Having gained the roof, Uncle Dick stood for an instant appalled at the scene presented to his gaze. A furious gale was raging, the air was filled with snow and sleet, and the old sailor felt the full force and severity of the tempest in his exposed position, having been in too great a hurry even to put on his hat before he left his state-room. He looked all around for his crew, who ought to have been on deck attending to things, but could not see a single man. He saw something else, however, and that was a range of high hills about a mile distant from the house—a famous place for squirrels and quails, and one of the favorite hunting-grounds of his nephews; but the sailor thought they were the headlands of an unfriendly shore upon which his ship was about to be cast away.
“I’ve sailed the blue water for thirty years without losing a single vessel,” said Uncle Dick, with a groan, “and now I am going to be wrecked at last. I can hear the breakers already. Helm hard a-starboard! Mr. Cross, call all hands. Mr. Jefferson, stand by to put the ship about!”
Uncle Dick shouted out these orders with an earnestness which showed that he was fully alive to the dangers of the situation; but, to his great amazement, he did not hear the accustomed responses, and neither did he see the faithful crew tumbling up from below to execute his commands He was fairly awake now, and a vague idea that things did not look natural began to creep into his mind. He glanced at the hills, toward the place where the man at the wheel ought to have been, at the tall elms which lifted their swaying, leafless branches above his head, and then turned and dived down the companion-ladder. He found his way to his state-room, and after brushing off some of the snow which clung to him, he tumbled into his bunk and settled himself snugly between the sheets. For five minutes all was still; and then a roar of laughter that was plainly heard above the noise of the storm, rang through the state-room.
“I’ve done some queer things in my life,” said the sailor, as if addressing some one near him, “but that was the first time I ever ordered my mate to stand by to put a stone house about.”
Uncle Dick had a keen sense of the ludicrous, and considering the story as altogether too good to be kept to himself, he told it to the family the next morning; and a merrier breakfast party than that which gathered around Mr. Gaylord’s table was never seen anywhere. The members of the household were kept in a broad grin for several days afterward, and even now the old sailor would roar out heartily whenever he thought of it.
This was but one of the many laughable incidents, of which Uncle Dick was the hero, that happened in the mansion during the year; but if we should stop to relate them, we should never begin the story of the Sportsman’s Club’s adventures.
Walker’s room and Eugene’s was in the second story of the house. It was a large, cheerful apartment, nicely furnished, and contained three beds—enough to accommodate all the members of the Club. Any one who had taken a single glance at the room, would have gained a pretty good idea of the tastes and habits of its young masters. The walls were adorned with pictures of hunting scenes, regattas and boat-races, and with flags, pennants and trophies of the chase. In one corner stood a book-case containing a fine library; in another were deposited several pairs of Indian clubs and dumb-bells; and a third seemed to be used as an armory, for it was filled with rifles and shot-guns of all sizes and lengths, each weapon enclosed in a case of strong cloth, to protect it from the dust. Occupying a prominent place over the mantel was the flag which had been the cause of so much hard feeling on the part of Bayard Bell. It was made of blue silk, and in its centre bore the word “Champion!” in gold letters. It was the handiwork of Emma Bell and some of her friends, and had been made at the suggestion of Bayard, who declared that he and his men could pull much faster if they had something besides the championship to work for. Lucy Conklin, the pretty cousin of one of Bayard’s crew, was selected to present the flag to the winning boat. She expected to have the pleasure of giving it to Bayard, who was her favorite; and when Walter Gaylord, with his cap in his hand, and his handsome face flushed with exercise and triumph, stepped upon the tug where she was standing, and approached to receive the colors, Lucy was so surprised and indignant that she forgot the neat little speech she had prepared for the occasion, and handed the flag to the victor without saying a word. The Club thought a great deal of that little piece of blue silk, and were determined to keep it.
It is the night of the first of December, 18—. The boys’ room is brilliantly illuminated by four large lamps suspended from the ceiling, and a cheerful wood fire is burning on the hearth, and around it is gathered a happy party consisting of all the members of the Sportsman’s Club. That broad-shouldered, sturdy-looking fellow who is sitting on one side of the centre-table with a book on his knee, and talking to the old negro who stands with his hand on the door-knob, is Walter Gaylord, the President of the Club. He and his companions have been discussing various plans for their amusement, and having decided to pass the next day in hunting coons, Walter is issuing his orders. “You’re sure the weather will be favorable, are you, Sam?” he asks.
“Yes, sar; sartin ob it,” replies the negro. “It’s snowin’ now, fast. It’s boun’ to snow all night, and to-morrow’ll be just de day for tracking de coon.”
“Well, then, we’ll start as soon after daylight as we can get ready. We shall want a warm breakfast before we go.”