Читать книгу The Boy Tramps, or Across Canada - James Macdonald Oxley - Страница 11

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Echoing his companion's cry Arthur rushed to the edge of the shelf and peered over in an agony of apprehension.

Bruce, still holding tightly to the ferns, had partly slipped, partly fallen, full twenty feet below, where by a happy chance a projecting point of rock had arrested his descent a few yards short of certain death.

When he saw Arthur looking over he called out to him in a tone of entire self-possession:

"Don't try to come down—you can't help me that way. Get something to pull me up. I can't hold on here long."

Now, Arthur was as quick at devising expedients as he was hasty in undertaking risks, and Bruce had hardly spoken before a happy thought flashed into his mind that he proceeded to put into execution with his wonted promptness.

Clambering back to where the cabman stood he said to him, "Stay where you are, I'll be back in a minute," and then he darted up the path by which they had come down.

In a wonderfully short time, considering how far he had to go, and how steep the way was, he was back again bearing the reins taken from the horse, and without wasting a moment in explanations he gasped out:

"It's all right, come along, your help's needed," and disappeared down the cliff.

Sorely puzzled, but convinced that there was something wrong, the cabman followed as best he could, and arrived in time to see Bruce catch the end of the reins which Arthur had flung to him.

"Now, then," panted Arthur, who indeed had little strength left after his tremendous exertions, shoving the end of the rein into the cabman's hands, "pull away, and we'll soon have him up here."

Uniting their strength the man and boy had little difficulty in bringing Bruce up beside them, and a pretty well-drenched and dishevelled-looking creature he was; yet, as he sank down on the rock utterly exhausted by the strain he had endured, he held up the bunch, saying, with a faint smile:

"I held on to it, you see."

"What a chap you are!" exclaimed Arthur admiringly, patting him on the back. "But aren't you hurt somewhere?"

"I believe I am," replied Bruce, rolling up his trouser legs and revealing a pair of shins with numerous scrapes and bruises. "Nothing worse than that," he said cheerfully. "It might have been ever so much worse, eh, Arthur?"

"A deal sight worse," responded Arthur. "Some fellows would have broken their necks if they'd been in the same box, but you're one of the lucky chaps, Bruce. Can you climb back to the carriage without help?"

"Of course I can," said Bruce, and picking himself up he began the ascent as if nothing had happened.

He looked so comical with his clothes clinging damply to him that Arthur could not resist the chance of trying his hand at joke-making.

"Say, Bruce," he exclaimed suddenly, "there's nothing dry about Montmorency's humor, is there?"

It was now Bruce's turn to offer congratulations, which Arthur accepted with the comfortable feeling that they were on even terms now.

The day was so bright and warm that the drive back did Bruce no harm, and on arriving at the hotel a generous application of arnica and sticking-plaster so soothed and mended his various hurts, that after a hearty lunch and a couple of hours' rest he felt quite equal to joining Arthur in a visit to the citadel that afternoon.

They went on foot, the better to enjoy the glorious prospect which opened more widely at each stage of the ascent, and after a leisurely walk came to the great gate whose leaves were formed of interlaced iron chains immensely strong, and passing through they crossed a wide deep fosse between high stone walls, and then by a sally-port entered the fortress.

Crossing the level space of the interior, they went to the edge of the ramparts and looked over. A sheer descent of three hundred feet met their gaze, and so narrow seemed the strip of land between the foot of the precipice and the river, that it appeared almost possible to spring from the ramparts clear into the swift current of the St. Lawrence.

"What a dive that would be!" exclaimed Arthur, who was very fond of diving from a height, and very expert at the rather dangerous amusement.

"Would you care to try it?" inquired Bruce.

"No, sirree," responded Arthur. "I'm not that tired of life just yet. But, I say, Bruce, wouldn't this be a grand place to try a flying-machine like the one we were reading about the other day? A fellow couldn't wish a better place to start from, could he?"

"What a chap you are, Arthur," said Bruce, smiling. "First you think this would be a fine place for a champion dive, then you would try a flying-machine from it. What on earth will come into your head next?"

Arthur was silent for a while, as if thinking deeply. Then, lifting his head, his eyes flashing with the brilliance inspired by a new idea, he laid hold of Bruce's arm, saying:

"I'll tell you what next. Let us make a walking tour of this trip through Canada, and begin by footing it from here to Montreal."

Bruce's answer was a long whistle and a look that seemed to say: "Well, this beats everything! Are you losing your senses?"

Interpreting the meaning of the look, Arthur, without waiting for it to be followed by speech, hastened to say:

"And why not? We had many a good long tramp in Scotland, and this wouldn't be any harder, and it would be ever so much more fun than riding in the stuffy cars in this glorious weather."

"But look here, Arthur," replied Bruce. "You know you'd get sick and tired of it before we had walked fifty miles, and it's nearly two hundred to Montreal."

"I wouldn't do anything of the kind," returned Arthur, in a tone touched with vexation. "If I set out to do it, I'll go right through with it. I promise you that."

Now, Bruce was not one to commit himself rashly, and Arthur's proposal was so entirely novel that he wanted time to consider it, so he just said pleasantly:

"It's a great notion, Arthur, but I'd like to think it over. We'll talk about it again to-night, eh?"

"All right," responded Arthur; "there's no hurry. Let's see some more of this queer place."

Going over to the western ramparts they looked out across the Plains of Abraham, where Wolfe had won Canada for England at the cost of his own life.

"It was too bad altogether," said Bruce, with a deep sigh, "that Wolfe was killed. He ought to have lived to see the British banner take the place of the French one, and to have enjoyed all the honors he deserved."

"It was hard lines, wasn't it?" said Arthur. "But, you see, he would go into the thick of it himself, and the bullets were bound to find him. Suppose we go over and have a look at his monument."

Leaving the citadel they made their way over to the monument, and then, having examined it, roamed about the Plains until their growing hunger suggested a return to the hotel.

After dinner Arthur brought up his walking project again, and they discussed it for some time, Bruce, as was characteristic of his cautious, far-seeing nature, dwelling on the difficulties and drawbacks of the plan, and Arthur, the most sanguine of optimists, doing his best to remove them each and all.

Finally, after a talk with the manager of the hotel, whom they took into their confidence, and who thought Arthur's idea perfectly feasible, Bruce gave in, saying:

"All right, Arthur, I'll try it; but if we give out half-way, and have to take to the cars, remember I prophesied it."

Too well pleased at having carried his point to be hurt by his companion's persistent scepticism, Arthur shouted:

"Hurrah for you, Bruce, you're a trump! There's no fear of you giving out, and I'll not let you beat me if I have to crawl along on my hands and knees."

The following morning, having sent their portmanteaus on by train, they girded up their loins for their long walk. They were well provided with money, and, upon the advice of the hotel manager, they procured a small revolver apiece and a good supply of cartridges.

"There's only one chance in twenty of your needing them for protection, but if you do, you may need them mighty bad," said he; "and, anyway, you can amuse yourselves with them on the way, only take care and don't shoot any cows or hens by mistake."

"Oh, we'll take good care of that," answered Arthur. "We're not going to be shooting promiscuously, you may depend upon that."

Carrying nothing in their hands but stout walking-sticks the two boys made their way out of the city, and, striking a good steady pace, took their course along the northern bank of the mighty river. The road was in good condition. The day was bright and fine without being oppressively warm, and they were both in the best of spirits.

"This beats riding in those hot, dusty cars out of sight, doesn't it, Bruce?" exclaimed Arthur enthusiastically. "We're in no hurry, you know, and if we do get tired we can rest whenever we like, or ask some of the farmers to give us a lift if they're going our way."

"But how are we going to make them understand what one wants when we're so weak in our French?" inquired Bruce. "We may have to starve to death, because we can't get it into their heads that we need something to eat."

This, of course, was said with a smile that showed the speaker was not serious, so Arthur, carrying on the pretence, responded:

"Oh, that's easy enough; we'll just go into the house and take what we want, and then pay for it."

"Yes, and have our heads broken for our impertinence," returned Bruce. "No, no, we'll have to manage better than that."

As they talked they were walking along through a country that might have been a bit of Normandy in old France.

The hamlets that succeeded one another so closely had a strangely foreign appearance, with their quaint, red-roofed houses rich in dormer-windows, their huge chimneys, and the big ovens built outside the houses, that each seemed capable of cooking enough for a company of soldiers.

"What folks they must be for eating about here!" said Bruce, noting the size of these ovens.

"And as it's getting pretty close to lunch-time, I vote we try what they can do for us in that way," suggested Arthur, who had a noble appetite.

"Very well," assented Bruce, "you go ahead and see if you can get something better than a stick of wood this time."

Entering the gate of a very comfortable-looking farm-house, Arthur went up to the door and knocked gently. No response being elicited, he knocked more loudly, and at last there appeared an aged dame into whose wrinkled face came a look of surprise mingled with suspicion as her eyes fell upon the two boys.

This look was not dissipated, but, on the contrary, deepened, when Arthur essayed to explain his object, and after listening to him for a very brief moment she shut to the door in his face with a bang whose emphasis admitted of no misinterpretation.

"By Jove!" cried Arthur, in blank amazement at this summary treatment, "the old dame's got queer notions of civility."

"I suspect she was afraid for her spoons," said Bruce, with a quiet smile; "we must look like a pair of desperadoes on a foraging expedition."

Involuntarily Arthur glanced at his companion and then at himself.

"Nonsense," he responded, with a short laugh of derision at the idea, "we look all right."

"Well, then, perhaps it was your bad French that frightened her," suggested Bruce meekly.

"Never you mind my bad French," retorted Arthur, with some heat. "If you think you can do any better I just wish you'd try. I'm only too glad to leave it to you."

"We may as well go away from here, anyway," said Bruce, waiving the point as to which could do best at the French. "See, the old lady's watching us from the window."

With an awkward, crestfallen feeling the boys returned to the road and plodded along for some time in silence. Arthur, like all sanguine people, being easily discouraged, already began to fear that his plan would have to be abandoned, while Bruce began to congratulate himself on this being quite probable.

Presently they caught sight of a tin-sheeted spire flashing above the trees, and Bruce said, "That means a church, and a church means some sort of a village, and there's sure to be an inn. Let us push ahead, we'll have a good lunch yet."

A few more turns of the road and they came out into an open space which at the first glance promised to fulfil all of Bruce's surmises. There stood the church, stone-walled, tin-roofed, solid, and attractive, and around it clustered a number of houses, looking well-kept and comfortable.

"Ha, ha! that looks hopeful," exclaimed Arthur, brightening up, "and there's the priest just coming out of the church. We'll ask him. He's sure to give us a civil answer, anyway."

Hastening up to the curé, who had a plump, pleasant countenance and the air of being at peace with all the world, himself not excepted, Arthur began to address him in French, but the old man, with a courteous wave of the hand, said smilingly: