The place was the typical home of a St. Lawrence River fisherman. In one corner stood the old man’s most cherished possessions, his sturgeon spears and a big jack lantern for night fishing. A crude attempt at taxidermy, too, was above an open fireplace at one end of the hut—a stuffed “butter-ball” duck. It stood wobbling on one leg, the seams of its sewn-up skin bursting through with the cotton that stuffed it.
In the opposite corner was a rusty stove with three legs, the place of a fourth support being supplied by a log. A few tin plates, clumsy knives and forks, bags of flour, potatoes, onions and other staples about completed the furnishings of the hut. The roof was leaky, as some muddy pools on the floor and the sunlight streaming through sundry holes into the room, amply testified.
Ralph’s eye took in all this in a few seconds. Then his mind reverted to his loss. Beyond a doubt, old man Whey was the thief. The old rascal must have decided to search his guest in the night and abstract whatever of value he found. The boy could not help an indignant exclamation as he thought of the almost priceless collection of gems the old man’s rapacious fingers had gathered in.
“Just to think,” exclaimed Ralph indignantly, “that an old, half-senile man should have robbed me of precious stones that I thought nobody could take from me!”
Angry at his lack of caution in not having hidden them before he entered the hut, Ralph went to the door. It was ajar, and a touch threw it open. Outside, the morning sparkled brightly. The hut was on the river’s edge. On the shore was drawn up a St. Lawrence skiff, a narrow, double-ended craft of a type peculiar to the great river.
Its oars lay on their fixed thole pins and the line that lay up on the beach was bone dry. Plainly, if this was the old man’s only boat, which, considering his poverty-stricken state, was likely, old Whey had not been out that morning.
This rather puzzled Ralph. He had made up his mind that the old man had risen as soon as the storm died out—or perhaps he had not gone to bed at all—and had looted his garments and bed and then made off with their valuable contents. If the venerable thief had decamped, however, it was plain he had not gone in his own boat; that is, unless he was possessed of more than one, which, for the reasons mentioned, was highly improbable.
Some bacon was in a frying-pan on the rusty stove in which a fire was smoldering. A pot of coffee, also, stood there; and with some bread from one of the corner cupboards Ralph managed to make a rough breakfast. Then, refreshed and invigorated, he set out for the scene of the wreck. Naturally, the desire to see how badly the River Swallow was damaged was uppermost in his mind. It outweighed even his worry over the losing, or, rather, the theft, of the leather wallet.
He had not proceeded very far when his steps were arrested by a low cry from a clump of brush back from the beach.
“Don’t strike me again! Don’t!” came in a trembling voice from whoever was concealed there.