Four Afloat: Being the Adventures of the Big Four on the Water

by Ralph Henry Barbour

Silence.

“Vagabond ahoy!” shouted Tom. “Say, cut it out, will you? I want my breakfast!”

Silence.

“Oh, thunder!” muttered Tom, pulling the blanket up over his head to keep the fog from sifting down his neck. “Think you’re smart, don’t you?” At that moment the fog cleared for a tiny space and Tom stared in puzzled surprise. Then the mists shut down again as quickly as they had lifted, but not before Tom had seen that the Vagabond was no longer in sight. He sat down on the stone wall and tried to reason it out. Of course it had been Dan’s idea; no one but Dan would think of such a trick. They had gone off to the boat and had managed to get the tent down without disturbing him. But afterwards? Why had they gone off in the launch? Probably to make him think that they had left him for good. Very well, then he would follow. He recollected that below the cove the shore had jutted out into a wooded point; he had gathered wood along the edge of it yesterday afternoon. They had probably taken the launch around the point out of sight. So the best thing to do was to walk along the shore until he got to where they were. Then he’d tell them just what he thought of them!

So he set off through the fog, keeping the river’s edge dimly in sight. He began to feel rather soggy and very, very hungry. Also, it was none too warm that morning, although after he had been walking for a time his chilliness passed off. When he reached the woods he hesitated. To turn to the left and follow the shore would mean much harder walking and a much longer trip. So he decided to go through the wood and come out on the other side of the point. After five minutes he began to think that he had made a mistake. For there was no sign of a break in the trees, nor, when he paused and listened, could he hear the lap of the little waves along the shore. Probably he had borne too far inland. He changed his course to the left and started on again. But the trees grew near together, there was a good deal of underbrush and keeping a straight course was out of the question. By this time his only thought was to reach the shore again, and he kept bearing farther and farther to the left. Some ten minutes passed. Tom’s face began to grow anxious. He had visions of spending the day in those woods, breakfastless, luncheonless, dinnerless! He stopped and sat down on a fallen log to consider the situation calmly and to get some of his breath back.

“The next time I leave home in a fog you’ll know it!” he muttered, apparently addressing the nearest tree. “What good’s a fog, anyway?” Presently he realized that his thoughts had wandered away on the subject of fogs and that he hadn’t solved his dilemma. By this time he had lost all sense of direction and didn’t pretend to know where the river lay. The wood, he thought, couldn’t be very large and so if he kept on walking in a straight line he was certain to get out of it before long. Once out of it—Well, maybe he could find a house or a road. As for the Vagabond and Dan and Nelson and Bob they could choke for all he cared; what he wanted was breakfast, and lots of it!

So presently, having recovered his wind, he got up, fixed a direction firmly in his mind and trudged on again. The fog was thinner here in the woods than it had been along the shore; possibly, he reasoned, the farther inland he got the less fog there would be. Although if he could only find something to eat he wouldn’t bother about the weather. He had been walking for some five or six minutes when the trees suddenly disappeared and he found himself on the edge of a planted field. The fog seemed as thick as ever and it was impossible to see more than twenty or thirty feet away. But a planted field, especially one planted with vegetables, as this one was, argued a house near by. So he got between two rows of cauliflower and tramped on. Presently he found his way barred by a stone wall. On the other side of the wall was grass. Tom perched himself on top of the wall and speculated.

He cut a queer figure as he sat there with the red-bordered gray blanket over his head. One corner of the blanket had been dragging for the last ten minutes and was covered with mud. Here and there a wet leaf was pasted upon it. His shoes, the white canvas, rubber-soled “sneakers” worn on the launch, were sights to behold, and within them his feet were very wet and very cold. But what bothered him most of all was his stomach. That felt dreadfully empty, and now and then little “shooty” pains made themselves felt.

Probably he had mistaken the direction of the house belonging to the field, he told himself dispiritedly. He should have walked across the rows instead of along them. And the grass in front of him only meant a meadow with silly cows, and, maybe, a bull! He wondered what a bull would think of him if he saw him; nothing flattering, probably. On the whole, he decided that he would a little rather not run across a bull this morning. Then suddenly he heard, far away and indistinct, the Vagabond’s whistle. He knew it too well to mistake it.

“Go on and blow it,” he muttered. “Hope your arm gets tired. You won’t see me until I’ve had some breakfast, I can tell you that. That’s right, blow, blow! Who the dickens cares?”