The Bungalow Boys in the Great Northwest

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Goldfrap John Henry. The Bungalow Boys in the Great Northwest

CHAPTER I. IN THE VALLEY

CHAPTER II. A “BLOW-UP.”

CHAPTER III. AN INVOLUNTARY HAY-RIDE

CHAPTER IV. BULLY BANJO’S SCHOONER

CHAPTER V. A NIGHT OF MYSTERY

CHAPTER VI. MR. DACRE SUSTAINS AN ACCIDENT

CHAPTER VII. THE TALL CHINAMAN

CHAPTER VIII. IN THE GRIP OF SIMON LAKE

CHAPTER IX. FAST IN THE TOILS

CHAPTER X. IN DIRE STRAITS

CHAPTER XI. A LEAP FOR LIFE AND FREEDOM

CHAPTER XII. SAM HARTLEY TURNS UP

CHAPTER XIII. A NOTE OF WARNING

CHAPTER XIV. AT THE CHILLINGWORTH RANCH

CHAPTER XV “STEAMER, AHOY!”

CHAPTER XVI. AN ATTEMPT AT FOUL PLAY

CHAPTER XVII. A STRANGE ENCOUNTER

CHAPTER XVIII. THE ISLAND

CHAPTER XIX. THE ROCKING STONE

CHAPTER XX. BURIED ALIVE

CHAPTER XXI. MR. CHILLINGWORTH FIRES – AND MISSES

CHAPTER XXII. MUTINY

CHAPTER XXIII. HEMMED IN BY FLAMES

CHAPTER XXIV. THE ROUND-UP. – CONCLUSION

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All the way to Mrs. Bijur’s – along the well-remembered trail, with its alder clumps fringing the crystal-clear Sawmill Creek and the big pool where of yore lurked Jumbo, and into which Tom had taken a header on one memorable occasion – there was naturally only one topic of conversation, the coming trip, of course. By the time they reached the former lumber camp, and the place which had more recently been the headquarters of the Trulliber gang, the boys had crossed and recrossed the continent at least half a dozen times, and the geography and animal and vegetable history of the State of Washington been thoroughly discussed. The trim buildings, now painted white, with red roofs and green shutters and doors, presented a violent contrast to the ramshackle collection of structures in which the Trullibers had squatted.

The barn in which Tom lay a prisoner, while in the next room he had heard Dan Dark and the others plotting, was now painted a vivid red, and a neat tin roof glittered above its contents of spicy-smelling hay and well-fed, sleek cows and horses. Josiah Bijur had left his widow a snug little fortune and, with true Maine thrift, she had spent it to the best advantage. Already she had more applications for boarders than her place would hold. If she could have persuaded the boys she would have liked to rent their bungalow for the overflow. But the fancy rent she offered had no allurement for them. Their share of the treasure of the galleon had made them two very independent lads.

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A large hole, some three feet six inches in diameter, gaped in the once orderly tin roof. Through the aperture thus disclosed, yellow smoke was pouring in a malodorous cloud, while, on a refuse pile not far away, the eldest Soopendyke, Van Peyster, aged twelve, was picking himself up with an injured expression. His Fauntleroy suit, with clean lace cuffs and collar – fresh that morning – was in blackened shreds. His long yellow curls were singed to a dismal resemblance to their former ideal of mother’s beauty. Master Van Peyster Soopendyke was indeed a melancholy object, but he seemed unhurt, as he advanced toward them with howls of:

“I didn’t mean ter! I didn’t mean ter!”

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