Having disposed of their late dinner and cleaned up the camp, the boys were at liberty to lie around under the trees and rest. This, for a wonder, Joe Wayring was quite willing to do; but Roy and Arthur suddenly took it into their heads that they would like to explore the spring-hole and see how big it was and what it looked like.
“Well, go on,” said Joe, “and I will stay here and keep up the fire and rest. Two are enough to ride in that canoe. Take your rods and catch some trout for breakfast. You ought to have fine sport, for they are jumping up in every direction.”
Roy and Arthur thought it best to act upon this suggestion, and from force of habit they also put their guns into the canoe before shoving out into the spring-hole. That was one of the luckiest things those two boys ever did.
By the time they had made two hundred yards from shore, the voyagers discovered that No-Man’s Pond was not a circular basin, as it appeared to be when viewed from the beach in front of their camp. Its shape was very irregular. Numerous long points jutted into the water from both sides, and behind these points were secluded bays in which numberless flocks of wood duck lived unmolested by any enemy save the bald eagles that now and then swooped down and carried off one of their number for dinner.
The boys paddled up on one side of the spring-hole and down the other, going entirely around it and exploring all the little bays and inlets in their course, seeing nothing in the shape of game except the ducks, which quickly sought concealment under the broad leaves of the lily-pads, and finally they dropped anchor in the mouth of a little brook that emptied into the pond, and jointed their rods. It did not take them more than twenty minutes to catch their next morning’s breakfast. In fact, the trout were so eager to take their flies, sometimes jumping clear out of the water to meet them, that the sport was robbed of all excitement.
“I would as soon fish in an aquarium,” said Roy, as he pulled his rod apart and shoved it into its case. “I like to angle for trout, but this suits me too well. What would some of Mr. Hanson’s guests, who haven’t caught a legal fish this season, give to be here with us? Let’s go to camp and see what friend Joe is doing.”
For some reason or other the boys did not sing and shout, as they usually did on occasions like this. Arthur lay at full length in the bow, his chin resting on his arms, which were crossed over the gunwales, and Roy plied the paddle with so much skill that it scarcely made a ripple in the water. As we came noiselessly around the point that obstructed our view of the upper end of the spring-hole, Arthur uttered an ejaculation of astonishment and alarm, raised himself to a sitting posture with so much haste that he came within a hair’s breadth of capsizing me, and reached for his gun, while Roy sat with open mouth and staring eyes, holding his paddle suspended in the air, and looking in the direction of the camp. I looked too, and if I had possessed a heart the scene that met my gaze would have set it to beating like a trip-hammer.
Joe Wayring was no longer lying at his ease under the shade of the evergreens. He was standing with his face to a tree, which he seemed to be clasping with his white, sinewy arms; his back was bared, and he was looking over his shoulder at Matt Coyle, who stood behind and a little to one side of him, rolling up his sleeves. Near by stood Sam, and Jake, each holding a heavy switch in his hand.
In an instant I comprehended the situation—or thought I did. I had heard Matt declare, in savage tones, that some day he and his boys would tie Joe Wayring to a tree and larrup him till he’d wish that he and his crowd had minded their own business; and now Matt was about to carry his threat into execution. He meant to do his work well, when he got at it; for, in addition to the switches that Jake and Sam held in their hands, I saw several others lying on the ground beside them. I had never dreamed that the enmity Matt cherished toward my master was so intense and bitter that it would lead him to go twelve miles out of his way to wreak vengeance upon him, and it was a mystery to me how he ever found out that Joe and his two chums were camping in this particular spot. I did not believe that Matt had come there by accident, and he hadn’t, either, as I afterward learned. He and his boys were on Joe’s trail within three hours after he left Indian Lake, and they had been looking for him ever since, being urged on by something besides a desire for revenge, as I gained from the very first words I heard the squatter utter.
When we rounded the point we were within less than thirty yards of our camp, and in plain sight of it; but its occupants were so deeply interested in their own affairs that they did not see us. I felt a thrill of indignation run all through me when I caught a glimpse of my master’s pale face, and was proud of him when I saw that there were no signs of cringing in him. Matt bared his brawny arm clear to the shoulder, caught up a switch, gave it a flourish or two to make sure that it would stand the work to which he intended to put it, and then said in a loud voice, as if he were addressing some one on the other side of the spring-hole: