“Faith, why should it not be, with the ind of a tin-dollar fountain pen into it, and poor Mr. Danforth, him writin’ with the stub of a lead pencil? It kin carry three passengers, seventeen-year-locusts, would ye believe it, and it wint acrost the lake!”
“Fine!” said Harry.
The place seemed indeed deserted, with Mr. Danforth’s genial face not in evidence. But Pat and his good wife proved very cordial and hospitable substitutes. Pat protested that if Mr. Danforth were to hear of their passing the house without accepting its entertainment, he, Pat, would be peremptorily discharged and denounced every day thereafter. So they dined luxuriously under the trees on the beautiful lawn, on a variety of dainty and toothsome odds and ends from the still well-stocked larder.
After dark they went on down the shore, with many acknowledgments to the hearty chauffeur, who seemed to have a full measure of the genuine Danforth hospitality. “I was chauffeur here long befoor there was anny autimobiles, or befoor they’d the place at all,” he told them, as they left; “and he’s the ghrand man, but I can’t larrn him to manage a boat.”
At nine o’clock that night, the Oakwood scouts sprawled on the grassy, sloping shore, just opposite old Fort Ticonderoga. A mile or so behind the fort lay the sleeping village. Behind the waiting scouts rose the historic Mount Independence; and across the lake there glimmered a quivering yellow band, the light of a camp-fire just beyond the fort.
“Wonder what time they’ll turn in?” said Roy Carpenter. “Christopher, but that light looks cheerful!”
The old fort, partially restored, lay at the end of a roundish cape projecting from the New York shore, and here the water flowed through the narrowest channel in all the lake’s broadening and narrowing path. It was a spot forever associated with the good old War of Independence. Right here, where the Oakwood scouts now waited for the light to die, had the redoubtable Allen given his boisterous followers a final harangue, generously offering to release any one who lacked the courage to follow him across.
The boys had not been able to secure a boat anywhere in the vicinity, and here they were handicapped in a way that Ethan Allen had not been. For that intrepid leader had, to tell the truth, “attached” all the boats along the shore—in the name of the great Jehovah and the Continental Congress. This, of course, the new Green Mountain Boys could not very well do; so Harry suggested reconnoitering alone, bringing back, if possible, one of the enemy’s canoes. The proposition was one after Ethan Allen’s own heart. They rigged a makeshift raft by lashing together three logs which lay on a ruined pier near by, and spent an hour fashioning a rough sculling oar with a scout staff and a piece of narrow board.
After the fire had died sufficiently to convince them that the Albany troop had gone to bed, Harry boarded the raft, and managed to work his way across the channel, which was here about one third of a mile across. He kept well clear of the illuminated area, and crawled cautiously up the sloping shore, testing the ground before each step. It was almost pitch dark, but on the little eminence, a hundred feet or so from the shore, a black, irregular bulk could be seen, behind which was a fast-dying light. Undoubtedly that was where they spent the evenings. And he felt equally certain that they slept within the fortress walls. He crept up the hill. There was not a sound. He listened, and suddenly became conscious of voices, speaking in an undertone. Then, two figures, walking together, emerged from the darkness, crossed the band of dying light, and were engulfed again in the night. He followed them by their voices. He could not hear what they were saying, but presently one spoke in a louder tone, from which he gathered that they had separated. He crept closer until he was within earshot of steady footfalls. These he followed, silently, stealthily, clutching every stone and brittle twig between his toes. Soon a figure took hazy outline against the background of less black water. It seemed to be headed for the shore.
Harry undid the knot of his scarf and took it off, crunching the soft fabric into a wad. Then he stole forward, and with simultaneous movements threw one arm about the walking figure and with the other hand stuffed the wadded scarf into its mouth and held it in. Then, tripping the boy by a dextrous movement of his foot, he let him gently to the ground. As the sentinel was taken completely by surprise, it was all done in a second.