Читать книгу Frank Merriwell in Maine; Or, The Lure of 'Way Down East - Burt L. Standish - Страница 5

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The next morning the ledge of rock was visited where Diamond had his adventure with the big cats, and he and Merriwell searched along the shore for some marks of the canoe in which the nocturnal visitor had made off. No young loup-cerviers were found, though a hole was discovered between some roots near the base of the rock, which the cats had no doubt used.

“I don’t understand it,” the young Virginian admitted, referring to the man he had seen sneak away from the camp. “The only thing I can imagine is that it must have been some one who hoped to steal something.”

“Yes,” said Merriwell, thinking of the suspicions Diamond had harbored against the guide. “Do you suppose Caribou could give us any ideas on the subject, if we should tell him about it?”

“Don’t tell him,” advised Diamond, who still clung to the opinion that John Caribou was not “square.”

The coming of daylight drove away the terrors that had haunted Hans Dunnerwust during the night. He became bold, boastful, almost loquacious.

When the sun was an hour high and its rays had searched out and sent every black shadow scurrying away, Hans took a pole and line and some angle worms and went out to a rocky point on the lake, declaring his intention of catching some trout for dinner. He might have had better luck if he had pushed off the shore in one of the canoes and gone fly fishing: but no one wanted to go with him just then, and he was afraid to trust himself alone in a canoe, lest he might upset. This was a very wholesome fear, and saved Merriwell much anxiety concerning the safety of the Dutch lad.

“Yaw!” grunted Hans, after he had found a comfortable seat and had thrown his baited hook into the water. “Now ve vill haf some veeshes. I don’d peen vrightened py no veeshes. Uf I oben my moud and swaller do dot pait mit der hook on id, den der veeshes run mit der line and blay me!”

He had slipped a cork on the line. The cork gave a downward bob and disappeared for a moment in the water.

But before Hans could jerk, it came to the surface; where it lay, without further movement.

“Dose veeshes vos skeered py me, I subbose!” soliloquized Hans, eying the cork and ready to jerk the moment it appeared ready to dip under again.

Finally he pulled out the hook and, to his delight and surprise, found that the bait was gone.

“Hunkry like vollufs!” he said; then glanced nervously around, as if he feared the very thought of wolves might conjure up the dreaded creatures. “Vell, I vill feed mineselluf again mit anodder vorm.”

Baiting the hook he tossed it again.

Hardly was the cork on the wave when it went under. Instantly Hans gave so terrific a jerk that the hook went flying over his head and lodged in the low boughs of a cedar.

“A troudt!” gurgled Hans, in a perfect spasm of delight. “Vot I tolt you, eh? A trout gid me der very virst jerk! Who vos id say dose veesh coultn’t gadch me?”

A little horned pout, or catfish, about three inches long, was dangling at the end of the line. It had swallowed the hook almost down to its tail.

Hans Dunnerwust’s fat hands fairly shook as he disengaged the line and tried to get the hook out of the pout’s mouth.

“Wow! Dunder und blitzens!” he screeched, dropping the pout with surprising suddenness and executing a war dance on the shore, while he caressed one of his fingers from which oozed a tiny drop of blood.

“Shimminy Gristmas! I ditn’d know dot dose troudt had a sdinger like a rattlesnake. I vost kilt!”

He hopped up and down like a toad on hot coals.

“Hello! What’s the matter?”

Frank Merriwell came round the angle of the rocky shore at that moment, seated in one of the canoes.

“Why are you dancing?” he asked.

Hans subdued the cry that welled to his lips, trying to straighten his face and conceal every evidence of pain.

“I shust caught a troudt,” he declared, with pride, “und scracht mineselluf der pushes on.”

He held up the little horned pout that was still on the hook.

Merriwell propelled the prow against the shore and leaped out, drawing the canoe after him.

“Yes; that’s a fine fish,” he admitted, trying to repress a smile of amusement.

Hans was so jubilant and triumphant that it seemed a pity to undeceive him.

“Und dot hunkry!” cried Hans, forgetting the pain. “He vos more hunkrier as a vollufs. See how dot pait ead him und den dry do svaller der line. I don’d know, py shimminy, how I dot hook gid oudt uf my stomach!”

“Cut it open,” Merriwell advised.

“My stomach? Und me alife und kickin’ like dot? Look oudt! Dot troudt haf got a sdinger apout him some blace.”

Merriwell gave the pout its quietus by rapping it with a stick on the head, and then watched Hans’ antics during the cutting out of the hook.

“Uf dey are hunkry like dot,” said Hans, tossing the line again into the water, “ve vill half more vor dinner as der troudt can ead.”

“Spit on the bait,” suggested Merriwell. “It makes the angle worm wiggle and that attracts the fish. If you had some tobacco to chew I expect you could catch twice as many.”

Hans made a wry face.

“Oxcoose me! I vos—— Look oudt!” he squawked, giving the line another terrific jerk. “Shimminy Gristmas! Did you seen dot? Dot cork vent oudt uf sight shust like a skyrocket.”

The bait was still intact and he tossed in the line again.

“Dere must be a poarting house down dere someveres dot don’t half much on der taple, py der vay dose troudt been so hunkry,” the Dutch boy humorously observed. “Look oudt! he vos piting again!”

He gave another jerk, and this time landed a pout double the size of the first.

His “luck” continued, to his unbounded delight; and in a little while he had a respectable string of fish.

“Who told me I couldn’t veesherman?” he exultantly demanded, struggling to his feet and waddling as fast as he could go to where the last pout was flopping on the grass. “He haf swallered dot hook again clean to his toes. Efery dime I haf do durn mineselluf inside oudt to gid der hook!”

The horns of the pout got in their work this time, and Hans stumbled about in a lively dance, holding his injured hand.

“Dose troudt sding like a rattlesnake,” he avowed. “Der peen leetle knifes py der side fins on, und ven he flipflop I sdick does knifes indo him. Mine gootness! Id veel vorser as a horned!”

“Shall I send for John Caribou?” asked Merriwell. “He has some tobacco.”

Hans glanced at him in a hurt way, then extracted the hook, put on another worm, and resumed his fishing.

A pout bit instantly, and Hans derricked it out as before; but the line flew so low this time that it caught Hans about the neck, and the pout dropped down in front, just under his chin, where it flopped and struggled in liveliest fashion.

“Dake id off!” Hans yelled. “Dake id off!”

Merriwell tried to go to his assistance, but only succeeded in drawing the line tighter about Hans’ neck.

“If you’ll stand still a minute, I can untangle the line, but I can’t do anything while you’re threshing about and screeching that way,” he declared.

The pout flopped up and struck Hans in the face, and thrust the point of one of its fins into his breast as it dropped back.

This was too much for the Dutch boy’s endurance, and the next moment he was rolling on the ground, meshing himself more and more in the snarl of the line, and getting a fresh jab from one of the pout’s stingers at each revolution.

“Hellup! Fire! Murter!” he yelled.

Finally the pout was broken loose, and Merriwell succeeded in making Hans understand that the dreaded stingers could no longer trouble him.

Hans sat up, a woe-begone figure. He was bound hand and foot by the line as completely as Gulliver was bound by the Lilliputians.

“Are you much hurt?” Merriwell asked.

“Much hurted?” Hans indignantly snorted. “I vos kilt alretty! Dose knifes peen sduck in me in more as sefendeen hundret blaces. Bevore dose troudt come a-veeshin’ vor me again I vill break my neck virst.”

It was impossible to untie the line, so Merriwell took out his knife and cut it.

“This was an accident,” he said. “I shan’t say anything about it to the others. Take the fish to camp, and we’ll have them for dinner. They’re good to eat.”

As indeed they were.

Thereupon Hans’ courage came back. He washed his hands and face in the lake, carefully strung the pouts on a piece of the severed line, then waddled to camp with them, with all the proud bearing of a major-general.

Frank Merriwell sat for a time on the point of rock, looking out across Lily Bay. Then he started, as the sound of the deep baying of hounds came to him from the mainland.

“They’re after some poor deer, probably,” was his thought. “The only way to make a deerhound pay attention to the close season is to tie him to his kennel.”

Though the sounds drew nearer, the dogs were concealed from view in the woods of the mainland by a bend of the island.

At last there arose such a clamor that Merriwell entered the canoe and paddled quickly round the point in the direction of the sound.

He came on a sight that thrilled him. A large buck, with a finely-antlered head, had taken to the water to escape the hounds, and was swimming across an arm of the bay, with the dogs in close pursuit. Only the heads of the dogs were visible above the water, but he saw that they were large and powerful animals.

At almost the same moment Merriwell beheld John Caribou rush down the opposite shore and leap into a canoe—the other canoe belonging to the camping party.

“What can Caribou have been doing over on the mainland?” thought Frank. “Oh, yes; probably looking for another camping place, for we were talking about changing last night.”

Caribou cried out to the hounds, trying to turn them from their prey; and, failing in this, he pushed out in the canoe and paddled with all speed toward the buck.

The hounds had overtaken it, and it had turned at bay, having found a shallow place where it could get a footing.

The largest hound swam round and round it, avoiding its lowered head; then tried to fasten on its flanks.

The buck shook it off, and waded to where the water was still shallower, in toward the shore.

The dogs followed, circling round and round.

Caribou shouted another command and paddled faster than ever.

The shout of the guide and the buck’s deadly peril now caused Frank Merriwell to push out also, and soon he was paddling as fast as he could toward the deer and the dogs. But the separating distance was considerable.

The shallower water aided the biggest hound, for it got a footing with its long legs and sprang at the buck’s throat. The buck shook the hound off and struck with its antlers.

“That’s it!” Merriwell whispered, excitedly. “Give it to them!”

The attacks of the three dogs kept the buck turning, but it met its assailants with great gallantry and spirit. When the big hound flew at its throat again, it got its antlers under him and flung him howling through the air, to strike the water with a splashing blow and sink from sight.

“Good enough!” cried Merriwell. “Do it again!”

The other hounds seemed not in the least bit frightened by this mishap to their comrade, but crowded nearer, trying to get hold of the buck’s throat.

The big hound came to the surface almost immediately, none the worse for its involuntary flight and submergence, and swam back to the assault.

Merriwell looked at Caribou, who was now standing up in the canoe and sending it along with tremendous strokes.

“Hurrah!” Merry cried, not taking time to stop, however. “I’m coming, Caribou, to help you.”

The largest hound again flew at the buck’s throat, while one of the others, getting a foothold, climbed to the buck’s back.

But the advantage of the hounds was only temporary. The big hound was again caught on those terrible antlers, impaled this time, and when it was hurled through the air to sink again on the lake it did not rise.

The hound that still remained in the water in front of the buck, now caught the latter by the nose, and the buck fell with a threshing sound. It rose, though, shaking off both hounds.

“Hurrah!” screamed Merry, sending his canoe skimming over the water. “Hurrah! Hurrah!”

So admirable and plucky was the fight the buck was making that he was fairly wild with admiration and delight.

John Caribou was close to the buck, and still standing up in his canoe.

The hound that caught the buck by the nose now received a thrust that tore open its side and put him out of the fight; but the other one again leaped to the buck’s hip and hung there, refusing to be dislodged.

At this hound John Caribou struck with his heavy paddle.

The blow was a true one. It tumbled the hound into the water, where the guide came near following.

While Caribou sought to recover his balance, the buck, mistaking him for a new enemy, turned on him and made a savage dash that hurled him from the canoe.

Frank Merriwell was now so near that he could see the buck’s fiery eyes, note the ridging of hair along its spine, and could hear its labored and angry breathing. Its tongue protruded and was foam-flecked.

Caribou tried to seize the sides of the canoe as he went down, but the effort only served to hurl it from him, and send it spinning out into the lake.

The buck put down its head for a rush; while the hound that the guide had struck with the paddle blade did not try to renew the fight, but began to swim toward the shore, which was not distant.

“Look out!” cried Merriwell, warningly.

Caribou heard the cry, saw the antlers go down and tried to dive. But he was not quick enough. Before he was under water the buck struck him a vicious blow.

Though half stunned, he clutched it by the antlers, to which he clung desperately, while the buck struck him again, this time with one of its sharp hoofs.

Caribou, realizing that his life was in peril, tried to get out his knife, but the enraged and crazed buck bore him backward with so irresistible a rush that Caribou was kept from doing this. Then he went under the water again.

This time the buck seemed determined to hold him down till he was drowned. Merry saw the guide’s hands and feet beating the water, and knew from their motions that he was rapidly weakening.

“I’m coming!” he shouted, though he must have known that the guide could hardly hear or comprehend.

With one deep pull on the paddle he put the canoe fairly against the buck; then rising to his feet, he brought the blade down with crushing force across the animal’s spine.

The buck half fell into the water and the antlered head was lifted.

When John Caribou came to the surface Merriwell clutched him by the hair and pulled him against the side of the canoe, regardless of the buck’s threatening attitude. Then, seeing that Caribou was drowning, he lifted him still higher, so that the water no longer touched Caribou’s face and head.

The buck put down its horns as if it meditated another rush. Merriwell remained quiet, holding the guide’s dripping head. He had a rifle in the bottom of the canoe, but he did not wish to use it unless driven to kill the buck in self-defense. More than all else he did not want to let go of the guide.

The buck stood for a moment in this pugilistic attitude; then, understanding it was not to be attacked, it turned slowly and waded toward the land.

The hound that had preceded it had disappeared, and the other two were dead.

“How are you feeling, Caribou?” Merry anxiously asked, drawing the guide’s head still higher.

There was no answer, and Merriwell lifted the guide bodily into the canoe. Great caution was required to do this, together with the expenditure of every ounce of strength that Merriwell possessed.

A ringing and encouraging cheer came from the shore of the island, where the other members of the party had gathered, drawn by the baying of the hounds and the noise of the subsequent fight.

Merriwell had no power of lung to send back a reply. Instead he sank down by Caribou’s side and began an effort to restore him to consciousness.

This was successful in a little while. The guide opened his black eyes and stared about, then tried to get up. He comprehended at once what had occurred, and a look of gratitude came to his dark face.

“You’re worth a dozen drowned men,” announced Merry, in his cheeriest voice. “If you can lie in that water a little while without too much discomfort, I’ll try to catch your canoe with this one. The waves are carrying it down the bay.”

John Caribou did not seem to hear this. His eyes were fixed on Merry’s face.

“Caribou, him not forget soon! Not forget soon!”

Only a few words, but they were said so earnestly that Merriwell could not fail to understand the deep thankfulness that lay behind them.