Beadle's Half Dime Library, No. 187 — page 16: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

his boat steadily down the channel, leaving them to do as they pleased. His last glimpse of them re- vealed them both swimming for the island, a decid- edly crestfallen pair. CHAPTER XIX, A TURTLE ISLAND SUNSET. THE punishment of Will Howard and his villain- ous confederaté6 was os than Fred had conjec- tured or intended. The point at which they came ashore was some five miles up the inlet. e sun was shining warmly, and they took the opportunity of drying their soaking clothes in the warm beams ere proceeding further, By the time this was accomplished it was past six o'clock. On resuming his clothes Will was not agreeably surprised to find that his suit of gra wool had shrunk considerably in the drying, and that he presente | a figure which would make ic more agree- able to him to reach Beach City after dark. They therefore proceeded slowly down the island shore, calculating to reach the point opposite the city just before sunset, and to signal for some one to set them across the inlet. And the dire destruction to which they consigned Fred Halyard during this journey would scarcely have been comfortable to that young man. Indeed they gave rather too much thought to schemes of vengeance, and too little to the flight of time. To their alarm the sun sunk below the hori- — — they were still a mile from the requisite po . ‘*We must hurry like fun, or it will be dark afore we get there,’’exclaimed Grady. ‘'Ilwouldn’t spend the night here for a pile of bluefish.”’ were now on the outer beach of the island, having found the inner too marsby for progress. The sands here were firm and hard, and they ran rapidly onward. They were soon at the lower end of the island, and were turning toward the desired internal point when an unexpected obstacle met their eyes. This was a broad stream of clear water, flowing downward from the interior marsh, and putting a most unwelcome check to their progress. ‘*Hang it, it was as dry as powder yesterday!”’ growled Grady. ‘‘You can’t trust these marshes two days together. There's a four-foot wade we've got to make, Mr. Howard.”’ This was a decidedly disagreeable necessity to Will Howard. He had had wetting enough that day to satisfy him, and looked down with intense dissatis- faction upon his shrunk habiliments. ‘‘ Blast that cur of a Halyard!”’ he fiercely grum- bled. ‘* Wouldn’t I like to have him here now.” ‘*Maybe you would, But that won’t get us to the city. It’s either wade the run, or stay here all night.’ ‘Yes, water’s second nature to Pas] Suppose . Til be shot you tramp across and signal the boa it I like the notion.” Grady at once obeyed. But even his short collo- quy had proved dangerous, The twilight was fast eepening into night. A gloom had already settled upon the low point of the island which rendered a soem form nearly undistinguishable from the inlet ouse, Unfortunately he had nothing white about him with which to signal. He ran quickly back to ob- tain Howard’s handkerchief. But this occasioned atill further delay, and even this white, fluttering flag of truce seemed not to be observed by the boat- men on the opposite shore, As for calling, that was simply useless. The dis- ee was too great for the human voice to be rd, By this time Will Howard, having taking off part of clothes, had managed to cross the run with: out a further wetting, and joined his disappointed confederate. But the partial undre of himself had yielded another effect upon which he had not counted. With the eve loom the blood-suckers of the marsh, the muske , were rising in thousands. Will’s bare limbs offered them a tempting harvest. Ere he could clothe himself again he was dancin win pee if he had been touched by a thousand And even when clothed his hands, face and neck were exposed to the assaults of his minute but mul- Het By all that good, Grady,” h ed, “I “By S y,”’ he screamed, ‘ can’t stand this. Ishall be ruined before mo , Don't you feel them?”’ “T’ve been through that mill too often,” said Crag indifferently. ‘‘ They like fresh meat best.” Bt elp me to drive them off!’’ yelled Will, flinging his arms about like a windmill, as fresh swarms as- saulted him. ‘They'll set mec " vb sed with a covert smile, tied Will’s handker- chief closely around his neck. He next managed to wind his coat about the poor victim’s head so as to leave him bare s for breathing. But Will had been very seriously punished before this was done. And, despite his efforts, enough of his foes found their way through the small opening left to make him very uncomfortable. ‘*T can’t stand this for the night,” he groaned. “*T shall be a corpse before morning.” ‘*T have some matches here,” returned Grady. “But they’ve been well soaked. I doubt if they’ll we could only strike a fire we'd be all burn ht.’ vigie EEpoane the matches to the — breeze to dry them. He had but three or four of them, and it was not safe to run any risks. It was a half-hour ere he ventured to try them, first gathering a mass of sea-weed and fragments of wood, the shreds of o perhaps, One, two, they fizzed and went out. The third Fred Halyard, the Life Boat Boy. kindled, but ere the wood was well lit the wind curled under his sheltering hat, and carried away the spluttering flame. But a single match remained. Grady picked up a round-bodied sea-shell that lay near him, and struck the match on its interior lip, which was roughened by a thin deposit of coral. Holding the burning wood deep within the cavity until it had got well kindled, he stuffed into the opening a pinch of the 7), sea-weed. t kindled. It flamed up. He buried the shell un- der his heap of dry fuel, which at once burst into bright flame. They both sprung to their feet with a cry of de- light. The signal was made. It must be seen across the inlet. Their cry was answered. At the same instant the sound of oars was heard, justoff shore. A boat was coming rapidly to their rescue. In a moment more it was within the circle of light from their bright flame. ‘** All right,”’ cried a cheering voice. ‘‘ Come round here out of reach of the surf. We'll have you off in the twinkle of a cat’s foot.” “How did you catch our light s0 quick?’’ asked Will. ‘* Were you out fishing?’ ‘*‘No. We were sent here after you.” ** Who by?” “Fred Halyard. He saw you before dark. But he thought that maybe you’d like to make friends with our Turtle Island musketoes awhile.” The speaker laughed. He had heard from Fred the whole story. Only for Fred, in fact, they would have been left to make a night of it. Not a boatman would have put out to their rescue, The speaker informed Will Howard of this when he fell to a bitter cursing of his successful antago- nist, and advised him, also, to hold his tongue, if he did not wish to spend the night on the island. This threat effectually silenced him. He became mute and subdued as he entered the boat, too thor- ae quelled to have another word to say. here was some covert laughter among the boat- men at the inlet house when Will stepped ashore from the rescuing boat, with but a sorry vestige of his former pride of bearing. His clothes were so shrunken that they clung like an outer skin to his limbs; while his face, from which the shrouding coat had been removed, was Spee out with musketo stings until it seemed ouble its former size. One eye was nearly closed by the puffed flesh, and the other in a not much bet- ter condition. His hands were similarly swollen, and he walked away with a crestfallen look that gained him no ey among the assembled boatmen. “If Fred hasn’t sarved him out, then 'skeeters can’t sing!’ cried one of the men, with a laugh of t amusement. ‘“ But you were jacks to bring Grady off. We ain’t done with sly Tim, yet, let a tell you. If he ain't sarved out for this bus’ness, *s queer. Meanwhile, Will Howard was sneaking in at the rear entrance to the Mansion House, in hopes to reach his room unseen. CHAPTER XX. FRED TAKES THE REINS. Frep HALYARD was again enjoying the hospitali- ties of Crockettstown, at the expense of Mr. Proc- tor; for that village was not in the habit of dispens- ing its hospitalities without being well paid for them. n this occasion he took the bull by the horns—as the proverb goes—putting up at the Red Lion Inn, as a guest of the redoubtable Jim Bundy. He had two reasons for this. First, he did not consider it certain that Bundy would associate him with the custom house officers who had searched his establishment for smuggled goods. To render this less likely he professed to be an agent of a per son wishing to go intoa real estate enterprise in that art of the State, and who had sent him to see the y of the land. Secondly, even at the risk of being suspected, he wished to have Jim rams under his immediate eye, and also thought it quite possible that he might discover the secret Se ae ine Mr, Proctor and Harry Bains had failed to nd. The goods had not yet been removed. Of this Fred made sure by a series of guarded inquiries. In fact, the visit of the boy and his companions the revious week had made the rival landlord of the lack Horse suspicious that all was not right at the Red Lion, and with professional jealousy he had kept a close eye upon Jim Bundy’s hostelry. o Fred settled down with a certain measure of content. It was some satisfaction to feel that he was not on a wild-goose chase. But he had ge Jim Bundy too little credit for shrewdness. at individual evidently suspected him, and seemed quietly on his guard i i ae eve movement of Fred’s; leaving him none of the hoped- for opportunities to investigate the secrets of the on. He was also pisin’y ill at ease, from some other cause, about Fred. He would fix his eyes upon him in a stealthy manner, and with an expression of foggy doubt marking his face, asif he was trying hard to place the boy in some vanished scene of the past. If Fred sat reading on the porch, Jim Bundy would peer from the window for the half-hour at a time, muttering ina low tone to himself, and observing him from every possible point of view. sage One was evidently knocking at the shut door of his lost memory. If that portal should sud- only open, what a flood of flown recollections would rush into the new world of his later life! He was uneasy in Fred's presence, both from dis- trust of his purpose, and from this st 6 freak of memory, which made the lad appear to like one ee 6 ee whom he had known in some former life. He found himself mentally inquiring if his soul had ever in- habited any previous body. Fred did not fail to notice these stealthy move- ments of his host. He was as curious in regard to his host as was the latter in respect to himself. Could he but open the doors of that sealed mind, which held in some secret closet the lost story of his own life, the mystery which the aa f with a very natural curiosity, longed to have unfo ded He took severa a phe to enaege Bundy in conversation, in which he led the way back to the past, and skillfully strove to extract from him some details of his previous history. Nor was his host loth to talk, but his whole life seemed to be embraced in his residence at Crocketts- town. Whenever prior times were referred to he would fall into an uncertain, groping, painfully-con- fused mental etate that was pitiable to witness. He appeared like one seeking to make his way in utter darkness through a scene which he had known of old, but could not recall. Fred spoke of the Monsoon in an indifferent way, as a vessel of which he had heard; meanwhile close- ly watching the face of his host for the effect of this name. It was received with a start and a flush of color. see sprung to his feet and rapidly walked the oor. ‘* Where have I heard that name?” he asked him- self, with a whispering utterance. ‘It’s somewhere deep in my brain, but I can’t touch it—I can’t reach it. And you—you—your face is there with it. I’ve seen your face—where—is it a ship? a storm?” Recollection seemed to be struggling to the sur- face of his mind. ‘You cannot remember me,” replied Fred. ‘I was a child on the Monsoon. You and I only were saved from the wreck.” ‘“ You!” exclaimed Bundy, starting with surprise. ‘‘T have heard that story. Were you the child? Old Tom Halyard took the child.” ‘‘T am Fred Halyard, the ocean waif.”’ Jim Bundy was evidently pleased with this meet- ing. But the port spenen oor of his old life had closed again. No further recollection came back to him from the past. These conversations were repeated, but with no better result. Fred’s face continued associated in his mind with the name of the Monsoon. But his recollection of the latter was simply a name—he could not give it shape or locality. Meanwhile Fred did not for a moment intermit his vigilance. Not a movement in the Red Lion which could bear the least suspicious interpretation es- caped his keen eyes. He would have liked a chance for a free investigation of the hostelry, for the pur- pose of eee the secret receptacle of smuggled goods. But Jim Bundy’s distrnst vas not laid to rest by Fred’s continued residence, and he took heed ' that the lad should have no chance to wander free- ly about the inn. The bost’s furtive eyes seemed ubiquitous. There was no escape from their scru- tiny. This was growing monotonous to one of Fred’s active temperament. He said to himself that he did not want to spend a lifetime playing hide-and- seek with Bundy’s eyesight. aad pt ar to make a break somewhere or burst,” red. If he could not examine the Red Lion a. cay it might be possible todo so by night. The folks there certainly took some time to sleep. Of course, in any night-time prowling, there was the slight chance of being mistaken for a bur lar, and Be te s treat- ed to an errant bullet, touched the handle of a pistol which he had of late been carrying in his ocket. Bs There’s two can play at that game,”’ he thought. “Tr it gets to be a life for a life, [don’t see that it’s right to have all the shooting on one side.” He had now been a week at the Red Lion, spend- ing the greater part of the days in his ostensible business of investigating the real estate in the vi- cinity. This investigation, however, was largely made from a point of view selected under the spreading branches of an old oak, where, stretched on his back, he was better fixed for laying out plan. tations in the sky, than on the earth. The night was fine, cool and clear, which Fred se- lected for his covert prowl through the ground-floor and subterranean precincts of the Red Lion. He was provided with a dark lantern, had muffled his shoes in a pair of large stockings, and was ready for his nocturnal adventure, several hours before it would be safe to undertake it. Boy-like, he eoncluded to spend the intervening hours in getting a modicum of sleep, convinced, in his own mind, that he would wake up when the pro- per time came. But he had some warrant for this confidence, his life on the shore having forced him often to waken at untimely hours. Despite this, however, Fred slept past his intended time. He woke at length with a start. The necessi- ts was working in his mind, like an alarm clock that has been set to strike at a certain hour. But it was not this alonethat awoke him. There werecer- tain sounds in the street without, indefinite to his mind at first, but soon manifesting themselves as subdued voices, and the cautious tread of feet. There was also a peculiar pclae sound, which Fred fancied to resemble the noise made by horses when drinking. Here was something worth investigating. 'Wheth- er or not any special caution was exercised, it seem- ed so to Fred. He felt sure that some clandestine business was at work. He rose heedfully, and had his hand on the knob of his room door ereit occurred to him that if it was he they were afraid of his door might be watched, | OOO) com (E S