I ran away from Waddie, and went up the lake as far as Gulfport. I soon lost sight of him, and I concluded that he had made a landing somewhere on the shore. It was too rough to explore the coast, for the wind was driving the waves upon the rocks and beaches with savage power, and it was not prudent to go too near the land. I put the Belle about, and commenced beating down the lake. I thought no more of Waddie, my mind being wholly taken up in sailing my boat, and in the pleasant anticipation of making a profitable thing of her.
On the eastern shore of the lake, between Centreport and Gulfport, there was a wood, covering, perhaps, a square mile of land. It was much used by picnic parties in the summer, and had a cook-house for frying fish and making chowders. A rude landing-place had been prepared for steamers, for the deep water extended quite up to the shore. In the process of beating the Belle down the lake, I ran her close up to the pier off the grove. As I was coming about, I heard a cry which seemed to indicate great distress. I was startled by the sound; but, as there were neither Indians nor wild beasts in the vicinity, I concluded that I had mistaken the nature of the call.
I was proceeding on my course when the cry was repeated. It was certainly the sound of mingled anger and distress. I threw the Belle up into the wind, and listened. The cry was repeated, and I stood in toward the shore. Passing the pier, I saw Waddie’s boat secured to the logs. Just above the wharf there was a little land-locked bay, into which I ran the Belle. The cry of distress was not again repeated; but my curiosity was fully aroused. I concluded that Waddie had found some boy or girl, smaller and weaker than himself, and was exercising the evil propensities of his nature upon his victim.
I lowered my sails, and secured them. Fastening the painter of the Belle to a tree, I walked toward the cook-house, with the small boat-hook, not bigger than a broom-handle, in my hand. I must say that I dreaded a conflict of any description with Mr. Waddie. There was no more reason in him than in a stone wall, and he really delighted in torturing a victim. If any one interfered to repress his cruelty, he took the act as a personal insult, and regarded himself as oppressed by not being allowed to exercise his malice upon the weak.
I walked cautiously toward the spot from which the cry had come, for I wished to obtain a view of the situation before I was seen myself. The trees were large, and afforded me abundant concealment. Every few moments I stopped to listen; and I soon heard several voices, some of them peculiarly gruff and unnatural. It was plain that Waddie and his victim were not the only actors in the scene. Placing myself behind a tree, I took a careful observation, and discovered smoke rising among the branches; but I could not yet see who the speakers were. Something was going on; but whether it was a comedy or a tragedy I could not determine.
I continued cautiously to approach the spot, and soon gained a position where I could obtain a full view of the scene. I had expected to find Waddie persecuting some poor wretch. The “boot was on the other leg.” The scion of the house of Wimpleton was the victim, and not the oppressor. The world seemed to be turned upside down. Waddie, divested of all his clothing but his shirt and pants, was tied to a tree. Near him a fire was snapping and crackling, while over it hung a kettle. Although I was at the windward of the fire, the odor which pervaded the woods assured me that the kettle was filled with tar.
Around the fire were four stout boys, rigged out in fantastic garments, their faces covered with masks and other devices to conceal their identity. Near the fire lay a couple of bolsters, which, no doubt, were filled with feathers. One of these fellows was stirring the contents of the kettle, and another was replenishing the fire, while the other two looked on. Who they were I could form no idea, for their strange uniforms completely disguised them.
Waddie looked like the very picture of hopeless misery. I had never seen such an aspect of utter despair on his face. He was as pale as death, and I could even see the tremors of his frame as he trembled with terror.
CHAPTER V.
THE BATTLE WITH WORDS.
I was not quite willing to believe that the four stout fellows in the vicinity of the kettle really intended to “tar and feather” Waddie Wimpleton. In the first place, it was astounding that any one on the Centreport side of the lake should have the audacity to conceive such an outrage upon the sacred person of the magnate’s only son. Why, the people generally held the great man in about the same reverence as the people of England hold their queen. The idea of committing any indignity upon his person, or upon the persons of any of his family, seemed too monstrous to be entertained.