Читать книгу Frank Merriwell in Maine; Or, The Lure of 'Way Down East - Burt L. Standish - Страница 3

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Chu! chu! chu!

The sound came from the exhaust pipe of the little steamer.

“Chew! chew chew!” grunted Bruce Browning, lazily looking up at the escaping steam. “Do you know what that makes me think of?”

“Vot?” asked Hans Dunnerwust, who did not like the glance that Browning gave him, and who felt mentally sore because he had been laughed at for trying to get sauerkraut for breakfast. “Vat vos id you makes id t’ink uf?”

“Of the time you kicked that hornet’s nest, supposing it to be a football.”

“Py shimminy, uf dot feetpall did gick me und gid stung in more as lefendeen hundret blaces, id didn’t chewed me!”

“No, but you chewed the tobacco to put on the stings, and that old exhaust pipe sounds just like Merry, when he kept saying to you, ‘Chew! chew! chew!’—and you chewed like a goat!”

“Und peen so seasick vrom id! Ach! I vish dot dose hornets hat kilt me deat ven I stinged dhem.”

“Speaking of a goat,” remarked Hodge, “I saw one aboard a while ago. It belongs to the little boy that came on the boat with the lady as we were getting our things down to the landing.”

“Shouldn’t think they’d allow a goat on the steamer,” said Diamond, in disgust. “This isn’t a stock boat.”

“No, but it looks like a lumber van,” declared Browning, glancing about the deck, where some new furniture had been stowed, destined for Capen’s, or perhaps Kineo. “I guess it carries about everything that people are willing to pay for.”

“The man who can deliberately grumble on such a morning and amid such surroundings, ‘is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils,’” declared Merriwell, looking admiringly across the water. “Tell me if any of you ever saw anything finer.”

Frank Merriwell and a party of friends were on the steamer Katahdin, out in the roomy sheet of water known as Moosehead Lake. The Katahdin had left the town of Greenville, near the southern extremity of the lake, some time before. Its ultimate destination was Kineo, the objective point of many tourists, but it was to stop at Capen’s, or Deer Isle, to put ashore some supplies there, together with Frank Merriwell’s party, consisting of Merriwell, Bart Hodge, Bruce Browning, Jack Diamond and Hans Dunnerwust, all friends of his at Yale.

They had left Greenville in a thick fog, which had at length rolled away, giving them a view of surpassing beauty. The water crinkled under the light breeze like a sea of silk. The sky was of so clear a blue that the black smoke from the little funnel trailed across it like a blotch of ink.

All round were the lake’s grassy, timbered shores. In the northwest, the brown precipice of Mount Kineo lifted its hornstone face to a height of eight hundred feet. It was named for an old Indian chief, who lived on its crest for nearly fifty years. The volcanic cone known as Spencer Peaks rose in the east, while beyond them towered the granite top of Katahdin. In the southwest was the rugged head of “Old Squaw,” named for the mother of Chief Kineo, who dwelt on its top, as her son dwelt on the top of the mountain that bears his name.

Diamond glanced back toward Greenville, and sang, rather than said, “Farewell, Greenville!”

This started Frank Merriwell, who got out his guitar, put it in tune, then leaned back on the camp stool with which he had provided himself and sang:

“Farewell, lady!

Farewell, lady!

Farewell, lady!

We’re going to leave you now.”

Jack Diamond, who sang a fine tenor, joined him in the chorus, which in spite of its jolly words, floated over the water in a way that was almost melancholy:

“Merrily we roll along,

Roll along,

Roll along,

Merrily we roll along,

O’er the deep, blue sea!”

“That sentiment would be all right, now, if we were on one of those new-fangled roller boats,” observed Browning, “but it hardly fits the present occasion. I’d suggest that you change that to ‘skim along,’ or ‘steam along’; we’re certainly not rolling. There isn’t enough sea going on this old lake to make a birch canoe roll!”

Diamond did not seem to hear this. There was a faraway look in his eyes that made Merriwell wonder if Jack were not thinking of a girl to whom he had said farewell at Bar Harbor earlier in the summer.

Merriwell started another old song, whose music and words were sad enough to bring tears, and Diamond’s rich tenor took it up with him. It was a song of the friends of long ago, and the last stanza ran:

“Some have gone to lands far distant,

And with strangers make their home;

Some upon the world of waters

All their lives are forced to roam;

Some have gone from earth forever,

Longer here they might not stay.

They have found a fairer region,

Far away, far away!

They have found a fairer region,

Far away, far away!”

“I vish you voult quit dot!” implored Hans, digging some very fat knuckles into some very red eyes. “Dot make me feel like my mutter-in-law lost me. I feel like somet’ing gid behint me und tickle dill I cry.”

He was interrupted by a warning scream, in a woman’s voice.

“Here, Billy! Look out! Look out!” was shouted.

At the same instant there was a blow, a sound of smashing glass, and with a squawk of astonishment and fright, Hans Dunnerwust shot forward and into the air, as if hit by a pile driver. Something had “tickled” him from behind, in a most unexpected way. It was the goat, of which Hodge had spoken.

“Wow! Mutter! Fire! I vos shot! Hellup! Ye-e-e-ow!”

Hans clawed the air with feet and hands in a frenzy of alarm. Then he came down on the goat’s back and began to squawk again:

“Safe me! I vos kilt alretty! Somet’ings vos riting me avay! Hellup! Murter!” as the goat, frightened by Hans’ fall upon his back, made a forward dash.

Hans had been seated on a stool, which was a part of the new furniture stowed on the deck. A mirror leaned against this stool, the mirror being also a part of the furniture.

The goat was supposed to be kept somewhere below, but it had refused to remain there, and in its peregrinations over the vessel had finally wandered to the upper deck.

The boy had followed it, with the intention of taking it below again, but it had scampered by him.

Then it had suddenly become aware of the fact that there was another goat on the steamer. This new goat was in the mirror. The new goat looked pugnacious and put down its head in a belligerent way when the other goat put down its head. This was too much for any right-minded goat to endure, and so Billy made a rush with lowered head and smashed the mirror goat into a thousand pieces.

Fortunately it struck below Hans and merely hoisted him forward and upward. Its impact was like that of a battering-ram, and if it had butted him fairly in the back it would have inflicted serious injuries. Still though not at all hurt, Hans thought himself as good as dead, and bellowed right lustily.

The other members of the party sprang to their feet, quite as startled, while the boy raced across the deck to stop the goat’s mad career, and the boy’s mother screamed in alarm.

Hans’ fat legs flailed the air, as the goat made its rush, then he tumbled off, with a resounding thump.

“Hellup!” he roared. “Something vos kilt py me! I vos smashed indo more as a hundret and sefendeen bieces!”

Seeing he was not injured, his friends began to laugh.

Hans rolled over, gave them a hurt and angry look, then glanced in the direction taken by the goat.

It had faced about and now stood with lowered head awaiting the turn of events. Plainly it was bewildered. The disappearance of the other goat was to it a puzzling mystery.

“Ba-a-aa!”

Its warning note sounded, as Hans lifted himself on his hands and knees. He was facing the goat, in what the goat thought a threatening attitude. Billy’s fighting instincts were aroused and he was ready for any and all comers, whether they were goats or men.

The comical pugilistic attitude of Hans and the goat was too much for Frank Merriwell’s risibilities. He shouted with laughter. And even Bart Hodge and Jack Diamond, who seldom laughed at anything, laughed at this. Bruce Browning dropped limply back on his stool, haw-hawing.

“Yaw!” snorted Hans. “Dot vos very funny, ain’d it? Maype you seen a shoke somevere, don’d id? You peen retty to laugh a-dyin’, ven I vos kilt. Oh! you gone to plazes! I vos——”

The boy dashed by him toward the goat and Hans lifted himself still higher on his hands and knees.

This was too much for the goat.

“Ba-a-aa!”

Whish! Whack!

He made for Hans with lowered head, passing the boy at a bound, and struck a blow that tumbled Hans down on the deck. But the fire and force were taken out of the goat’s rush, for the boy caught him by his short tail as he passed, and gave the tail such a yank that the goat was skewed round and struck Hans’ shoulder only a glancing blow.

Hans went down in a bellowing heap, and the goat squared for another rush.

“Safe me!” Hans yelled. “You peen goin’ let me kill somet’ing, eh? Wow! Id’s coming do kill me again! Hellup! Fire! Murter! Bolice!”

Diamond picked up a rope’s end and gave the goat a whack across the back. It was like whacking a piece of wood. The goat did not budge.

The boy caught it by the tail. Hans lifted himself, and the goat, dragging the boy, made for him again.

This time Hans fell down without being touched.

Diamond leaped after the boy and sought to take the goat by the neck. It flung him off.

“Ba-a-aa!”

Whack!

That was the goat’s reply to Diamond for his attempted interference. The blow fell on Diamond’s legs, knocking them from under him, and the young Virginian promptly measured his length on the deck.

The goat wheeled again and struck at Bruce Browning, who was crawling off his easy stool. It missed Bruce.

The boy had lost his grip on the goat’s tail, after having been yanked about in a neck-breaking manner.

“Ye-e-ow!” screeched Hans, rolling over and over in a wild effort to gain a place of safety. “I pelief dot vos a sdeam inchine run py electricidy! Led id gid avay vrom me qvick! Somepoty blease holt me dill I gids avay vrom id! Hellup! Murter!”

Browning dashed to Diamond’s assistance, and was joined by Merriwell and Bart Hodge. But they could not hold the goat. It squirmed out of their hands like an eel and scampered to the other side of the deck.

Whish! Spat!

A stream of water from the steamer’s hose struck the goat amidships, at this juncture, and fairly bowled it over.

Some of the crew had decided to take a hand, and were now training the hose on the pugnacious creature.

The goat shook itself and lowered its head as if for the purpose of attacking this new foe. But it quickly changed its mind, and raced from the deck, followed by the stream, sending back a defiant “Ba-a-aa!” however, as it disappeared.

Hans climbed slowly and hesitatingly to his feet, ready to drop down at the first warning. He steadied himself on his fat, shaky legs, and looked round the deck with owlish gravity, as if he doubted the goat’s disappearance.

“Are you hurt?” Merriwell sympathetically asked, advancing.

“Vos you hurt!” Hans indignantly squealed. “Dunder und blitzens! I vos kilt more as sefendeen hundret dimes, alretty yet! I vos plack und plue vrom your head to my heels.”

“Diamond caught it, too,” said Browning.

There was a faint smile on his face, which Hans did not let pass unnoticed.

“Dot vos de drouble mit me! You didn’t nopoby gatch id! Uf you hat gatched it, id vouldn’t haf putted me down so like a bile-drifer! Yaw! You vos a smart fellers, ain’d id! You vos a plooming idiot, und dot’s vot’s der madder mit me!”

“Better hunt up the goat and shake hands with it, and tell it you didn’t mean it!” suggested Browning, who couldn’t keep back a smile and some pleasantry when he saw that Hans was really not hurt in the least.

Hans turned away in disgust and sought his stool.

“You don’t know a shoke ven id seen you!” he declared. “Uf you vos murtered pefore my eyes, you voult laugh!”

He turned the stool over and jammed it down on the deck, causing a shower of glass to fall.

Although thoroughly disgusted and angry, Diamond decided not to make himself ridiculous by showing it.

An officer came forward to look at the broken mirror, and a man appeared with a broom to sweep up the glass and throw it overboard.

Merriwell picked up his guitar and began to strum the strings, and soon he and Diamond were again singing, and the laughable, almost disagreeable incident seemed on the way to speedy oblivion.

Hans maintained a glum silence, however, till the steamer reached Capen’s, now and then rubbing some portion of his anatomy as if to make certain it was all there and not violently swelling as a portent of his speedy death.

The lady apologized for the unruliness of the goat, and paid for the damage done to the mirror.

“Here we are,” announced Merriwell, as the steamer rounded to at the boat landing at Capen’s.

The boy came on deck with the goat, leading it by a rope, and Hans dodged behind the Virginian.

“Uf I see dot feller meppe he gid his mat oop again,” he muttered, “und uf I don’t see me he von’t knew me!”

But the goat seemed now to be very peaceably disposed. It obediently followed the boy and was led ashore by him.

The furniture was landed at Capen’s, too; and soon the steamer, with a much lighter burden, was standing off toward the northwest in the direction of Kineo.

One of the first things Merriwell did when they were comfortably located in the hotel was to inquire for a guide. He had written to Capen, explaining his needs, and he found Capen ready to supply them.

Merriwell’s party was in the Moosehead Lake region, in the tourist season for sport.

Not sport with the gun, however, in the ordinary sense, for it was the close season on all large game; but for a few days of the enjoyment of camping out.

Merriwell intended to do his hunting with a camera, he said; and had brought with him a fine, yet small and handy camera, well adapted to his purposes. He did not desire to shoot any large game, but he hoped to be able to snap the camera on something of the kind that would be worth while.

Above all, however, they intended to lounge and loaf and enjoy themselves without unnecessary exertion, for the time was right in the middle of August; and in August it often gets very hot, even along Moosehead Lake, as they well knew.

Capen, when spoken to by Frank about the promised guide, announced that he was ready to furnish the best and most reliable guide in all that country, and sent for the guide at once.

He came, an Old Town Indian, bearing the name of John Caribou.

Merriwell looked him over and nodded his approval.

“I think he’ll do!” he said.

“Do!” said Capen. “You couldn’t find a better, if you should hunt a year!”

The other members of the party were in the room, closely studying the face and figure of the guide. They saw an Indian of more than ordinary height and strength, dressed in very ordinary clothing, with long hair falling to his shoulders. This hair was as black as a raven’s wing, but not blacker than the keen eyes set between the heavy brows and high cheek bones. The face was grave and unreadable, and the man’s attitude one of impassive silence. An observer might have fancied that the conference did not concern the Indian at all.

Capen offered to furnish the guide, two tents, two birch-bark canoes and supplies for the contemplated trip, for a certain sum, which was agreed to without haggling.

Then Frank Merriwell turned to the guide, who had, so far, not said a word.

“When can you go?” Merry asked.

“’Morrow,” said Caribou, with commendable promptness. “If want can go to-day.”

“He’ll be ready long before you are, gentlemen,” declared Capen. “I don’t doubt he could go in fifteen minutes should it be necessary. But I shall have to get an extra canoe which I can’t do before morning, as he knows, and with your permission I’ll send him for it.”

“Why didn’t he get us a white man?” grumbled Diamond when both Capen and John Caribou were gone. “Of course, it’s to his interest to brag about the fellow. I’m not stuck on Indians myself. It’s my opinion that you can’t rely on them; that they’re all right only so long as everything goes all right, and they’re treacherous, ungenerous and ungrateful. If our Indian guide doesn’t make us sorry we ever met him then I miss my guess.”

“I’m sure he’s all right!” asserted Merriwell. “I studied his face closely while we were talking. It’s Indian, to be sure, but there is no treachery in it. I’ll put my opinion against yours that we’ll find John Caribou as faithful, honest and true as any white man.”

Statements are not always convincing, however, and the Virginian remained unchanged in his belief.

Who was right and who was wrong? We shall see.