Читать книгу Uncle Sam's Outdoor Magic - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 6

Table of Contents

When the day broke Bobby went out into the cockpit and looked about him. The boat stood careened in the midst of a large area of marshland. Several hundred yards distant the swollen river flowed briskly, but not a familiar sign in all the country round about could Bobby see.

He looked up the river for the railroad bridge, but no bridge was to be seen. He had certainly not been carried up the river, for there was no marshland above Bridgeboro, and how could a rising tide have carried him down? He had no doubt that the tide, phenomenal in its volume, was responsible for this. It had carried him several hundred yards farther ashore than the highest tide known and had left him marooned—marooned as completely as ever pirate marooned a hapless captive, and Robinson Crusoe on his desert island was hardly more alone than Bobby seemed now.

He had regarded such things as this as being part and parcel of story-books only, but here he was, and how to make his whereabouts known was a puzzle.

He looked about him again. Far up the river was a steeple which he thought might be in Bridgeboro, but if so the boat-house cupola should have been near it, and there was no boat-house cupola to be seen. You could always pick out the higher buildings in Bridgeboro all the way down to Ferrytown, but he could distinguish none of them now, though he thought he recognized some of the familiar residences in the fashionable hill section. But if that were Bridgeboro, where was the rest of it?

He opened the sea-cock and let out the water which had washed into the boat. Then he opened a can of salmon and, spreading it on some crackers, made such a breakfast as he could. The morning was chilly, so he started the engine and dried out his clothing and then he tried to tidy up the little cabin. He was feeling better than he had the previous evening, and he was not greatly concerned about his predicament. He could probably make himself heard in some way when he really wished to do so, and, having eaten, and dried his clothing, he settled himself to see what the day would bring forth.

After a while boats began to pass on the river, some of them going slowly along close to shore, as if in search of something.

It was getting on toward afternoon, and Bobby was beginning to think that he had better raise his voice to summon help unless he wished to prolong his adventure through another night (a plan which he had seriously considered) when he noticed a rowboat pushing up through the rushes toward him. Sometimes it was quite hidden among the reeds, then it would become visible again, and after a while it reached the area of shorter growths and he could see that its progress was becoming very difficult.

Presently it became necessary to ship the oars altogether and pole the boat, and after what seemed an interminable season of tedious and arm-racking work it was near enough for Bobby to recognize it as a flat-bottomed punt containing Mr. Wentworth and one of the Bronson boys.

“Hello, Will!” called Bobby. “Where am I at, anyway? Where did you come from? I’m marooned.”

“Hello, Bob!” called Mr. Wentworth. “Have a good ride?” His tone was pleasant, but sober, too, and, although he did not seem to be angry, Bobby somehow had a feeling that something was wrong. “You’re a hundred miles from nowhere,” said Mr. Wentworth, as they pushed the boat over the submerged land and came alongside.

“I—I went down to try and anchor your boat,” said Bobby, “because I thought it was going to float away, and I fell asleep in it. I wasn’t going to touch the salmon and things, but I had to this morning because I got hungry.”

“That’s all right, Bob,” said Mr. Wentworth. “You’re welcome to the stuff. Old battle-ship behaved pretty well, hey?”

“Oh, she’s a peacherino!” said Bobby, with genuine enthusiasm. “You said it!”

“All right. Love me, love my boat; that’s the kind of a fellow I am. She’s all I’ve got left, Bob. Guess I’ll have to camp in her.”

“Is Bridgeboro up there?” asked Bobby, pointing. “I’m all balled up. What happened, anyway?”

“Dam up at Milton busted,” said Will Bronson.

“Get in, Bob,” said Mr. Wentworth. “We’ll leave her here till to-morrow.”

As they poled slowly back through the tall grass Bobby told his story.

“I had a ride in her, anyway,” he said in conclusion, “and that’s what I’ve always wanted. Gee! she’s a pippin! I guess my uncle will be mad, all right, but, anyway, I had the ride. Even if he licks me I won’t mind, because I’ve had the ride.”

Will Bronson looked significantly at Mr. Wentworth, and Mr. Wentworth frowned at him slightly.

“He won’t lick you, Bob,” said he.

When they had come into the river Bobby began to see strange sights. There was a house canted over right in the middle of the stream, its windows broken and its roof fallen in. The railroad bridge was a mass of tangled iron and broken wood. As they rowed up-stream he could see the shores and adjacent land strewn with all sorts of wreckage.

The first familiar object they reached was the boat-house. It was an utter ruin, its porch and understructure quite gone, and it lay sideways, toppled over like a box.

They made a landing near by and started up through the devastated town, and then the full realization of what had happened came to Bobby. This very part of town where he had lived was scarcely recognizable, and he trudged along with his two companions, bewildered and dismayed, but saying very little.

“You see, Bob,” Mr. Wentworth said, “the old dam up at Milton gave way. The flood hit us at about two this morning. There are only a few of us left, Bob.” This was by way of breaking it gently to Bobby, and he began to understand.

“That—isn’t that where my house was?” asked he.

“’Bout there. See that shed? That was brought all the way down from Milton and cast up here. Let’s cut across here. You recognize this, Bob? This used to be River Street.”

They started to pick their way across a mushy area on a crazy sidewalk, some of its flagstones standing almost on end, and on either hand were half-recognizable buildings and piles of debris. Outside of one house was a pile of window-shutters, and there were people crowding into the doorway, while a man tried vainly to form them in line. Two men came silently toward the house, carrying a shutter with something on it. The people made way for them to pass within.

“Is—is my aunt and uncle—” Bobby began.

“There are a lot of folks missing, Bob. They may have made the hill; there’s no telling. You’ll just have to wait.”

“You’re coming up to our house, Bob,” said Will Bronson. “My mother said if we found you to bring you; but, jiminy! we had no idea you were in that boat. You had a narrow escape. What do you say we paddle up to Milton to-morrow and take a pike around? I’ll show you how to paddle. There’s no school for a while, anyway.”

But Bobby was too shocked to answer. He had often wished that he were all alone in the world, and only the night before he had given way to that feeling; but now when it seemed likely that his wish was fulfilled he felt strangely dismayed. It seemed hardly possible that only yesterday he had pumped out the cellar in a house which was no more, and that he might never hear his uncle’s grim voice again.

They passed up Main Street, where nearly all of the buildings were standing, but the store-fronts were mostly in ruins and all sorts of merchandise was strewn about the streets. Hardly a ground-floor window was intact; but the big Methodist church, apparently undamaged, reared its towering height above its neighbors and was being used as a refuge for the injured and homeless.

“And what do you think, Bob?” said Will Bronson. “Our old shanty hasn’t got a broken window even. There are only nineteen houses in the lower town that aren’t damaged; Roy Blakely and I counted them; and we named our house Old Gibraltar. Isn’t that a peachy name?”

It was a pretty good name, for there in the middle of its beautiful private park, stretching right down to the river, stood the big rubblestone house just as it had stood before, except that meadow grass was plastered here and there upon its walls, and a clean line upon its face indicated how high the water had come.

Mr. Wentworth left them at the gate, and the two boys made their way up the winding gravel walk through the garden, where the bushes looked as if a whole herd of cattle had trampled them down, and the walk itself reminded Bobby for all the world of a piece of cloth in which the colors had run, the gravel being distributed thinly here and there beyond the border line, widening the walk several yards or so.

It was on that first evening after the dreadful catastrophe that Bobby Cullen had the talk with Mr. Bronson which was destined so deeply to affect his future life. He had submitted to the kindly ministrations of Mrs. Bronson, had taken medicine for his neglected cold, had been furnished with a change of clothing, and was about to join the Bronson boys after supper in another excursion about the ruined town, when Mr. Bronson called him into the library.

“Sit down in that big chair, Robertus,” said he. “I want to have a little chat with you.”

Mr. Bronson seated himself in one of the big leather chairs, stretched out his legs, lighted a cigar, and looked up at the ceiling quite as if he and Bobby were old chums settling down for a talk about old times. It put Bobby very much at his ease, for, though he was not in the least afraid of Mr. Bronson, he had been somewhat uncomfortable in the palatial residence. He seated himself in one of the big chairs and waited.

“Well, Bob,” said Mr. Bronson, soberly, “you see there’s quite a lot of possibility in water after all, isn’t there—even adventure. I think you were speaking about adventure. Water can do a lot of damage when there’s criminal negligence back of it.”

“Is somebody to blame for all this?” asked Bobby.

“Yes, the water company’s to blame. We’ll know more about it when the engineers have looked things over. The State engineers will be up to-morrow. But they can’t give back the lives that are lost, Bob.”

“No, sir,” said Bobby, after a moment’s silence.

“Well, now, Bobby, this is what I want to say, and I want to say it before you go out into what’s left of the poor old town. You’re going to stay right here, my boy, at least until we can look around us and see what it’s best to do. And you must feel that this is your home. Mrs. Bronson wants you to do that; but we haven’t anything to say, anyway, for the boys run this place.”

Bobby was biting his lip hard and trying to keep from crying. It may have been the reminder that he was left an orphan for the second time, or it may have been just that he was not in the habit of being talked to in this way. He could only say, “Yes, sir.”

“I’m very much afraid your aunt and uncle are lost, my boy, and you’ve got to be brave and think about it that way. And there’s something else. You know, Bob, I knew your uncle long before you did.”

“He didn’t know you as well as I did,” said Bobby, “else he wouldn’t—”

“Never mind that, my boy. Now, when you go around town you may hear things said about your uncle. You mustn’t let it make you feel bad, Bob. See? People don’t always stop to think what they’re saying. You mustn’t listen to them. If the men in the stores or any of the boys say things, you just walk away. You have to think of your uncle as if he were your father, Bob, and you must be loyal to his memory.”

Bobby was intertwining his fingers nervously. It was almost at that same time the day before that he had been whipped for taking the time to make a suggestion. Oh, how clearly the whole episode arose before him now.

“Once—once I read something about ‘My country, may she always be right, but my country right or wrong.’ Is it—is it something like that—you mean?”

Mr. Bronson tightened his lips. “Something like that, yes, Bob.”

“And the Scouts, one of their laws says a fellow has got to be loyal. He’s got to be loyal to his Scoutmaster and his home and his parents—especially his parents. He’s got to be loyal to them, no matter what. My uncle wouldn’t let me join the Scouts because he didn’t like Mr. Sprague. And if he didn’t like me, either, maybe he couldn’t help it.”

“Well, it’s a good law, Bob.”

“They’ve got some good laws, the Scouts; but I never thought about that one before,” said Bobby.

“Maybe you won’t hear anything at all, my boy, but your uncle had business affairs which caused disputes, and people might talk about things they’re not familiar with. Just you walk away and say to yourself, ‘He was my uncle and I’ll be loyal and remember he gave me a home and brought me up.’”

“Sometimes it made me feel like—kind of like wishing I was all alone when he told me that.”

“He used to tell you that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hummm!”

“But I know what you mean—I got to be loyal.”

There was another pause during which Mr. Bronson smoked in silence.

“Yes, just the same as you must be loyal to your employer,” he added, softly. “You might feel that he wasn’t fair to you, or perhaps not paying you enough money, but as long as he is your employer you must be loyal to him—that’s the idea.”

“If you couldn’t be loyal to both—to your parents and your employer—then what would you do?” Bobby asked.

Mr. Bronson smiled. “That wouldn’t be likely to happen, Bob. Just you make up your mind to be loyal and, most important of all, don’t let anything you hear make you feel bad. See?”

“Even if I did feel bad I could keep it to myself and no one would know. That’s one thing I can do, anyway—I always could. But—but I like to talk to you.”

Mr. Bronson looked at the boy as he sat in the big chair, and noticed that his eyes were brimming over.

“That’s all right, Bob. If there’s ever anything you want to talk over, just come to me. That’s the way Will and Dory do.”

“Sometimes I have ideas,” said Bobby.

“Well, they’re bully things to have,” Mr. Bronson encouraged.

“And if somebody tells you it’s a good idea that helps you to improve it, don’t you think so?”

“Surest thing you know, Bob.” As they rose to leave the room Mr. Bronson laid his hand over the boy’s shoulder. “You must learn to swim, Bob,” said he, “and don’t puzzle your brains too much.”

“My uncle wasn’t so bad as the water company, anyway, was he?”

“No, indeed!” said Mr. Bronson. “Well, good night, Bob, and keep the boys out of mischief, won’t you?”

But still Bobby lingered. “He gave me a quarter once,” said he.

Mr. Bronson almost winced. “Yes?” he said. “Well, that’s good.”

He did not altogether understand Bobby, but he had understood Bobby’s uncle well enough, and defending him was about the hardest job he had ever tackled.