Читать книгу Westy Martin in the Land of the Purple Sage - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 6

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Westy gazed about in blank wonder. The boat was gone. The heavy staple in the tree which held the chain and padlock had been wrenched out by a prying instrument; he could see where the bark was chafed by the pressure of the lever.

His first distressing thought was that of course this completed the obstacle to his much cherished plan. “Be on time, don’t keep him waiting!” he remembered these words of Councillor Wainwright. Well, he could not go at all. “He’s a bear on discipline;” he remembered those words also.

Westy thought of Captain Winton as an army man; one who would be intolerant of delays and excuses. Here was a fine climax of his happy expectations. He would just not show up and Captain Winton would give a little sneering comment about scout efficiency. Of all the men in the world, this was the one for whom Westy would have done almost anything rather than disappoint him. But what could he do?

Only one thing. He must go back to camp and report that the fine camp launch of which he was the temporary guardian, had been stolen. Of course he knew he was not to blame, yet he felt that he was responsible for the situation. Being a conscientious and earnest boy, he took all the responsibility of his appointment. Excuses, explanations; how futile and unavailing were these! Such men as Captain Winton were interested in results only, he thought. “Suppose I drop dead?” the sentinel put up to Napoleon. “You’re not here to do that,” answered the emperor.

Of course they would not be hard with him at camp. He had hiked down and inspected the boat each day. But it had never been stolen during Bert Winton’s week—or Harry Benson’s, or Charlie Carlysle’s. Poor Westy sat down on a protruding root and buried his troubled face in his hands. His movement started a lazy turtle that went tumbling into the water, causing him to look up quickly, as if the sudden splash were a hopeful sign.

A shadow crossed his face—there was no sign of the boat. Well, no one would condemn him. Yet no one would say, “These scouts, they never fail.” Fail! What a wretched word, whether one is to blame or not. That’s the thing that people are supposed not to do—fail.

“All I did was be a sort of messenger boy,” he said gloomily. “Why didn’t I fix the chain around the tree after that bunch came in yesterday? Then he’d have had to pull up the whole tree, whoever he is—Gosh blame him! I just didn’t have sense enough. Resources, that’s what Pee-wee Harris would say. I guess he’s a better scout than I am at that! Well, I’ll just go back and tell them—Wainwright will be decent enough about it.”

But he didn’t go back, he just sat there, throwing one pebble after another in the water. “I’m a false alarm,” he growled; “I’m a flat tire.” Then suddenly a forlorn hope came to him.

Perhaps Captain Winton and his men had come up and taken the boat! But he knew this was absurd. No, he might as well face the fact—it had been stolen. It was characteristic of Westy that he took full responsibility.

He did not take refuge in his limited duty as a sort of inspector. He said he had been responsible for the launch and he blamed himself for this sequel of his inefficiency. All things considered, it is pretty safe to repose one’s trust in such a boy. He may fall once, but he is safe.

He felt utterly ashamed. But second to this feeling was his keen disappointment at losing his chance of having this adventurous engineer for his passenger, and improving acquaintance with him. “Serves me right,” he said. “I’m a flivver. There’s chain enough to go round the tree twice.” Then, after a pause: “I’d like to get my two peepers on the guy that did it!” He could not bring himself to go back to camp, so he just sat there throwing stones in the water.

But Westy was not a “flivver.” He had done one very good thing; he had given himself plenty of time. He had arisen very early. And in a difficulty, time is always priceless! He might (oh, how hard he thought)—he might hike down to Catskill and tell his story to the steward of the Boating Club, who perhaps would let him use a launch. Would he? Hardly. Westy was only a boy after all. Doubtless they would loan a boat to Captain Winton, but that would not help Westy.

Of one thing he was now resolved—he would not go back to Temple Camp—he would not just do nothing. He threw a big stone in the water to celebrate his resolution and the splash from it went all over him and aroused him to stand erect and think of action.

“I’m going to hike down to Catskill,” he said with fine spirit. “I’ll know what to do when I get there.” He took out his card of introduction and read it for the dozenth time. “This will introduce Westy Martin, one of our scouts, who will....

“I will!” he shouted. “I will! I don’t care how, but I will! Nobody—thieves or anything—can stop me. I’ll dope out a way. And if I don’t do anything else I’ll find out who stole that boat and I’ll have him locked up! I’ll go back to camp and tell ’em that much anyway. I’ll—I’ll do something....”

By this time he had gotten around the bend and was following the trail which bordered the creek. Suddenly he stopped short. There, a short distance downstream was the camp launch crossways in the middle of the stream with a lanky figure standing on the forward deck apparently trying to pole it with the long boat hook. There was no mistaking that figure—it was Squatter Sam. Everything always went wrong with Squatter Sam and something was evidently wrong now.

“What are you doing in that—in the boat?” Westy called from the nearest point on shore. “Gee, that’s a nice thing! What are you doing with her?”

“She ain’t got no gas into her,” called Sam, seemingly unperturbed at being caught red handed. “Ain’t much use—these here things, without gas, I reckon.”

“Pole it over this way,” called Westy in mingled anger and elation.

“’Tain’t so easy.”

“Yes, it is,” was the peremptory response. “Take one of the oars and get in the stern. Hurry up, she’s going down on the current.”

“Kinder thought she wuz,” called Sam.

The simple task of overcoming the effects of the current was too much for Squatter Sam. But by dint of a vigorous use of the oar he did at last get the boat close enough to the shore so that the angry boy could catch hold of the long boat hook which Sam held out.

“It’s good the channel’s on this side,” said Westy, “or you’d have beached her and I would have had to swim out. Let her alone now,” he said coldly. “I’ll fasten her.”

“She ain’t got no gas,” said Sam. “I seed her floatin’ down where I was bobbin’ for eels an’ she drifted over ter shore an’ so I——”

“No, you didn’t,” said Westy sharply. “You pried out the staple from the tree. I suppose you thought nobody’d be down here so early.”

It was characteristic of Squatter Sam that he offered no defence. Or perhaps he offered the best defence. “That was a close squeak you had yesterday, huh; me an’ you. I knowed yer was the same youngster when I seed you on shore.”

“Did you take it for fishing?” said Westy, almost gently.

“Yer know I’d put her back. You wouldn’t go ter callin’ me a thief. Why would I be sellin’ fish fer an honest living? Yer ain’t goin’ ter tell on me up ter the camp?”

Westy paused just a moment. “No, I’m not going to tell on you,” he said with unmistakable feeling in his voice. “I’d look nice doing that—after yesterday. Gee, I wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for you. But listen, Sam, you’d better get away from these parts——”

“You’re goin’ ter——”

“No, I’m not going to,” said Westy with spirit. “You saved my life and I’m not going to tell on you—never! I’m saying it because kind of, I’m your friend—no matter when it is or where it is. But honest, Sam, you better beat it. Everybody around here is talking about you. The first thing you know you’ll get in trouble. Don’t worry about this, leave it to me.

“Here, I’ll shake hands with you,” he said, “and that shows I don’t break my word—only everybody’s got the knife in you, Sam. And I’m sorry if I sounded mad. You needn’t worry, if I broke my word it would be worse than steal—taking the boat. Only if I were you I’d move away pretty soon, what do you care? I’m not like that swamp—treacherous.”

“I knowed you wasn’t,” said poor Sam.

So they shook hands, these two, and the poor, ill-favored disciple of makeshift shambled off with that funny sideways gait that somehow seemed to bespeak his weakness and inefficiency. But one true thing he had said: “Ain’t much use, these things, without gas, I reckon.” Ignorant and bungling always, he had in his vain attempt to get the boat started turned on and off every valve and lever and petcock in sight.

He had not begun these experiments until he had loosed the boat from shore. Then he had turned on the petcock under the gas tank and there was not so much as a drop of fuel left aboard. Truly, indeed, a motor boat is not of much use without gas.