Читать книгу Tom Fairfield's Hunting Trip: or, Lost in the Wilderness - Chapman Allen - Страница 6

Three men sat in the back room of the road-house, talking in whispers, a much-stained table forming the nucleus of the group. Two of the men were of evil faces, one not so much, perhaps, as the other, while the third man’s countenance showed some little refinement, though it was overlaid with grossness, and the light in the eyes was baleful.

The men were the same three who foregathered as Tom Fairfield and his chums left the scene of the snowball accident, and it was the same day as that occurrence. It must not be supposed that the men had been there during all the time I have taken to describe the holiday scenes at Elmwood Hall.

But I left the three men there, plotting, and now it is time to return to them, since Tom and his chums are well on their way to the winter camps in the Adirondacks.

“Well, what do you think of that plan?” asked Professor Skeel, for he was one of the three men in the back room.

“It sounds all right,” half-growled, rather than spoke, the man called Murker.

“If it can be done,” added the other – Whalen.

“Why can’t it be done?” demanded the former instructor. “You did your part, didn’t you? You found out where they were going, and all that?”

“Oh, yes, I attended to that,” was the answer. “But I don’t want to get into trouble over this thing, and it sounds to me like trouble. It’s a serious business to take – ”

“Never mind. You needn’t go into details,” said Professor Skeel, quickly, stopping his henchman with a warning look, as he glanced toward the door through which the landlord had made his egress.

“But I don’t want to be arrested on a charge of – ” the other insisted.

“There’ll be no danger at all!” broke in the rascally teacher. “I’ll do the actual work myself. I’ll take all the blame. All I want is your help. I had to have someone get the information for me, and you did that very well, Whalen. No one else could have done it.”

“Yes, I guess I pumped him dry enough,” was the chuckling comment.

“It’s a pity you had to go and get yourself discharged, though,” went on Mr. Skeel. “You would be much more useful to me at Elmwood Hall than out of it. But it can’t be helped, I suppose.”

“I didn’t go and get myself discharged!” whined he who was called Whalen. “It was that whelp, Tom Fairfield, who was to blame.”

The man did not seem to count his own disgraceful conduct at all.

“Well, if Tom Fairfield was to blame, so much the better. We can kill two birds with one stone in his case,” chuckled the professor. “Now I think we understand each other. We needn’t meet again until we are up – well, we’ll say up North. That’s indefinite enough in case anyone hears us talking, and I don’t altogether like the looks of this landlord here.”

“No, he’s too nosey,” agreed Murker. “Well, if that’s settled, I guess we’re ready for the next move,” and he looked significantly at Mr. Skeel.

“Eh? What’s that?” came the query.

“We could use a little money,” suggested the evil-faced man.

“Money. Oh, yes. I did promise to bring you some. Well, here it is,” and the former instructor divided some bills between his followers and fellow plotters.

“Now I’ll leave here alone,” he went on. “I don’t want to be seen in your company outside.”

“Not good enough for you, I reckon,” sneered Whalen.

“Well, it might lead to – er – complications,” was the retort. “So give me half an hour’s start. I’m going to drive back where I hired this cutter, and then take a train. You follow me in two days and I rather guess Tom Fairfield will wish he’d kept his fingers out of my pie!” cried Mr. Skeel, with a burst of anger.

The three whispered together a few minutes longer, and then the former instructor came out of the road-house alone and drove off.

“What do you think of him?” asked Murker of Whalen.

“Not an awful lot,” was the answer. “But he’ll pay us well, and it will give me a chance to get square with that Fairfield pup. I owe him something.”

“Well, I don’t care anything about him, one way or the other,” was the rejoinder. “I went into this thing because you asked me to, and to make a bit of money. If I do that, I’m satisfied. Now let’s get cigars and slide out of here at once.”

And thus the plotters separated.

Meanwhile, Tom and his friends were a merry party. They talked, laughed and joked, now and then casting glances at their pile of baggage, which included gun cases and cameras. For they were to do both kinds of hunting in the mountain camps, and they were particularly interested in camera work, since they were taking up something of nature study in their school course.

The railroad trip was without incident of moment, if we except one little matter. It was when George Abbot mentioned casually the name of Whalen, one of the men employed at Elmwood Hall.

“I wonder why he left so suddenly?” George said, as they were speaking of some happening at school.

“I guess I was to blame for that,” Tom explained, as he related the incident of the cruel treatment on the part of Whalen.

“I thought he looked rather sour,” went on George.

“Why, were you talking to him lately?” asked Tom, a sudden look of interest on his face.

“Yes, the day before we left the Hall. He met me in town and borrowed a quarter from me. Said he wanted to send a telegram to friends who would give him work. Then he and I got talking, and I happened to mention that we fellows were going camping.”

“You did!” exclaimed Tom.

“This Whalen was quite interested,” resumed George. “He asked me a lot of questions about the location of the camps, and what route we were going to take.”

“Did you tell him?” demanded Tom.

“Why, yes, I told him some things. Any harm?”

“No, I don’t know that there was,” spoke Tom more slowly and thoughtfully. “But did Whalen say why he wanted to know all that?”

“No, not definitely. He did mention, though, that he might look for a job somewhere up North, and I suppose that was why he asked so many questions.”

“Maybe,” said Tom, in a low voice. Then he did some hard thinking.

In due time Hemlock Junction was reached. This was the end of the train journey, and the boys piled out with their baggage, their guns and cameras. It was cold and snowing.

“I guess that’s our man over there,” remarked Tom, indicating a person in a big overcoat with a fur cap and a red scarf around his neck. “Does he look as though his name was Sam Wilson?” asked our hero of his chums.

“Why Sam Wilson?” asked Jack.

“Because that’s the name of the man who was to meet us and drive us over to camp,” Tom said.

The man, with a smile illuminating his red face, approached.

“Looks to be plenty of room in the pung,” remarked Tom.

“What’s a pung?” asked George.

“That big sled, sort of two bobs made into one, with only a single set of runners,” explained Tom, indicating the sled to which were hitched four horses, whose every movement jingled a chime of musical bells.

“Be you the Fairfield crowd?” asked the man.

“That’s us,” Tom said. “Are you Sam Wilson?”

“Yes.”

“Then, we are discovered, as the Indians said to Columbus,” Jack murmured, in a low voice.

“Pile in,” invited Sam Wilson, indicating the pung. “I’ll get your traps. Ain’t this fine weather, though?”

“It’s a bit cold,” Bert remarked.

“That’s what a party said that I drove over to your camp the other day,” spoke Sam. “He was from down Jersey way, too. You fellers must be sort of cold-blooded down thar! This chap complained of the cold. But pshaw! This is mild to what we have sometimes. Yes, this feller I drove over kept rubbin’ his ears all the while. One ear was terrible red, and it wasn’t all from the cold either. It had some sort of a scar on it, like it had been chawed by some wild critter. It sure was a funny ear!”

Tom looked at his chums with startled gaze. This was disquieting news indeed.