Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

AN UNEXPECTED APPEARANCE.

THE
MYSTERY
OF
LOST RIVER CANYON

BY

HARRY CASTLEMON

AUTHOR OF “ROCKY MOUNTAIN SERIES,” “GUNBOAT SERIES,” “BOY TRAPPER SERIES,” ETC., ETC.

PHILADELPHIA

HENRY T. COATES & CO.

Copyright, 1896,

BY

HENRY T. COATES & CO.

CONTENTS.

THE

Mystery of Lost River Canyon.

PROLOGUE.

One hot, sultry August afternoon, a weary horse, whose heaving sides and foam-flecked breast bore evidence to the fact that he had been driven long and rapidly, was reined up in front of a little station on the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad. His rider—a tall, broad-shouldered, full-bearded man—was dressed in clothing which seems to have been chosen by the ranchmen of the country of which we write, as a badge distinctive of their calling—a red shirt, wide-brimmed hat, corduroy trousers and heavy top boots.

He was armed and equipped as the law of the plains directs—a heavy Winchester rifle being slung at his back, and a brace of navy revolvers buckled about his waist.

Before his horse had fairly come to a stand-still, he swung himself from the saddle, hurried into the telegraph office, drew a couple of blanks toward him, and, after writing a hasty dispatch upon each, handed them to the operator.

The latter read them with great deliberation, counted the words they contained, and no one would have imagined, by looking at his impassive face, that he had made himself master of a piece of news that was destined to work the most remarkable changes in the lives of some of the characters who are to appear in our story.

Having received pay for the dispatches, the operator seated himself at his instrument and sent them off, while the horseman sprang into his saddle and rode slowly away.

Let us go with these telegrams and see where they went, and how they were received by those to whom they were addressed. They both sped over the same wire until they reached the city of Chicago, and then one turned off and made its way to the little town of Bolton, in Indiana, where we will leave it for the present, while we follow the other, which finally reached its journey’s end in a thriving village in one of our Eastern States.

The operator at the latter place, when he heard his “call” sounded, seated himself at his table with his usual nonchalance; but, before he had written half a dozen words, a surprised and grieved expression settled on his face, and, when the dispatch had been copied, he leaned back in his chair and sighed deeply.

“By George!” he exclaimed aloud.

“What’s the matter?” asked a messenger boy, who stood at his elbow.

“That’s telling,” was the answer. “If you are ever able to run a ticker of your own, you will know that it is against the law to reveal the contents of the messages you receive. Take this up to Mrs. Butler’s, and be quick about it. It is for Bob Howard—all the way from Arizona.”

“By George!” repeated the operator, when the messenger boy was out of hearing. “It’s too bad. It will pretty near kill Bob—and this is his last day at school, and he is going to start for the West to-morrow morning. He’ll go to a desolate home, poor fellow! If I had the money he is heir to, I wouldn’t spend many more hours at this table, I bet you!”

The messenger boy broke into a run as soon as he was out of the office, and presently mounted the steps leading to the door of a modest house in a quiet street.

His pull at the bell was answered by a motherly-looking old lady, who took the message, signed her own name to the receipt book, because she didn’t believe that Mr. Howard had yet come from the academy, and then went up-stairs and laid the dispatch upon the centre-table in a nicely furnished room, propping it up against a book, so that it would be sure to meet the eye of the person for whom it was intended as soon as he entered at the door.

He came a few minutes later—a tall, dark youth, with coal-black hair and eyes, and a countenance so striking, that, when you had taken one look at it, you always wanted to turn and take another. You knew that he was a young gentleman as soon as you put your eyes on him.

He was a favorite with the girls because of his handsome face and figure; with his teachers, because of his studious habits and strict regard for the rules of school; and with his fellows, because of his kindness of heart and his proficiency in every athletic sport.

Frail as he looked, he took the lead of them all. No academy boy had ever taken his measure on the campus, and as for sparring and fencing, his superiority was acknowledged by everybody. He was a good oarsman, a lightning pitcher, a terrific batter, and dead sure of making a double shot on quails or snipe as often as the opportunity was offered. Many a poor student had his money helped out of a tight place; and, although Bob never let one hand know what the other hand did, those who were the recipients of his favors could always tell where they came from.

The companion who followed at his heels was a different sort of boy altogether. He was short and thick-set, and as homely as he was good-natured, and his whole appearance indicated that he had not been born with a silver spoon in his mouth.

His name was George Edwards, and he was janitor of the academy. His lot had always been a hard one—how hard you will see as our story progresses—and George could not remember the time when he had not been dependent upon his own exertions for his daily bread.

Up to the hour he made the acquaintance of Bob Howard, his life had been one fierce and constant struggle with poverty; but, since that memorable afternoon, his pathway had been made smoother for him.

Having introduced our heroes, whom we hope you will like, we will describe the circumstances under which they first met, and then we will go back to the telegrams, which bear an important part in our story.

CHAPTER I.
GEORGE AND HIS UNCLE.

“Well, George, it is either that or the poorhouse.”

“There’s where I differ with you, Uncle Ruben.”

“You are an ungrateful scamp. Here I am, offerin’ you a good home—”

“I know you offer me shelter, food and clothing, but you can’t give me a home. I shall never have one again, now that my mother is dead.”

“And your father in prison for stealin’.”

“You might have spared me that, Uncle Ruben. I know he is in prison, and there is no need that you and everybody else should constantly remind me of it. I am in no way to blame for what he did.”

“Mebbe you hain’t. But can’t you see how it’s a hurtin’ of you? Who is there about here that would be willin’ to hire the son of a thief?”

“I don’t care to talk to you now, Uncle Ruben. Leave me alone for a day or two, and then I will tell you what I have decided to do.”

“Might as well decide now as any time. I reckon you know that this house an’ everything what’s into it belongs to me, don’t you? I didn’t say nothing to your mother about it when she was alive, ’cause she was my brother’s wife, and I didn’t want to pester her; but now—”

“I know you didn’t say anything about the mortgage, but I notice that you always demanded the interest the moment it was due. You took it, too, when you knew that my mother didn’t have money enough in the house to buy a sack of flour.”

“Well, it was my due, an’ I wanted it.”

George Edwards uttered an exclamation of disgust, and, leaning his elbows on the railing that surrounded the porch, he rested his chin on his hands, and gazed off towards the distant hills; while Uncle Ruben paced up and down in front of the house, thrashing his cowhide boots with his riding whip, and taking a survey of the buildings and grounds that were soon to come into his possession by virtue of the mortgage he held upon them.

He was a very mean man, this Ruben Edwards—the meanest man in all that country, so everybody said—and you would have known it the minute you looked at him. He loved money, and not unfrequently resorted to questionable means in order to get it.

He owned several farms in the neighborhood, and was now congratulating himself on having secured another. True, it was not much of an acquisition. All he saw, as he looked about him, were a few acres of stony, unproductive land, a small, unpainted dwelling-house, and a few outbuildings, all of which showed signs of decay, in spite of the efforts the industrious George had made to keep them in repair.

It was no wonder that George did not want to talk to his uncle on this particular morning. He did not believe that there was a boy in the world who was so utterly miserable as he was, or who had so little to live for.

He had always been looked down on and shunned by the boys of his acquaintance on account of the conduct of his father, who was one of the village vagabonds; and, since the latter had been shut up in the penitentiary for breaking into a store and stealing money that he was too lazy to work for, poor George had had a hard time of it. No one in that village would have anything to do with him.

He left school and tried to find something to do in order to support his mother, who was an invalid; but nobody needed his services.

“There’s work enough to be done,” he often said to his mother, when he came home from his long tramps, weary and dusty; “but they won’t give me a chance. They are all suspicious of me. But never mind; you shan’t suffer. I have long been thinking of something; and, since no one will hire me, I shall go into business for myself.”

And he did, just as soon as he could make the necessary arrangements.

The people who would not let him saw their wood, because they were afraid he would steal something, did not refuse to purchase the delicious trout and yellow perch that he peddled from door to door, and neither did the luscious berries he brought in from distant fields and pastures ever remain long on his hands.

He made money; but he often became disheartened, and angry, too, when he drew a contrast between his circumstances and those of the boys about him, and then all that was needed was a smile or a word of praise from his mother to bring all his courage and determination back to him again. But now she was gone—the only friend he ever had. She had been dead just a week, and George was lonely, indeed.

He wanted to get out into the woods by himself, and stay there, and he was already making preparations to take a final leave of the house which he could no longer call his home, when he saw his Uncle Ruben’s old clay-bank pacer coming down the road, and Uncle Ruben himself in the saddle.

George was not at all pleased to see him, for he knew pretty nearly what the man would have to say to him.

“’Taint no great shakes of a place,” said Uncle Ruben, after running his eye over the house and its surroundings. “But mebbe I can sell it for enough to save myself. Then you won’t go home with me an’ work for your board and clothes?”

“No, I won’t,” replied George promptly.

He did not thank his relative for his offer, for he knew the object he had in making it.

George was very strong for a boy of his age, and fully capable of doing a man’s work in the field; and he knew that his services there would be worth much more than his board and clothes. So did Uncle Ruben; but the latter thought it would be a good thing if he could induce his nephew to agree to his proposition, for it would be a saving to him of twenty or thirty dollars a month.

“If you will stay with me till you are twenty-one years old, I will give you a yoke of oxen an’ a good suit of clothes to begin life with,” added Uncle Ruben. “That’s customary, you know.”

“I know it is,” answered George. “But if I live to see the age of twenty-one, I shall have more than a yoke of worthless old oxen and a suit of shoddy clothes, I tell you!”

Uncle Ruben winced a little at this.

“I saw the outfit you gave to one of your bound boys, who had served you faithfully for six long years,” continued George. “The oxen were not worth the powder to blow them up, and the clothes fell to pieces in less than a month. You can’t palm any of your old trash off on me. I can do better.”

“I don’t see how. Whose goin’ to hire you?”

“I don’t ask any one to hire me. I’ve got a business of my own that enabled me to support my mother, and to pay your interest on the very day it became due.”

“But you shan’t foller it no longer,” said Uncle Ruben, decidedly. “Boys like you don’t know what’s best for themselves. You need a guardeen, an’ I shall ask the selectmen to have you bound out to me until you are of age.”

“I don’t care if you do,” replied George, in a voice choked with indignation. “Having no property, I do not need a guardian, and I won’t have one, either. I can take care of myself.”

“I know what you want to do,” said Uncle Ruben, with a sneer. “You’re too scandalous lazy to work for a livin’, an’ you want to go back to that shanty of yours in the woods, an’ live there, trappin’ and fishin’, jest for all the world like a wild Injun. But that ain’t a respectable way to live—that way ain’t—an’ I shan’t consent to it.”

“I haven’t asked your consent. I have a right to make an honest living in any way I can, and I intend to exercise that right. I am not too lazy to work; but, as you say, there is no one about here who will give me anything to do. I am not going to starve and go ragged, however, for all that.”

“Be you goin’ to stay up there in the woods all your life?” inquired Uncle Ruben.

“No, I am not. I want to be something better than a hermit. I intend to stay up there until I can save money enough to take me to some place where I am not known, and then I shall make a new start.”

“Well, we’ll wait until we hear what the selectmen have to say about that,” answered Uncle Ruben, with a grin and a wink which seemed to indicate that he felt sure of his ground. “Mebbe they’ll think, as I do, that it’s best for you to go with me, so that you can have somebody what knows something to take care on you. You can stay here till I can have time to go an’ see ’em.”

“I don’t care to stay in this house another night,” replied George, quickly. “I was getting ready to leave it when I saw you coming. If you have got through talking, I’ll go now.”

So saying, George disappeared through the open door, and, when he came out again, he carried over his shoulder a heavy bundle, at which Uncle Ruben gazed with suspicion.

“Everything in here belongs to me, and was purchased with money that I earned myself,” said the boy, who understood the look. “If you don’t believe it—”

Here George threw the bundle down upon the porch within reach of his uncle’s hand.

But the latter did not offer to touch it. Mean as he was known to be, and anxious as he was to secure every article about the house that would clear him a dime or two at public auction, he could not bring himself to make an examination of his nephew’s bundle.

“Well, then,” said the latter, once more raising his property to his shoulder, “I will bid you good-by.”

He hurried out of the yard, and up the road toward the hills, while Uncle Ruben stood in front of the porch and shook his riding-whip at him.

“That’s a powerful bad boy,” said he to himself, “an’ he’s goin’ to be a no-account vagabond, like his father was. But there’s a heap of strength in him, an’ it’s a great pity that he should waste it by foolin’ about in the woods, instead of puttin’ it on my farm, where it would do some good. He’d oughter be taken in hand, that boy ought.”

Uncle Ruben gave emphasis to this thought by hitting his boots a vicious cut with his whip, and then he went into the house, to see what he could find there.

CHAPTER II.
UNCLE RUBEN LEARNS SOMETHING.

While Uncle Ruben was wandering about from one room to another, taking a mental inventory of the different articles they contained, and trying to figure up how much ready cash they ought to bring under the auctioneer’s hammer, Jonathan Brown, who was one of the selectmen, stopped his horse in front of the barn, and hailed the house.

“Mornin’, neighbor Edwards,” he exclaimed, as Uncle Ruben appeared at the door. “’Pears to me you look sorter blue, don’t you?”

“I’m so blue it’ll rub off,” replied Uncle Ruben, as he walked out to the fence and rested his arm on the top rail. “Silas cheated me fearful. I let him have too much money on that mortgage, an’ I shan’t get it back into a good many dollars. Then there’s that there boy, George—”

“Yes, I seen him a little while back,” said Mr. Brown, facing about in his wagon and looking up the road in the direction in which George had disappeared. “He had a big bundle on his back, an’ when I asked him if he had found work anywhere, he said he hadn’t, an’, what was more, he wasn’t goin’ to look for any. Where do you reckon he’s goin’?”

“Up into the hills, to live like a wild Injun,” replied Uncle Ruben, in a tone of disgust. “But I told him that that wasn’t no respectable way to live, an’ that I wouldn’t never consent to it.”

“I wouldn’t, neither,” said Mr. Brown.

“I offered to give him a good home, an’ all he could eat and wear, if he would work for me till he was twenty-one; an’ do you s’pose he would do it? No, he wouldn’t,” continued Uncle Ruben. “He jest as good as told me that he didn’t ask no odds of me nor anybody else. Now, Jonathan, don’t you think that, seein’ as how I shall lose twenty-five, and mebbe fifty dollars of the money I loaned my brother Silas on this property—don’t you r’ally think that that there boy had oughter make it up to me? Couldn’t I force him to do it?”

Mr. Brown scratched his head vigorously, and assumed an air of profound wisdom as he replied:

“I disremember jest now what the law has to say on that p’int; but I’ll look it up.”

“An’ don’t you think, Jonathan, that the boy was a fool to refuse a good home when I offered it to him?”

“Well,” replied Mr. Brown, slowly, “to be honest with you, Ruben, I don’t know who was the biggest fool—you or George.”

“I know what you mean by them words, Jonathan, but I don’t take no offense at ’em. I know that there ain’t no other man about here who would be willin’ to take him into his house; but somehow I couldn’t forgit that he’s my brother’s son. He hain’t got no livin’ relations except me, as one may say—seein’ that his mother is dead an’ his father locked up in prison—an’ so I thought I had oughter do something for him.”

“That shows your goodness of heart,” said Mr. Brown, who was well enough acquainted with his friend Ruben to know that the latter never would have offered George a home under his roof if he had not believed that he could make something by it. “But it’s my opinion that that there nephew of yourn will be shut up in prison, same as his father is, before many days more have passed over his head.”

“Sho!” exclaimed Uncle Ruben, who was greatly astonished. “You don’t tell me! What’s he been a-doin’ of?”

“I don’t say that he’s been a-doin’ of anything,” said Mr. Brown. “I’m only givin’ you my opinion; an’ it’s the opinion of more’n one man in town, too. Now jest listen to me while I tell you. You know that there was a heap of stealin’ goin’ on about here a while back, don’t you?”

Yes, Uncle Ruben knew all about it. He knew that burglaries had been of so frequent occurrence that the village merchants had clubbed together and hired a couple of night watchmen to patrol the streets.

“Well,” continued Mr. Brown, “you remember that while all them stores were bein’ broke into an’ robbed, our hen-roosts an’ spring-houses didn’t escape, don’t you?”

Uncle Ruben remembered it perfectly, and he thought of it now with no little bitterness of heart.

He had missed more than one tub of butter from his spring-house, and nearly all his fine Plymouth Rock chickens had disappeared, and left no trace behind.

“All that was mighty curious, seein’ that we couldn’t find no track of the robbers; but something that happened arterward was still more curious. When George’s mother was took sick, an’ he had to stay to home an’ look out for her, there wasn’t no more stealin’ done. You remember that, too, don’t you?”

Uncle Ruben fairly jumped from the ground, so great was the surprise occasioned by these words.

“You—you don’t mean to say that George had a hand in robbin’ them stores an’ hen-roosts, do you?” he asked, as soon as he had recovered the use of his tongue.

“I don’t mean to say nothing,” was Mr. Brown’s reply. “I’m only jest a-tellin’ of you.”

“Well! well! That bangs me,” said Uncle Ruben, looking reflectively at the ground. “I never thought that of George; but then—”

The speaker paused, but his silence spoke volumes. It was plain that the selectman understood what he meant by it, for he said, with some earnestness:

“That’s jest what I thought, an’ jest what I said. A boy whose father is a thief will bear watchin’. Now see here, Ruben. It’s a mighty disagreeable thing to talk about, but I jest want to tell you. In less’n a week arter the doors of the prison closed behind your brother, George an’ his mother began livin’ on the fat of the land. Why, I have seen him in Chandler’s store, more’n once, spendin’ money for oranges an’ lemons an’ canned peaches—things that never come into my house, ’cause I can’t afford ’em—an I’d like to know where he got that money.”

“He used to sell fish an’ berries, you know,” Uncle Ruben ventured to remark.

“Do you s’pose he made all his money in that way?” inquired Mr. Brown. “Don’t you reckon he made more out of something else—butter an’ chickens, for instance—an’ that this fish an’ berry business was jest a blind? I do; an’ I ain’t the only one who thinks so, neither. An’ I’ll tell you another thing. You can make up your mind to hear of stealin’ an’ plunderin’ about this village before a week has passed away. Sich doin’s wasn’t never heard of till George built that shanty of his’n up there in the hills. There wasn’t none of it goin’ on while he was to home here, ’tendin’ to his mother; but now that he has took to the woods, it’ll begin ag’in. You wait an’ see.”

So saying, Mr. Brown touched his sleepy old horse with the long hickory switch which he always carried instead of a whip, and drove off, leaving Uncle Ruben to his meditations.

The latter did not look like a man whose only nephew had just been accused of being a thief. He did not appear to be either sorry or vexed, and, in fact, he wasn’t.

The expression of his countenance showed that he was surprised, and the sinister smile that lingered about his lips, and the gleeful way in which he rubbed his hands together, seemed to indicate that he was delighted, as well.

“Much obliged to you for your visit, Mr. Brown,” said he, as he mounted the steps that led to the porch. “So George was the one that stole my Plymouth Rocks, an’ cut up all them other shines, was he? I’m glad I found it out afore I spoke to the selectmen about havin’ him bound out to me, for now I can save the cost of havin’ the papers drawn up. I’ll go home an’ speak to Polly Ann, an’ then I’ll ride up to the lake an’ have another talk with George. I guess he will listen to me this time.”

Having made sure that all the doors and windows were securely fastened, Uncle Ruben mounted his horse and set out for home.

At the end of a quarter of an hour, the fast-walking clay-bank carried him through an open gate and past the back door of a thrifty farmhouse.

On the porch stood his wife, who looked surprised, and gave a somewhat incoherent reply to his cheerful greeting.

On ordinary occasions, Uncle Ruben was not an agreeable person to have about the house. He was always sullen and morose, unless he had been fortunate in some way, and then he had a smile and a pleasant word for everybody.

“Your father is in luck to-day, Sally,” said Mrs. Edwards, as she went into the kitchen to assist her daughter with the dinner that was ready to be served up. “I know when he has made a good trade as well as he knows it himself.”

“Well, then,” replied Sally, joyously, “he must give me money enough to buy one of them new hats I seen down in the village t’other day. I can tell him that much.”

Having put the clay-bank in his stall and performed his ablutions at the horse-trough in the barn-yard, Uncle Ruben came in and announced that he was ready for dinner.

While he was seated at the table, he talked about almost every subject except the one that was uppermost in his mind—to tell the truth, he stood a little in awe of his wife, and dreaded the explosion which he knew would follow when he spoke of his nephew, and told of the arrangements he had decided to make with him—and it was not until he had got up from his chair and put on his hat that he said to her:

“By the way, Polly Ann, I guess you might as well do a little something t’wards fixin’ up that bed in the garret, for I shall most likely bring a boy home with me to-night.”

“Who is he?” demanded Mrs. Edwards, rather sharply.

Bound boys—and Uncle Ruben never had any other—were her pet aversion.

“George,” said her husband.

“Not your nephew, George Edwards?” exclaimed Polly Ann, in shrill tones.

Uncle Ruben nodded, and moved nearer to the door.

“Well, if that don’t beat anything I ever heard of, I wouldn’t say so. Ruben Elias Edwards, have you gone an’ took leave of your seven senses? Don’t you know—”

“Yes, I know all about it,” interrupted Uncle Ruben. “I know that by bringin’ him here I can save enough money durin’ the next six years to buy you an’ Sally all the nice dresses an’ hats you want.”

Sally’s face grew radiant, but her mother was not deceived. She had listened to just such promises before, and knew how much they were worth. She settled back in her chair, with a determined look on her face, and Uncle Ruben, knowing what was coming, hastened to the barn to saddle his horse.

When he rode by the porch the storm was at its height. His wife was crying and scolding at an alarming rate, and her shrill tones rang in his ears long after he had passed through the gate.

“Women is curious things,” said Uncle Ruben to himself, as he urged the clay-bank forward at his best pace. “I knowed Polly Ann would raise a harrycane when I told her about George; but, in course, I couldn’t help that. She’ll do as I told her, all the same, ’cause I am the head boss in that house. When I once make up my mind to a thing, it has got to go through.”

This was probably true, so far as his wife and daughter were concerned, for they were dependent upon him; but George wasn’t, and when Uncle Ruben came to deal with that young gentleman, he found that he had undertaken more than he could accomplish.

CHAPTER III.
A SURPRISE.

“No doubt, I ought to feel very grateful toward Uncle Ruben for the offer he has just made me, but I can’t say that I do,” soliloquized George Edwards, as he trudged along the dusty road, with his heavy bundle slung over his shoulder. “I am almost seventeen years old now, and I am getting too big to work for my board and clothes. I am not obliged to do it, for I can clear a dollar a day up here in the woods, and, as my living will not cost me anything to speak of, I can save enough money by next spring to take me so far away from this miserable place that I shall never hear of it again. I know I shall be very lonely, but I shall have peace and comfort, and be well out of the reach of Aunt Polly Ann’s sharp tongue.”

Here George turned off the main road, and letting down a pair of bars that gave entrance into an extensive sheep pasture, once more shouldered his bundle and directed his course along a blind path which ran through a thick grove of evergreens. Fortunately he did not know what the future had in store for him.

The peace and comfort he hoped to find in his forest home were to be denied him. Already skillful plots, that were intended to work his ruin, were being laid against him, and George was destined to see the day when he almost wished that he had accepted his uncle’s offer; but then it was too late.

“It seems to me that things might be made to work smoother and easier for some of us,” said George, to himself, as he took off his hat and stopped for a moment under the wide-spreading branches of the evergreens to enjoy the grateful shade. “Dame Fortune has nothing but smiles for some folks, and, as she hasn’t got enough to go round, the rest of us have to take frowns. Now, look at those fellows! If I had as much money as their guns cost, I could get an education that would enable me to be of some use in the world. Never mind; I’ll have it yet.”

George settled his hat on his head with a vigorous slap, and, running down the path, presently emerged from the evergreens, and found himself on the outskirts of a little field, which had been cultivated in the years gone by, but was now given over to briers and huckleberry bushes.

On the opposite side of this field, which was entirely surrounded by woods, was a huge rock, at whose base a spring of pure, cold water bubbled up.

Stretched at their ease on the grass near this spring were the “fellows,” the sight of whom, as he caught a momentary glimpse of them through the trees, had started George on the train of thought with which he closed his soliloquy.

Their dress and accoutrements seemed to indicate that they had come out for a hunt; although it is hard to tell what they intended to shoot, it being too late in the season for ruffed grouse and quails, and too early for young squirrels. They were all the sons of rich men—almost inseparable companions—and were rapidly acquiring the reputation of being a “hard crowd.”

Careful and judicious fathers cautioned their sons against associating with them; but that did not seem to trouble these young fellows, who kept on enjoying themselves in their own way, and paying no heed to what others might say or think of them.

They were engaged in earnest conversation, and so deeply engrossed were they in the subject under discussion, whatever it was, that they did not hear the sound of George’s approaching footsteps until he had come quite near to them.

“I tell you, boys,” he heard one of them say, “that will be a ten-strike, and we can start on our western trip as soon as we please. You know that old Stebbins will not trust any of the banks, and consequently he must have the money in his house.”

“But, of course, he keeps it stowed away in some snug hiding-place,” said one of his companions, “and we don’t know where that is. What good will it do to break into the house if we can’t find the money after we—”

The boy finished the sentence by uttering a cry of alarm and springing to his feet.

His two companions, who were no less alarmed, also jumped up, and were astonished beyond measure to see George Edwards standing within a few feet of them.

For a few seconds they stood regarding him with eyes that seemed ready to start from their sockets, while their faces grew whiter and their knees trembled beneath them.

The one who had last spoken was the first to recover his speech and power of action. Snatching up the hammerless gun that lay in the grass at his feet, he called out in savage tones:

“What are you doing here? Make yourself scarce at once, or I’ll—”

“What are you about, Benson?” cried one of his companions, seizing the double-barrel, and giving its owner a look that was full of significance. “Why, man alive, have you taken leave of your senses? Don’t you see who that is? It’s Edwards—George Edwards.”

“So it is,” said Benson, lowering his gun, and calling a sickly smile to his frightened face. “You’ll not feel very highly complimented, I know, George, but the fact is I took you for a tramp.”

His two companions laughed loudly, and George smiled and threw his bundle down beside the spring.

“That’s a good joke on you, Benson,” said one of the young hunters who answered to the name of Wallace. “When we return to the village, you’ll have to set up the cigars, if you want us to keep still about it.”

“It’s a bargain,” replied Benson, laying his gun on the ground and seating himself beside it. “Are you travelling, George, or just going somewhere?”

“I am going somewhere,” answered George, as he took a tin cup from his bundle and dipped it into the spring.

“Got a job?”

“No—don’t want any, as long as I remain in this country.”

“Going out to your cabin by the lake?”

George replied that he was; and, having drained his cup, he leaned over to fill it again, the three hunters improving the opportunity to exchange glances that were full of meaning.

“How are you going to make a living out there during the winter?” inquired Benson. “In summer you can fish and pick berries; but when the snow covers the ground, and the lake is frozen clear to the bottom, then what?”

“The lake doesn’t freeze clear to the bottom,” said George, with a laugh. “I can supply the village with the muskalonge that I shall spear through the ice—I shall have a monopoly of that trade, you know, for the lake is so far away that no one thinks of going up there in winter—and the snow will afford me the means of tracking minks, raccoons and hares.”

“Hares! You mean rabbits, I suppose?”

“No, I don’t. There are no wild rabbits in America.”

Benson opened his eyes, and showed a disposition to argue that point, but he was checked by a look from Wallace. He evidently understood just what it meant, for he settled back on his elbow and relapsed into silence.

None of the hunters had anything to say after that, and George, believing that his absence would suit them better than his company, shouldered his bundle, said good-by, and struck into the path that led to the hills.

“You’re a good one, Benson, you are!” exclaimed Wallace, as soon as he had satisfied himself that George was out of hearing. “You gave us dead away, in the first place, and then kept him here by talking to him.”

“I wanted to allay his suspicions, if he had any,” replied Benson. “That was the reason I talked to him.”

“Was that the reason why you pointed your gun at him?” inquired the hunter who had not spoken before, and whose name was Forbes.

“I was a little too hasty, that’s a fact,” said Benson. “But you remember what we were talking about, do you not? Well, when I looked up and saw him standing there, almost within reach of us, I was so badly frightened that I didn’t know what I was doing. Do you suppose he heard anything?”

“Of course he heard something,” growled Wallace, in reply. “He must be deaf if he didn’t.”

“But do you think he suspected anything?”

“Ah, that’s another question! I hope not; but there’s no telling. I can tell you one thing, however. There isn’t room enough in the hills for George Edwards and our party, too, and one or the other must go.”

“I was thinking of that myself,” said Forbes. “He might discover something, you know, while he’s prowling around in search of his minks and coons. Couldn’t we drive him out by burning his shanty?”

“We might put him to some trouble, but we couldn’t drive him out in that way,” replied Wallace. “George is handy with an axe, and in two days’ time he could build another cabin, and perhaps he would be smart enough to keep watch of it. But I shall not draw an easy breath as long as he is up there. If he should happen to stumble upon our cache? Whew! We must think about this, boys, and decide upon something.”

Meanwhile, George Edwards was plodding along towards the lake, and while he walked he pondered deeply. The incidents of the last half hour perplexed and astonished him. What was the meaning of Benson’s unwarrantable excitement? and what was it that had caused the alarm so plainly visible on the faces of the three hunters when they first became aware of his approach?

“Benson never took me for a tramp,” said George to himself. “That story was a fraud on the face of it. And, then, what business had they to be talking about old man Stebbins, and the money he is supposed to have in his house? It is a wonder to me that he hasn’t been robbed a dozen times.”

There were one or two other points in the conversation he had overheard that came into the boy’s mind, but to which he did not then attach any importance. He did not think of them again until some days had passed away, and then they were recalled to his recollection in a most unexpected manner.

It was fifteen miles from George’s old home to his home in the woods, and, as the road that led to it (if the blind path he followed could be called a road) ran up hill nearly all the way, it took him a long time to cover the distance—much longer than it usually did, for he was encumbered by his heavy bundle.

The sun was sinking behind the trees when he came out of the bushes and stopped to rest for a moment on a little promontory that jutted out into the deep-blue bosom of Lone Lake—a beautiful sheet of water, nine miles long and half as wide, and situated twenty-five hundred feet above the level of the sea—at least, that was what the young surveyors at the Montford Academy said.

George gazed upon its mirror-like surface as one gazes upon the face of a friend from whom he has long been separated. It had yielded him and his mother a support and kept a roof over their heads for two long years, and it was his main dependence now.

If any one had told him, that before the sun had again been reflected in those calm waters half a score of times, some scenes would be enacted there that would change the whole course of his life, George would not have put the least faith in the statement; but it would have been the truth, nevertheless.

CHAPTER IV.
A HOME IN THE WOODS.

Having taken time to cool off and recover his breath, George once more lifted his bundle to his shoulder and resumed his journey. He had not more than two miles to go now, and as he followed the beach, where the walking was good, it took him but a short time to cover the distance.

The next time he threw down his bundle it was in front of a snug little cabin, built of rough logs, and situated on a little rise of ground that commanded a fine view of the lake.

“Things are all right outside,” said George to himself, as he took a key from his pocket and inserted it into the padlock with which the heavy slab door was secured; “and that is something to wonder at. There are lots of mean boys in the village, and I was afraid that some of them had been up here during my absence. Everything seems to be all right inside, too,” he added, as the door swung open and the interior of the cabin was disclosed to view.

George stepped across the threshold as he spoke, and this was what he saw: A room twelve or thirteen feet square, with a heavy, ungainly-looking scow turned bottom upward in the middle of it; a wide fire-place with a stick chimney and a stone hearth; over it a rough mantelpiece, on which stood a lamp and several books; at the opposite end an open cupboard piled with bright tin dishes; under the cupboard a table and two or three stools, all made of slabs—and neatly made, too; in a corner, near the door, a pair of oars and a small sprit-sail made of unbleached muslin; and lastly, a cord hammock, with two quilts, as many blankets, and a pillow in it.

There was no floor in the cabin, and neither were there any windows. The ground, which was almost as hard as the stone that formed the hearth, was easily kept clean, and the door, being allowed to stand open during the daytime, except in very stormy weather, admitted all the light that was necessary.

Some boys would have thought this a very cheerless and uninviting home, and so it was, but it was the only one George had. He had lived in the hope of some day being able to provide himself with a better.

“There’s one thing about it,” thought the boy, as he placed several sticks of round wood upon the ground and made preparations to roll the heavy scow out of the cabin, “I am my own master. There is no one to tell me what I shall do and what I shall not do, and all the money I make is my own. If I had agreed to Uncle Ruben’s proposition, I should have to go hungry and half clad, listen to a scolding from Aunt Polly Ann every hour in the day, and now and then I’d have to take a cowhiding from Uncle Ruben. I’d much rather live here alone than with them, and I don’t care if I never see—”

George’s soliloquy was interrupted by a sound that startled him—the clatter of a horse’s hoofs on the gravelly beach. He looked out at the door, and was astonished to see Uncle Ruben riding toward the cabin.

If one might judge by the expression of his face he was in very good humor about something. Dismounting, he drew the bridle-rein over his horse’s head, and dropped it to the ground so that the animal could not stray away, at the same time greeting his nephew with:

“Well, George, I don’t reckon you expected to see me ag’in so soon, did you?”

“No, I didn’t,” replied the boy.

And Uncle Ruben would have been dull, indeed, if he had not been able to see that he was not wanted there.

“I didn’t expect to see you, nuther,” continued the man, seating himself on the scow, which had been rolled part way through the door. “But I thought mebbe I’d better have another leetle talk with you—”

“It’s of no use,” said George—“of no use whatever. If I had to live in the same house with you, I would not work for you for fifty dollars a month—”

—“another leetle talk with you,” repeated Uncle Ruben, paying no heed to the interruption, “for I think you will be willin’ to listen to me now.”

“Well, you are mistaken. I shall never agree to your proposition. I know you too well.”

“I wouldn’t git up on a high hoss, if I was in your place. ’Tain’t becomin’,” said Uncle Ruben, in a significant tone. “Hold on now,” he added, seeing that George’s face began to flush with indignation. “I ain’t speakin’ of what your father’s done. I’m speakin’ of what you have done yourself.”

“I have done nothing to be ashamed of. I have tried to behave myself, and to deserve the respect of those around me. I have always made an honest living—”

“Have you, though? Well, there’s them right here in this town as says you hain’t,” interrupted Uncle Ruben, with a triumphant air.

“Oh, I know that there are those who make a business of saying all sorts of unkind things about me,” answered George, in a voice that was choked with indignation, “but all they can say will not alter the facts of the case. I say now, and I don’t care who disputes it—”

He suddenly paused, for there was an expression in his uncle’s eyes that he could not understand. He looked steadily at him for a moment, and then seated himself on the other end of the scow.

“There, now!” said Uncle Ruben, in a tone of satisfaction. “I kinder thought that mebbe you’d be willin’ to listen to reason after while. It’s the gospel truth, an’ folks do say it.”

“What do they say?”

“They say they don’t know where you got the money you used to spend at the store for the oranges an’ trash you used to buy for your mother.”

“Well, if you hear anybody asking any questions about it, you can just tell them, for me, that it’s none of their business!” replied George, angrily.

“But folks’ll make it their business. You can’t expect that they’ll stand by an’ let their stores be broke into an’ robbed, an’ their butter an’ chickens stole, without making a fuss about it. Don’t stand to reason.”

“Uncle Ruben, explain yourself,” said George, jumping to his feet. “You don’t mean to tell me—”

“Yes, I do,” broke in the man, who knew what his nephew was about to say. “Everybody knows that you have been spendin’ a heap of money sence your father was locked up, an’ that you didn’t make it by sellin’ fish an’ berries.”

“How did I make it, then?” asked George, who was utterly bewildered.

“How can I tell? I don’t know where all that nice butter an’ them fine chickens an’ silk goods went to. True, that’s jest what folks say about you,” continued Uncle Ruben, who saw that George was almost overwhelmed by the hints he had thrown out, “an’ they’ll keep on sayin’ it as long as you live up here in this wild Injun fashion. Your Aunt Polly Ann, who sets a heap of store by you, has been to the trouble of fixin’ up a nice bedroom for you, an’ I promised her, sure, that I’d bring you home with me.”

“Well, when you see her again, tell her that the reason that you didn’t keep your promise was because I wouldn’t go home with you,” said George.

“You won’t? You’d better. Jest see how people are talkin’ about you.”

“Let them talk until they get tired, and then, perhaps they will stop. I’ll not go,” declared George, shortly.

“But you must. I’ve set my heart on it, an’ so has your Aunt Polly Ann.”

“I can’t help that.”

“The constable might come up here an’ arrest you for a thief.”

“I know he might, but he won’t. At any rate, I’ll take the risk. Now, Uncle Ruben, you might as well understand, first as last, that you can’t scare me into going home with you. Let me shove the boat out, please. There is a storm coming up, and I want to go out on the lake and catch some fish for supper before it gets here.”

“Well, George,” said Uncle Ruben, as he arose to his feet, “I have tried to do my duty by you. I have offered you a good home, an’ give you fair warnin’ of what will be sartin to happen to you if you hold to your fool notion of livin’ up here all alone by yourself. Folks will think there’s something wrong somewhere.”

“They needn’t trouble themselves about me. Let them attend to their own business, and I will attend to mine.”

“If you git into trouble through your mulishness, you mustn’t blame me for it.”

“I won’t. Good-by!”

“He’s a bad boy—a monstrous bad boy!” soliloquized Uncle Ruben, as he mounted his horse and rode away; “an’ he’ll surely come to some bad end, jest as his father did before him. He shan’t stay up here wastin’ his time when he had oughter be at work, an’ that’s all there is about it.”

George watched his uncle as long as he remained in sight, and then went to work to get his scow into the water. He was surprised and bewildered, but he was not frightened, for he could not bring himself to believe that the man had told him the truth. What reason could anybody have for saying that he was the thief whose depredations had caused so great an excitement in the village?

“Uncle Ruben made it all up out of his own head,” said George to himself, as he pushed the scow into the water and made the painter fast to a convenient tree, “and it is only one of the many mean tricks of which I know him to be guilty. The village people know where I live, and if they suspect me, let them come up here and find some of the stolen goods in my possession. That’s a thing they can’t do.”

Consoling himself with this reflection, George went into the cabin again, and when he came out he brought out with him the oars belonging to the scow, and also a stout fishing-rod. It was not a jointed lancewood rod, with German-silver mountings, wound butt, and nickel-plated reel-seat, but simply a hickory sapling he had cut in the bushes.

George could not afford a fancy outfit, and this rod, which had cost him nothing at all, answered the purpose for which it was intended, and if he chanced to break it while playing a heavy fish, he could in five minutes provide himself with another just as good.

Having filled his box with bait, which he found under a log behind the cabin, George stepped into his scow and pushed her off from the beach.

Just then a loud peal of thunder echoed among the hills, and the smooth surface of the lake was ruffled by the first breath of the oncoming storm. A thick, black cloud which had been hanging in the horizon all day long, was now rising rapidly, and, during the five minutes that George had been employed in getting his boat into the water and digging his bait, it had covered the whole sky.

It was growing dark, and the lake looked black and threatening. It was a treacherous body of water—a capful of wind was enough to raise a sea that would try almost any boat—and George knew better than to trust himself upon it while a gale was raging.

“I guess I don’t want any fish for supper,” said he, as he shifted his oar to the other side of the boat, and pushed her back toward the beach. “I shall have to be satisfied with what I brought with me in my bundle. It’s going to be a hard one,” he added, as a strong gust of wind lifted his hat from his head and carried it toward the cabin; “and I thank my lucky stars that I have a tight roof to shelter me. What in the world was that?”

Having drawn his scow high up on the beach, and fastened the painter securely to a tree, George ran to recover his hat; and just then, something that sounded like a cry for help came faintly to his ears.

Believing that the appeal came from the woods, George listened intently, and in a few seconds the cry was repeated. This time the wind brought it to him very plainly, and he caught the words:

“Help! help! Our boat is sinking!”

George looked in the direction from which the voice sounded, and was greatly astonished as well as alarmed, to see a cockle-shell of a boat dancing about among the waves, which had already grown to formidable proportions. While he gazed, she sank out of sight, and nothing but the top of the little shoulder-of-mutton sail she carried in the bow remained in view to show that she was still above water.

CHAPTER V.
A CAPSIZE.

George Edwards held his breath in suspense. The hull of the little craft was so long out of sight that he began to fear he would never see it again; but, all of a sudden, it bobbed up as buoyantly as a cork, and once more that frantic appeal for assistance was borne across the lake.

George was now able to see that there were two boys in the boat. One was clinging to the mast, waving his handkerchief over his head as a signal of distress, and the other was seated in the stern, wielding a clumsy-looking paddle, with which he endeavored to keep the boat before the wind.

George looked at them, and then he looked toward the promontory on which he had stopped to rest when he first reached the lake.

This promontory was about fifty feet in height, and its base was thickly lined with rocks, over which the waves were dashing with great violence, throwing the spray high in the air. It was not more than half a mile distant, and the wind was driving the boat toward it with fearful rapidity.

“What lunatics those fellows must be to venture out on this lake when they don’t know how to manage a boat!” exclaimed George. “If they hold that course they will be dashed to pieces on the rocks, as sure as they are living boys.” Then, bringing his hands to his face, and using them as a speaking-trumpet, he shouted with all the power of his lungs, “Haul down your sail and pull for the beach!”

The boy who was holding on to the mast waved his signal of distress over his head, and then the boat sank out of sight again.

When she reappeared, George once more shouted to her crew to haul down the sail, at the same time striving to warn them of their danger by pointing toward the rocks and beckoning to them to come ashore.

But his instructions must have been misunderstood, or else the boat’s crew could not obey them, for their little craft kept driving on toward the rocks, while one of the boys continued to wave his handkerchief, and the other to ply his clumsy paddle.

It was plain that they could not save themselves, and that George was the only one who could render them any assistance. The boy’s face grew pale when this fact flashed upon him, but it wore a very determined look.

“It’s almost certain death,” said he, as he cast off the painter and pushed the scow into the water; “but I can at least make the attempt. If I go under, there is nobody to miss me.”

Pushing his scow through the surf, and wading until the water was nearly up to his waist, George clambered in, shipped the oars, and pulled out into the lake.

When Uncle Ruben was at the cabin, he had shown a disposition to turn up his nose at his nephew’s boat, which was the boy’s own handiwork; but if he could have seen how she behaved now, he would have learned that she was much better than she looked to be. Being broad of beam and light of draught, she seemed to skim over the top of the waves instead of breaking through them, and, heavy as she was, George was able to send her ahead with considerable speed.

He rowed fast enough to intercept the sailboat when she was within less than a quarter of a mile of the threatening rocks and then he found, greatly to his surprise, that she was a canoe, so lightly built, apparently, that a boy of ordinary strength could take her on his back and walk off with her with all ease.

She was making bad weather of it, for she was half-full of water, and every time she struck a wave she would bury her nose in it almost out of sight. If her two occupants realized the danger of their situation, they did not show it. They were as cool as boys could possibly be.

The one in the bow watched George’s movements with a good deal of interest, while the dignified young fellow in spectacles, who was sitting in the stern and using the butt of his double-barrel for a paddle, issued his orders with great calmness and deliberation.

“Bring your boat around head to the wind, if you can, and let us come alongside of you,” said he, addressing himself to George. “You will have to do all the work, for I have lost my paddle; and if the canoe should broach to, we’d be tumbled out into the lake before you could say ‘General Jackson’ with your mouth open.”

George saw at a glance that the dignified young gentleman knew how to handle a canoe, and that in keeping the sail hoisted he was doing the best that could be done under the circumstances. If he had attempted to make the beach, he would have brought his cranky little craft broadside to the waves, and, having no centre-board, and scarcely any bearing, she would have been overturned in an instant, leaving her crew to sink, or drift helplessly toward the rocks.

That very thing did happen to her soon. Although George tried hard to place himself directly across her bows, the canoe shot wild of him; and in his efforts to bring her alongside the scow, the skipper lost control of her, and over she went, turning completely bottom upward.

The rocks were now but a short distance away, and the noise made by the waves as they dashed over them was enough to frighten anybody. George was frightened, and his pale face showed it.

It would have been a work of no little difficulty to row a light boat away from that dangerous spot; but to wait there long enough to pick up a couple of boys who were tossed about by the waves, now here, now there, and always just out of reach, to rescue them and then save himself, was a task requiring great skill and prudence.

George looked at the rocks and then he looked about for the canoe’s crew. To his great joy they arose to the surface, one after the other, and they were close ahead of him, too. One was near enough to seize the gunwale of the scow, while the other promptly laid hold of the oar that was thrust out toward him.

“Where’s Goggles?” asked the first, wiping the water out of his eyes, and looking around to find his companion.

“He’s all right!” answered George. “Climb in—quick! Not over the side, for your weight will capsize the scow. Go around to the stern. Be lively now, or the waves will throw us on the rocks.”

The boy looked toward the breakers, but the sight of them did not seem to terrify him in the least. He worked his way around to the stern, climbed into the scow, and then turned to assist his companion, who was clinging to the oar with one hand, while in the other he held a light double-barreled shotgun.

“Say, Goggles!” said the boy in the boat; “I am just a hundred dollars out of pocket, by this day’s work. Give us your gun. Mine is at the bottom of the lake. I told you your cranky little egg-shell wasn’t seaworthy!”

“The canoe is all right, so far as her seagoing qualities are concerned,” was the reply. “If I hadn’t lost my paddle overboard, she would have taken us ashore without shipping so much as a cupful of water. But we have taken our last ride in her. She will be smashed into kindling-wood on those rocks.”

“Haul him in! haul him in!” cried George, in great excitement. “We shall be smashed into kindling-wood, too, if we don’t get out of this! Now, then,” he continued, as the boy who had been addressed as “Goggles” was dragged aboard, “take an oar, one of you, and pull for your life.”

The boys had no light task before them, and if Goggles had not been a capital oarsman, it is hard to tell how the struggle would have ended.

For a long time the heavy boat seemed to remain stationary. With all their exertions, they could make no perceptible headway; but finally they began to gain a little, and, after half an hour’s hard pulling, they succeeded in beaching the scow about half-way between the promontory and the cabin.

George landed there, because he thought it would be easier to walk a quarter of a mile than it would be to pull the boat that distance against the wind and the waves.

“Now, then,” said Goggles, as he and his companion assisted in securing the boat, so that it would not drift away; “the next thing is something else. A fire to dry our clothes by and something good to eat, would be very acceptable just now. Do you live far from here, my friend?”

“Only a short distance away,” answered George. “If you will go up to my shanty, you can have both the fire and the supper. I can’t promise you that the grub will be very good—”

“Say nothing about that,” interrupted Goggles. “I hope we shall not put your folks to any trouble.”

“No,” replied George, sadly; “you’ll not put them to any trouble.” Then, seeing the expression of surprise and inquiry on the faces of the rescued boys, he added, “I am my own cook and housekeeper. I am living up here alone.”

“Oh, you’re out for a holiday, then! You came here to hunt and fish, I suppose?”

“Yes, I came here to fish; but I am not taking a holiday. It’s a matter of bread and butter with me.”

“You don’t say so! Can’t you find anything to do in the village?”

“No, I can’t,” replied George.

But he did not tell the boy the reason why.

“Well, there’s no use in standing here in the rain any longer. Let’s go up to your ‘shanty,’ as you call it. You have rendered us a most important service,” said Goggles, with much feeling, as he took George’s hand in both his own and shook it warmly. “I never saw anybody exhibit as much pluck as you have shown to-day. What can we do for you?”

“Take a big bite while you are about it,” said the other boy, who had stood by, listening in silence to this conversation. “We owe our lives to you.”

“You owe me nothing but your good-will,” replied George. “I am sure you would have done as much for me.”

“I don’t know about that,” replied Goggles, as the three hurried up the beach toward the cabin. “One needs courage, and a good share of it, too, to enable him to go deliberately into danger for the sake of helping somebody; and that’s a quality I don’t pretend to possess. Now, perhaps you would like to know who we are. My friend here is Bob Howard, and he lives away out of the world, in a place called Arizona. I am Dick Langdon, at your service, and live in a white man’s country, my home being in Connecticut.”

“There’s where the wooden nutmegs come from!” observed Bob Howard.

“My name is George Edwards, and I live there,” said our hero, pointing to the cabin, which was now in plain sight.

It looked mean and forbidding now. It was good enough for him, for he had never been accustomed to luxurious surroundings; but, if there was any faith to be put in appearances, the boys who were to be his guests until the storm was over, were the sons of wealthy parents, and he thought they would look out of place under his humble roof.

He did not then know that one of them was more familiar with life in the woods than he was, and that he had many a time been glad to crawl into a hollow log for shelter. George didn’t know, either, that his life and Bob Howard’s were destined to run along in the same channel, and that they were to be the heroes of an adventure that is talked of on the frontier until this day; but such was the fact.

CHAPTER VI.
DICK LANGDON’S SENTIMENTS.

“We are students at the Montford Academy,” said Dick Langdon. “Yesterday we asked for a short leave of absence, and came up here in search of fun and adventure.”

“And we got all we wanted of both!” chimed in Bob Howard. “Dick lost his canoe, and I lost my gun, but we caught a splendid string of fish, and I had a twenty-minute fight with a muskalonge, that I shall remember as long as I live.”

“You don’t say anything about the narrow escape we had from having our brains dashed out on those rocks,” observed Dick.

“There’s no need that I should speak of that, for George knows as much about it as we do. By-the-way, do you suppose the waves will leave anything of that canoe? Our fishing-rods were stowed in one of the lockers.”

“I am afraid you have seen them for the last time,” replied George. “But I don’t think your gun is lost beyond recovery.”