the sleeping propensity of a top is nothing to the way harry and gordon slumbered. you cannot sleep such sleep indoors. you need the starry sky, the dark surrounding trees, the lullaby of cricket and locust, the low, musical rustle of leaves. then you can sleep, as gordon put it, “till the cows come home.”
it must have been the custom for the cows in that vicinity to come home at seven a. m., for at that hour the boys awoke, and harry soon had water boiling for the coffee. of course, every one’s way of making coffee is by far the best way. the scout way is to bring your water to a boil first, then drop your coffee in and stir like the mischief.
at eight-thirty they had every single thing in their bags and were on their way down the northern slope of the mountain. you would not have known that any one had camped at the spot except for the ashes of the fire and the beaver’s head scratched on a rock.
they followed a winding, woodland path, scarcely visible in places. “what’s this?” asked gordon, picking up a small, flat, triangular stone which his alert eyes had discovered. it proved to be an indian arrow-head about an inch and a half long and nearly an inch wide at one end, tapering to a blunt point at the other. harry showed his companion how, wedged into the split end of a stick and bound firmly, it constituted the old-time arrow of the bloody mohawk tribe, whose savage warwhoops had no doubt once been heard along this obscure mountain path.
gordon trudged along, kicking the earth in search of more of these murderous souvenirs. although they searched carefully, they could find no more of them, but harry came upon something which held a grewsome interest. at the base of an old oak tree where the earth was gray and powdery, he found the head of a tomahawk, eaten with rust and so encrusted with earth that he was able to break off the corners of it as if it had been made of plaster.
“i guess some poor chap met his end here,” harry said soberly. “how would you like to be tied against that old tree and have a pack of savages throw these things at you?”
gordon shuddered. “do you suppose we’re on the old trail of the mohawks, harry?”
they were, indeed, treading the very ground over which that treacherous, bloodthirsty tribe had once carried their victims to torture and massacre. the thought of it had a quieting effect on gordon, and they pressed their way along silently for a little while. then he began humming:
“though you didn’t or you wouldn’t,
or you hadn’t or you couldn’t—”
“what’s that?” asked harry.
“it’s the rest of that ‘scout song,’ harry,” said gordon, looking slyly sideways at his friend.
“you know what i told you, kid! so help me—”
“where do we come out?” gordon interrupted.
“we’re headed for crown point centre.”
within an hour they came upon an open road and soon reached the village. it was not necessary to inquire for the owner of the little reticule, for on a wooden post outside the post-office was a notice written in a delicate hand on a half sheet of note paper:
lost
lady’s small hand-bag on road near ticonderoga. finder will confer great favor by kindly leaving with postmaster or returning to
miss antoinette crosby,
buck mansion.
the word “great” was underlined several times, the word “kindly” was underlined twice, and the word “miss” once.
“how far is it to buck mansion?” harry asked, sauntering into the post-office.
the postmaster took a leisurely scrutiny of both boys. “what yer want to go up thar for?”
“just to see some one. about how far is it?”
“well, up here folks calls it three mile. city folks sometimes calls it five. one man that was up thar last summer calc’lated ’twas ten—said ’twas ten mile down and twenty mile back. he was a kind of a comic. but i can tell you right now they ain’t got a vacant room in the house.”
“thank you,” said harry. “come on, kid, we’ll go up there. we don’t need to get up bulwagga mountain before night.”
the distance to buck mansion was somewhere between one mile and ten, and the way led them through a fragrant country with houses at intervals along the road. to-day the distance was rather shorter than usual, or else the “scout pace” helped to make it seem so, for within an hour the boys reached a spacious white house, standing well back from the road. the lawn in front was covered with trees, where a number of hammocks hung. the fence skirting the road was broken in one place by a little summer-house containing a pump, and the half of a cocoanut shell hung near by way of a cup.
the position of this little well-house on the very edge of the public road afforded a tempting resting-place for tired wayfarers. through the trees the boys could see that a deer’s head with spreading antlers hung over the doorway of the house. on the deep porch easy-chairs stood about, and in a frame swing to one side of the lawn a solitary figure sat writing. with this exception, not a soul was to be seen, which seemed odd in a spot that afforded such tempting facilities for idleness and repose.
“the deserted village,” said harry, “but i guess this is the place, all right.”
just then voices reached the boys through the trees:
“shall i come to you?”
“no, try to go out.”
“she’s for that wicket.”
“she can’t get through.”
“i could send her down to you.”
“she plays before i do.”
“well, i’m going to try to hit her anyway.” there was a second’s silence, then a whack, then “missed! i told you so!”
“come on over there,” said harry.
on a smooth croquet ground an exciting war was going on. so intent was the group of ladies on the game that it was fully five minutes before any one spied the two scouts who leaned on the picket fence watching the play. then one of them came toward the fence, her croquet mallet over her shoulder like a musket.
“excuse me for interrupting you,” said harry, removing his hat, “but i didn’t like to come out on the ground. is this buck mansion?”
“yes, indeed,” she said, eying the boys curiously. “is there some one you wish to see?”
“is there a miss crosby here?”
“indeed, there is. nettie!” she called. “here are two young gentlemen to see you.”
the figure in the swing rose quickly, spilling a writing tablet, a bag of candy, a fountain pen, and a magazine. as she straightened out her gown, which did not reach anywhere near the ground, the boys saw her to be a girl of not more than sixteen. they turned toward her.
“miss crosby?” harry asked.
“ye-es.”
“i think this little hand-bag is yours.”
“oh, did you find it?”
“yes, and i ought to have returned it sooner. i’m afraid i found it within an hour of the time you lost it, but better late than never.” he handed her the bag.
“oh, thank you so very, very much. how did you find it?”
“oh, i was just amusing myself noticing where your auto broke down.”
“it isn’t my auto.”
“and i picked up the bag on the stone wall.”
“oh, thank you so very much for your trouble. the bag isn’t really worth anything, but—” she stopped short and looked at him suspiciously. “how did you know i was in an auto?”
“you just said so—or said as much,” smiled harry.
“yes, but you said it first.”
“well,” said harry, driven to it, “i happened to be along the road above ticonderoga that night, and i saw the auto tracks in the moonlight and the ground all rumpled, and, oh, one thing and another, and then the bag on the wall. so i put it in my pocket to return it if i could find the owner.”
“you knew we broke down?”
“i thought so.”
“oh, isn’t that just wonderful?”
“that’s nothing,” said gordon. “he does things like that every day—he does them by deduction.”
“deduction?”
“yes—putting two and two together and making four.”
“that’s arithmetic,” said she.
“for instance, he thought this bag belonged to an elderly lady,” gordon continued. “of course, once in a great while he’s wrong,” he added quickly, rather regretting that he had selected this particular illustration of harry’s talent for deducing.
“what made him think that? why, it’s a pale blue—it matches—what made you think that?” she demanded of harry.
“on account of the smelling salts,” said gordon.
she opened the bag and closed it hastily. “i think you’re just horrid!” she said, looking at harry. but she did not think he was horrid. quite otherwise.
“you see,” explained harry, “i had to open it to see if it contained a name or address.”
“of course,” she said, “but it was just horrid to think i was an old maid! do you always finds things out about people that way—what is it?”
“deduction,” gordon spoke up. “all scouts have to learn to decide things that way—it’s dandy fun.”
“i think it’s horrid. i suppose you’re just finding things out about me now. it makes me creepy! but you’re very kind,” she promptly added. “tell me, honest and true, what are you deducing about me now?”
“well,” said harry, “i deduce that you’ve been writing a letter and underlining lots of words.”
she opened her mouth in astonishment. “you’re a perfect ghoul!” said she. “but i haven’t even asked you to sit down yet. won’t you come over here and rest?” she led the way to the little well-house by the roadside, giving gordon an opportunity to whisper to harry:
“now, you see, harry—if you only had your uniform on! did you see how she looked at me? it wasn’t i she cared about, harry—it was the scout uniform. the scout suit catches them every time. i know more about those things than you do, harry, because i’ve had more experience. now you’ve learned a lesson.”
there was no chance for harry to reply, for the young lady had reached the little shelter and stood waiting for them. she was an extremely pretty young lady, with a great mass of dark hair held together in the back by a huge bow, and she had a very snub nose and a way of puckering her brows into a kind of whimsical frown. a number of rebellious locks hung about her forehead, shaken loose by the habit she had of giving all her adjectives a racking emphasis, thus causing her head to be in a state of almost continual agitation. she wore a white sailor blouse, with blue trimming and a blue anchor worked in front. also a blue braided cord with a tiny round mirror on the end, used in capturing and confining the loose locks after a particularly emphatic tirade. the other extremity of miss antoinette was on the whole more demure and reposeful, her small feet being encased in bewitching little pumps, which were hardly worth while at all since they were almost completely obscured by enormous silk bows.
it took gordon about one minute to forget his anxiety to keep secret the object of their wanderings, and presently miss antoinette was apprised of their intention of ascending bulwagga that very day. she said it was all wonderful.
“and it was so clever,” she went on, “your knowing that i was autoing. they were friends of mine over in vermont, and have such a lovely place. mr. danforth—he’s just, oh, so generous and such a dear! it was his son, roger, that i was with that evening, and oh, he’s so dreadfully unlucky!”
“i should call him lucky,” said harry.
“oh, no, you wouldn’t. something happens every time he goes out. now what are you looking that way for? you’re deducing this very minute—you know you are!”
harry clasped his hands behind his head, settled far back on the seat, and looked serious and thoughtful. gordon cast his eyes heavenward as if buried in deep calculation.
“there must be some cause for this bad luck, kid,” said harry. “what do you make of it? he understands autos perfectly, i suppose, miss crosby?”
“oh, yes, he has two.”
“interested in mechanical matters, then?”
“oh, very much.”
“probably has a motor boat, also?”
“yes, he has.”
“such traits usually run in families. has he any brothers and sisters?”
“yes, the dearest little fellow—and he’s interested in mechanical things, too.”
“ah,” said harry, thoughtfully. “he would probably be interested more in some other form of mechanics—aeroplanes, for instance.”
“he is, he is!” cried miss antoinette.
“and if he spent too much time reading and studying about them it might affect his health,” suggested gordon, innocently.
“i catch your idea,” harry said. “you think the older brother might be preoccupied by concern for the little fellow’s health, and so not give his full attention to his car?”
“that might account for his having so many accidents,” said gordon. “he ought to take his chauffeur along.”
“possibly he leaves him at home to help the little fellow with his aeroplanes,” said harry, after a moment’s thoughtful pause. “living in the city, as i suppose they do, the little chap would naturally take advantage of being up here to try out his models. and they might be afraid of his meeting with some accident—being so near the lake, too. is his health at all delicate, miss crosby?” he added.
“yes, indeed,” cried the girl, who had been staring from one to the other in speechless amazement.
“they all worry about him so much. and he does stay indoors too much, reading and experimenting with his aeroplanes. roger is always speaking of it, and i believe he does leave his chauffeur at home for that very reason.”
“then, too,” said gordon, placing the tips of his fingers together, “the chauffeur would be needed for the other auto—taking parties about. the house is probably full of guests most of the time.”
“pre-cisely,” said harry. “and the father probably doesn’t understand much about motors,” he added, as an after-thought. “he naturally wouldn’t. may i ask if the chauffeur is irish, miss crosby?”
“his name is pat,” she answered, as if in a trance.
“probably cheerful and good-natured,” mused harry. “so you think they do worry about the younger brother’s health?”
“oh, i know they all do, for his lungs aren’t strong.”
“i should say they’ll probably move to the country before very long,” said gordon, with great deliberation. “the little boy would be better there. very likely they’ll build in some good, healthful suburb, most likely somewhere in new jersey, and give up their city residence altogether.”
“not necessarily,” said harry.
but miss antoinette had jumped to her feet. “i never in my life!” she exclaimed. “it’s perfectly miraculous! that’s exactly what they are going to do! mr. danforth is building a beautiful place up on a hill in new jersey, and they’re going there to live this fall!”
“‘i never in my life!’ she exclaimed.”
“’twas merely a guess of my friend,” said harry, in a deprecating way, as he rose to pump some water. but the repressed twitching around gordon’s rebellious lips made the girl suspicious.
“you’re just fooling me!” she cried. “you must know them!”
in a few minutes it was all out. gordon, entirely heedless of harry’s scowls and embarrassment, gave her a complete account of the rescue of little penfield and their subsequent visit at the danforth place. she was entirely of gordon’s way of thinking as to the acceptance of the boat, and assured harry that there was really no hope of escaping mr. danforth. “you might just as well have taken it,” she said, “and then you wouldn’t have to be worrying about what he might do next.”
“you don’t think he’ll really get up a conspiracy?” harry laughed.
“i know he will, and it will serve you right; you did interfere with his liberty.”
“now you see,” sneered gordon, with great satisfaction. “what did i tell you? he never takes my advice,” he added, confidentially, to the girl. “now you take to-day, if he only had—”
“is that a tennis court over there?” harry interrupted.
“yes—do you like tennis? i hate croquet—they all play croquet here, and there’s not a boy in the place. oh, i wish i were you, you can have such fun, going wherever you want to, and just camping out.”
they walked over through the croquet field and were presented to twelve ladies and two lonely gentlemen, all of whom showed a lively interest in them, as people usually do in boy scouts. then to the tennis court, where miss crosby and harry played a lively game, while gordon sat on a rustic seat and gorged himself with apples. between games she made a hasty trip to her mother on the croquet ground, and presently that lady strolled over and insisted that the boys remain to dinner.
gordon’s eye was on harry, and he did not dare decline. they found the summer guests a cordial set, who were only too glad to vary the daily routine of alternate croquet and bridge by entertaining them and plying them with questions.
early in the afternoon they set forth for bulwagga mountain. miss crosby had acquired a lively interest in their enterprise and had made them promise, at parting, that they would call again if they could possibly manage it, “and show me some more deducing” she had said, with an injured look.
and she added that she would “certainly stay up until midnight, and try to discover smoke, and if she did discover it, she would know that they had seen it too, and would be with their friends in the morning, and wouldn’t that be just dear?”
harry said it certainly would, but that it was too good to be true.
“now, harry,” said gordon, as they started into a clump of woods in the direction of the great bulwagga mountain, “the trouble with you is that you don’t recount your adventures. that’s the only trouble with you, harry. you should have recounted your adventures. there was your chance to recount them to a maiden.”
“a what?”
“a maiden—it’s the same as a girl. and you’ve got the very best kind of an adventure, too—rescuing some one from drowning—it’s always a winner. why, harry, a maiden always marries a fellow that saves her from drowning—always! it’s all right to have adventures, but if you want to be a real hero, you’ve got to recount them. they always do in books. ‘after he recounted his adventures—’”
“well, that shows i’m not much of a hero, kid, doesn’t it?”
“i know, but you might be. you’ve got the adventures all right, only you don’t recount them. i’m not blaming you, harry, because you don’t know much about girls. now there was a fellow in a play, named othello, and oh, cracky, harry, but he was a peacherino! he used to recount his adventures all the time—to a maiden. and he made a great hit, too. and you could do the same thing, harry. there’s no kind of an adventure like a rescue from drowning. of course, i don’t say anything against pulling a maiden off the railroad track, especially if she’s bound with cruel thongs, because that’s a winner, too. but a rescue from drowning catches them every time. why, don’t you suppose that alger, and henry, and men like that, know? you bet they do! ’most all their heroes save people from drowning, and that’s how they win her hand. if i had an adventure like that, i’d recount it to maidens, you can bet! but i’m not saying you didn’t make a hit, harry.”
“oh, stop that, kid.”
“no, i won’t stop it, either. if you’d only had on your khaki suit, like me, it would have been great. but even as it was, you made a hit, harry.”
“you’re dreaming, kid.”
“all right; but you’re going there again, i can tell you that.”
“not.”
“i bet you do.”
“i bet i don’t.”
“she invited you.”
“she invited both of us.”
“yes, but she meant you.”
“what the dickens gives you that idea?”
“i deduced it, harry.”
