approaching, too intent had he been on his reveries to notice that the room was in darkness. how still everything was! that was the way the little hut would be after he was gone,—cold, dark, and silent. he wondered as he sat there whether he should ever come back. would the fernalds want him next season and again offer him the boathouse for a home? they had said nothing about it but if he thought he was to return another summer it would not be so hard to go now. it was leaving forever that saddened him.
he must have remained immovable there in the twilight for a much longer time than he realized; and perhaps he would have sat there even longer had not a sound startled him into breathless attention. it was the rhythmic stroke of a canoe paddle and as it came nearer it was intermingled with the whispers of muffled voices. possibly he might have thought nothing of the happening had there not been a note of tense caution in the words that came to his ear.
who could be navigating the river at this hour of the night? surely not pleasure-seekers, for it was very cold and an approaching storm had clouded in the sky until it had become a dome of velvet blackness. whoever was venturing out upon the river must either know the stream very well or be reckless of his own safety.
ted did not move but listened intently.
"let's take a chance and land," he heard a thick voice murmur. "the boy has evidently either gone to bed or he isn't here. whichever the case, he can do us no harm and i'm not for risking the river any farther. it's black as midnight. we might get into the current and have trouble."
"what's the sense of running our heads into a noose by landing?" objected a second speaker. "we can't talk here—that's nonsense."
"i tell you the boy isn't in the hut," retorted his comrade. "i remember now that i heard he was going back to the falls to school. likely he has gone already. in any case we can try the door and examine the windows; if the place is locked, we shall be sure he is not here. and should it prove to be inhabited, we can easy hatch up some excuse for coming. he'll be none the wiser. even if he should be here," added the man after a pause, "he is probably asleep. after a hard day's work a boy his age sleeps like a log. there'll be no waking him, so don't fret. come! let's steer for the float."
"but i——"
"great heavens, cronin! we've got to take some chances. you're not getting cold feet so soon, are you?" burst out the other scornfully.
"n—o! of course not," his companion declared with forced bravado. "but i don't like taking needless risks. the boy might be awake and hear us."
"what if he does? haven't i told you i will invent some yarn to put him off the scent? he wouldn't be suspecting mischief, anyhow. i tell you i'm not going drifting round this river in the dark any longer. next thing we know we may hit a snag and upset."
"but you insisted on coming."
"i know i did," snapped the sharp voice. "what chance had we to talk in a crowded boarding-house whose very walls had ears? or on the village streets? i knew the river would have no listeners and you see i was right; it hasn't. but i did expect there would be a trifle more light. it is like ink, isn't it? you can't see your hand before your face."
"i don't believe we could find the float even if we tried for it," piped his friend with malicious satisfaction.
"find it? of course we can. i've traveled this river too many times to get lost on it. i know every inch of the stream."
"but aren't there boats at the landing?"
"oh, they've been hauled in for the season long ago. i know that to be a fact."
"then i guess young turner must have gone."
"that's what i've been trying to tell you for the last half-hour," asserted the other voice with high-pitched irritation. "why waste all this time? let's land, talk things over, lay our plans, and be getting back to freeman's falls. we mustn't be seen returning to the town together too late for it might arouse suspicion."
"you're right there."
"then go ahead and paddle for the landing. i'll steer. just have your hand out so we won't bump."
the lapping of the paddles came nearer and nearer. then there was a crash as the nose of the canoe struck the float.
"you darned idiot, cronin! why didn't you fend her off as i told you to?"
"i couldn't see. i——"
"hush!"
a moment of breathless silence followed and then there was a derisive laugh.
"i told you the boy wasn't here," one of the men declared aloud. "if he had been he would have had his head out the window by now. we've made noise enough to wake the dead."
"but he may be here for all that," cautioned the other speaker. "don't talk so loud."
"nonsense!" his comrade retorted without lowering his tone. "i tell you the boy has gone back home and the hut is as empty as a last year's bird's nest. i'll stake my oath on it. the place is shut and locked tight as a drum. you'll see i'm right presently."
instantly ted's brain was alert. the door was locked, that he knew, for when he came in he had bolted it for the night. one window, however, was open and he dared not attempt to close it lest he make some betraying sound; and even were he able to shut it noiselessly he reflected that the procedure would be an unwise one since it would cut him off from hearing the conversation. no, he must keep perfectly still and trust that his nocturnal visitors would not make too thorough an investigation of the premises.
to judge from the scuffling of feet outside, both of them had now alighted from the canoe and were approaching the door. soon he heard a hand fumbling with the latch and afterward came a heavy knock.
slipping breathlessly from his chair he crouched upon the floor, great beads of perspiration starting out on his forehead.
"the door is locked, as i told you," he heard some one mutter.
"he may be asleep."
"we can soon make sure. ah, there! turner! turner!"
once more a series of blows descended upon the wooden panel.
"does that convince you, cronin?"
"y—e—s," owned cronin reluctantly. "i guess he's gone."
"of course he's gone! come, brace up, can't you?" urged his companion. "where's your backbone?"
"i'm not afraid."
"tell that to the marines! you're timid and jumpy as a girl. how are we ever to put this thing over if you don't pull yourself together? i might as well have a baby to help me," sneered the gruff voice.
"don't be so hard on me, alf," whined his comrade. "i ain't done nothin'. ain't i right here and ready?"
"you're here, all right," snarled the first speaker, "but whether you're ready or not is another matter. now i'm going to give you a last chance to pull out. do you want to go ahead or don't you? it's no good for us to be laying plans if you are going to be weak-kneed at the end and balk at carrying them out. do you mean to stand by me and see this thing to a finish or don't you?"
"i—sure i do!"
"cross your heart?"
"cross my heart!" this time the words echoed with more positiveness.
"you're not going to back out or squeal?" his pal persisted.
"why, alf, how can you——"
"because i've got to be sure before i stir another inch."
"but ain't i told you over and over again that i——"
"i don't trust you."
"what makes you so hard on a feller, alf?" whimpered cronin. "i haven't been mixed up in as many of these jobs as you have and is it surprising that i'm a mite nervous? it's no sign that i'm crawling."
"you're ready to stick it out, then?"
"sure!"
there was another pause.
"well, let me just tell you this, jim cronin. if you swear to stand by me and don't do it, your miserable life won't be worth a farthing—understand? i'll wring your neck, wring it good and thorough. i'm not afraid to do it and i will. you know that, don't you?"
"yes."
the terror-stricken monosyllable made it perfectly apparent that cronin did know.
"then suppose we get down to hard tacks," asserted his companion, the note of fierceness suddenly dying out of his tone. "come and sit down and we'll plan the thing from start to finish. we may as well be comfortable while we talk. there's no extra charge for sitting."
as ted bent to put his ear to the crack of the door, the thud of a heavy body jarred the shack.
"jove!" he heard cronin cry. "the ground is some way down, ain't it?"
"and it's none to soft at that," came grimly from his comrade, as a second person slumped upon the planks outside.
somebody drew a long breath and while the men were making themselves more comfortable on the float ted waited expectantly in the darkness.
