The wheelman’s melody wells.”
Although Joe Wayring and his friends had so many agreeable things to occupy their minds the events of the summer were not wholly forgotten. When Joe saw a canoeist shooting up the lake, with his arms bared to the shoulder and his dripping paddle flashing in the sunlight, he longed to launch his “old canvas-back” and try conclusions with him. And when Indian summer came, and a school-fellow showed him a string of muscalonge or pickerel he had caught in some isolated pond to which he had penetrated with the aid of his light draft canoe, Joe wished most heartily that Matt Coyle had not been such an adept at stealing things.
“I’ll never see my canoe again,” said he, with a sigh of resignation. “I can’t say that I hope he will drown Matt, but I do hope he will duck him so many times and in such dangerous places that the next time he sees a canvas canoe he will run from it. What’s become of him any way?”
That was the question that had been in every body’s mouth ever since the day when the two constables returned and reported that Matt Coyle and the six thousand dollars and Joe Wayring’s canoe must have sunk into the ground or gone up in a balloon, for no traces of them could be found, although every thicket in the Indian Lake country had been looked into. The squatter’s wife and boys were luxuriating in New London jail, awaiting the result of the search. As soon as Mr. Wayring and Uncle Joe read the startling article in the Times they offered a large reward for Matt’s apprehension, and the former wrote to Joe to start for home without the loss of an hour. But it took a letter a long time to go to Indian Lake by the way of New London, and Joe never received it.
Tom Bigden was in great suspense, and it was a wonder to his cousins how he ever lived through it. He was utterly astounded when he read the papers and saw what his last interview with Matt Coyle had led to. His secret weighed so heavily on his mind that he could not carry it alone, and so he made a clean breast of it to Loren and Ralph, who could not have been more amazed if Tom had knocked them down. Of course they wanted to help him in his extremity, and the advice they gave was enough to drive him frantic. One day they were both clearly of opinion that he had better leave the State for a while and let the trouble blow over. Again, they thought it would be a good plan for him to take his father into his confidence; and perhaps half an hour afterward they would declare that the only thing he could do was to go to a lawyer about it. Tom listened and trembled, but did nothing. How would he have felt had he known that the boy he had tried to get into trouble was the one who was destined to help him out of his?
“Rumor says that the old woman and both the boys have told all they know; and I have sometimes thought, by the way folks look at me now and then, that there is more afloat than we have heard of,” Tom often said, rubbing his hands nervously together the while. “Don’t I wish I knew whether or not they have mentioned my name in connection with this miserable business?”
“I don’t see what possessed you to tell Matt that you had seen the valise in Joe Wayring’s basket,” said Ralph. “If you had had the first glimmering of common sense you would have known better.”
“So I would,” assented Tom, who was so frightened and dejected that he could not get angry at any thing that was said to him. “But I didn’t suppose he would blunder right off after Joe and do something to get himself into the papers. I am glad he didn’t tell Joe Wayring that I put the idea into his head, for it would have been just like Joe and his crowd to spread it far and wide. They are jealous of me, and will go to any lengths to injure me.”
The short Indian summer passed away all too quickly for the Mount Airy boys, the autumnal rains put a stop to wheeling, and finally Old Winter spread his mantle over the village and surrounding hills and took the lake and all the streams in his icy grasp. When the boys came out of their snug retreats they brought with them their sleds, skates, and toboggans. Tom Bigden was around as usual, but every one noticed that he did not take as deep an interest in things as he formerly did, or “shoot off his chin” quite so frequently. He permitted Joe’s sailboat to rest in peace, and Joe was very glad of that, and often congratulated himself and companions on the fact that they had not once mentioned Tom’s name in connection with the events that had happened at the spring-hole.
The holidays drew near, and Roy Sheldon proposed something that had not been thought of for two or three years—a three days’ camp in the woods between Christmas and New Year’s, and pickerel fishing through the ice. Sherwin’s Pond would be a good camping ground, and the mouth of Indian River was the place to go for pickerel. The idea was no sooner suggested than it was adopted; and on the 27th of December the three boys set off down the twelve-mile carry, walking in Indian file, and dragging behind them a toboggan which was loaded to its utmost capacity with extra clothing, blankets, provisions, cartridges, and every thing else they were likely to need during their stay in the woods. By two o’ clock that afternoon they were snugly housed in a commodious lean-to, whose whole front was open to a roaring fire, and debating some knotty points while they rested from their labors. Who would put on his skates, cut a hole through the ice, and catch a fish for dinner? who would cook the fish after it was caught? and who would cut the night’s supply of firewood?