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.