Читать книгу The Outdoor Chums on the Lake: or, Lively Adventures on Wildcat Island - Allen Quincy - Страница 6

No one seemed able to say a single word.

Standing or crouching there, with staring eyes those four lads watched the marvelous ascent of their supper. It was as though an unseen hand had reached down and plucked the kettle from the rock to carry it heavenward.

Now it had reached the level of the top of the bluff, and as they continued to gape, an arm was thrust hastily out from the rank vegetation that grew there; they saw eager fingers clutch the kettle, and then it was drawn from their sight.

“Tell me about that!” gasped Jerry, as soon as he could catch his breath.

Bluff made a dive for Frank’s gun. His own repeating shotgun was at home, out of commission, for which Jerry, who hated the modern arm as the devil is said to hate holy water, never ceased to give thanks.

But Frank caught his arm.

“No, I wouldn’t do that, Bluff. We can afford to lose our stew, for we’ve got plenty more behind it. We can even let the little kettle go, if necessary; but we should hate to have any man’s life on our hands, no matter if he is a crazy being.”

“Did you see him, Frank?” exclaimed Will, in great excitement.

“No more than the rest of you. An arm came into view, and the kettle was drawn in. Somebody is going to enjoy a fine supper to-night. Perhaps the poor fellow has not tasted decent food for ages. Much good may it do him,” said Frank.

“What are you going to do about it, then?” demanded the warlike Bluff.

“Well, the best thing is to open another can of succotash and one of the corned beef, since we seem to have set our minds on that stew,” smiled Frank.

He immediately started operations.

“But are we going to sit here like a lot of babies while that scamp runs off with our supper?” demanded Bluff, indignantly.

“And he’s stolen one of your charming little aluminum kettles, too, Frank,” put in Will, in added horror.

“Well, there are plenty more where that came from, and an indulgent dad will, I am sure, supply me with all I want; but I should hate to have to tell him that I had filled a poor demented being with bird-shot just because the tantalizing odor of my favorite canoeist stew had tempted him beyond endurance.”

“How do you think the beggar ever did it?” asked Jerry at this juncture, as he craned his neck to look straight upward.

“I think I can see how. I noticed a cord of some sort. Evidently he had a hook attached. This he passed over that branch of a tree sticking out from the top of the bluff, so that the kettle might be kept away from the face of the cliff as it rose, and in that way prevented from spilling its coveted contents,” replied the one addressed.

“Talk to me about your aeroplanes, that was an ascension to beat the band! Wow! I had a chill run up and down my spinal column, for I give you my word, fellows, at first I really thought of ghosts, and that some invisible agency had reached down and gobbled our supper.”

“And I thought I was dreaming – that I’d fallen asleep by the fire, and you had eaten up all the stew, while Bluff was throwing up the empty kettle to practice shooting at, like he did our wash-basin that other time,” admitted Will.

“And that chap was angling for the bale of our kettle while we sat here and never once suspected what was going on. Say, we’re a husky lot of tenderfeet. Why, some night a thief will come and steal the blankets off us, and no one be the wiser until morning,” declared Bluff, in disgust.

After a while the second kettle of stew was pronounced ready. It was laughable to see how those four crowded around to protect it against an invading force; and what suspicious looks they cast upward at the brow of the innocent little bluff.

But there was no further manifestation of the Presence near them. Jerry kept an eye on the coffee-pot, and was ready with a keen-edged knife to immediately proceed against any dangling cord and hook that might come in sight.

They enjoyed the supper in spite of the uncanny feeling that this unprovoked and early attack had produced.

“Who was it predicted that the odors of our cooking would stir up the old hermit, and awaken his appetite for the things of the civilized world? Frank, it was you. And sure enough that’s what came to pass. He’s got tired of feeding on roots and birds’ eggs and fish,” remarked Will, feeling better after he had quieted the gnawings of his appetite.

“Provided that it was the so-called wild man,” said Frank, quietly.

At which remark there was a chorus of cries.

“It certainly must have been a human being and not an animal. Even an educated ape or chimpanzee could never have had that cord and hook and managed it as this chap did. What do you mean by doubting it, Frank?” demanded Bluff.

“Yes, tell us what you’ve been thinking?” asked Will.

“Say, that gives me an idea. I wager I can guess what he’s got in mind,” ventured Jerry, looking exceedingly wise.

“Well, go on then,” from Frank.

“The two runaway tramps!”

“Jerry, that head of yours will get you into trouble some day. You are too good a guesser,” laughed Frank.

“Then that was it? You think the tramps have come over here to Wildcat Island to hide while the sheriff is hunting the woods high and low for them? I declare, if that’s so it means warm times in store for us,” exclaimed Will.

“Talk to me about your war scares, what could equal that? Why, we’ll capture the blooming hoboes, and let Mr. Dodd know there are others besides himself who can do things.”

“What makes you think that?” pursued Bluff, who always wanted to know the why and wherefore of everything, he being the Doubting Thomas of the quartet.

“I may be mistaken, remember; for I’m just speculating, you see. In the first place, I doubt if our wild man would be provided with such a convenient cord and hook. Then again I saw that arm, and it was covered with a sleeve that looked wonderfully like that of the taller tramp’s coat, a dun-colored affair.”

“Bravo! Frank’s logic carries the day. I’m going to take it for granted that we are entertaining angels unawares on this blessed old island,” cried Will.

“Angels?” snorted Jerry. “Talk to me about that, will you? They must have had their wings singed, then, or else they’d have flown down and scooped our grub instead of using a measly old string. Angels! Wow! Will’s turning poet as well as artist.”