Chapter XXXVII: Tom’s Final “find” 360 (7)

“Oh, no. I never sleep under shelter of any kind; I haven’t done so for more than twenty years past. Indeed, that is one of the conditions upon which I live at all. My health is good now, but it would fail me rapidly if I slept anywhere under a roof.”

“But when these heavy subtropical rains come?” asked Dick.

“Ah, I am prepared for them. I have only to spread one rubber cloth on the ground and a much thinner one over my blanket, and I take no harm.”

“Your specialty then is the study of butterflies and moths?” asked Dick.

“No, not at all. Indeed I have no specialty. When I was teaching I held the chair of Natural History, with several specialists as tutors under my general direction. When my health broke down—pray, don’t suppose I am going to weary you with a profitless catalogue of symptoms—I simply had to take to the woods. I had nobody dependent upon me—nobody for whom it was my duty to provide then or later. I had a little money, very little, but living as I do I need very little, and my work yields me a good deal more than I need or want. The little rifle I always have with me provides me with all the food I want, so that I am rarely under expense on that account.”

“But you must have bread or some substitute,” said Tom.

“I do not find it necessary. When I have access to starchy foods—of which there are many in tropical and subtropical forests if one knows how to find and utilize them—I eat them with relish, but when they are not to be had I get on very well without them. You see man is an omnivorous animal, and can live in health upon either starchy or flesh foods. It is best to have both, of course, unless the starchy foods are perverted as they so often are in civilized life, and made ministers to depraved appetites.”

“May I ask just how you mean that?” asked Dick.

“Yes, certainly. The starch we consumed last night in the form of sweet potatoes was altogether good for us; so is that we are taking now in these ship biscuits. But if the flour we are eating had been mixed with lard, sugar, eggs, milk and the like, and made into pastry, we should be greatly the better without it.

“However, I’m not a physician, equipped to deliver a lecture on food stuffs and their preparation. I was betrayed into that by your question. I was explaining the extreme smallness of my personal needs. After food, which costs me nothing, comes clothing, which costs me very little.”

“Why certainly you are expensively dressed for woodland wandering,” said Dick. Then instantly he began an apology for the reference to so purely personal a matter, but Rudolf Dunbar interrupted him.

“No apology is due. I was voluntarily talking of my own personal affairs, and your remark was entirely pertinent. My garments are made of very costly fabrics, but as such materials endure all sorts of hard usage and last for a very long time, I find it cheaper in the end to buy only such; more important still is the convenience of it, to one leading the sort of life I do. Instead of having to visit a tailor three or four times a year, I have need of his services only at long intervals. The garments I now have on were made for me in London three years or so ago, and I have worn no others since. In the meanwhile I have been up the Amazon for thousands of miles, besides visiting Labrador and the southern coast of Greenland.

“That brings me to my principal item of expense, which is the passage money I must pay in order to get to the regions I wish to explore. That costs me a good deal at each considerable removal, but in the meanwhile I have earned greatly more by my work.

“But pardon me for prosing so about myself. I’ll say not another word now, so that you young gentlemen may be free to make whatever use you wish of this superb day. I shall spend the greater part of it in figuring some specimens with my colored crayons. Good morning!”

XXIX

TOM FINDS THINGS

AS soon as the visitor disappeared through a tangled growth of bushes, Larry began marking out the duties of the day.

“First of all we must make ourselves comfortable,” he said, as if reflecting.

“That means a bush shelter of some sort,” interrupted Tom.

“No, it doesn’t either,” Larry answered, in a tone of playfulness like Tom’s own.

“What does it mean, then?”

“It means a shelter—not ‘of some sort’ as you say, but of a good sort. The wind blows hard here sometimes as the place is so exposed to a broad passage leading to the sea outside. So we must build something that isn’t easily carried away by a squall.”

“It would mean a good many other things,” said Cal, “if I were the architect selected to make designs, with front elevations, floor plans, estimates and all the other things they do before beginning to put up a building.”

“Why, of course, Cal, you are to direct the work,” answered Larry. “You know more about such things than all the rest of us combined.”

“Well, then, first of all, our palatial country residence must face directly away from the sea,” said Cal. “If it had its wide open side in any other direction we’d be drenched inside of it every time a rain came in from the sea, and that is where nearly all the hard rains come from here. Then, again, if the hovel faced the wrong way it would be filled full of smoke every time a sea breeze blew, and in this exposed place that is nearly all the time. There are seventeen other good and sufficient reasons for fronting the structure in the way I have decreed, but the two I have mentioned are sufficient to occupy and divert your young minds as we go on with the work. Now let all hands except Larry busy themselves chopping crotched poles of the several dimensions that I’ll mark here in the sand, for lack of other and more civilized stationery.”

With a sharpened stick Cal began writing in the sand.

“Four poles, 12 feet long, and three or four inches thick.”

“But what do you want me to do, Cal?” asked Larry.

“Go fishing,” said Cal. “We must have some dinner after awhile. See if you can’t bring in a sheepshead or some other fish weighing five or six pounds and fit for roasting.”

In an instant Larry was off with cast net, shrimp bucket and some fish lines.

Cal resumed his sand writing, cataloguing the various sorts and sizes of poles wanted. Presently he stopped short, muttering:

“But then we’re not lumbermen, and the only tool we have to chop with is our one poor little hand ax. It won’t take three of us to wield that toy. Say, Tom, suppose you take your gun and see if you can’t get us some game. We’ll do well enough with fish for dinner, but we must have some meat for to-night. So go and get some. I know you’re half crazy to be off in the woods shooting. Dick and I will work at the poles and palmetes—that’s apt alliteration, but it was quite accidental, I assure you. One can use the ax and the other cut palmete leaves with his jackknife, exchanging jobs now and then. We’ll need a great stack of the palmetes with which to cover the roof and three sides of our mansion.”

“Yes, of course, and fortunately they grow very thick just out there in the woods,” said Dick. “I saw them early this morning.”

“Yes, I know. I saw them yesterday when I picked out a place for the camp. Our need of them was one of the considerations I had in mind. By the way, Dick”—the two were busily at work now—“what do you think of the professor’s plan of sleeping?”

“It saves him a lot of trouble,” Dick answered.

“Yes, in one way. But if he had anything with him that water would spoil, it would make more trouble than it saves. As he has nothing of the kind—”

“How about his reserve ammunition? A man who depends upon his gun for all his food must have a lot of cartridges somewhere.”

“That’s so, but his rifle is probably of very small calibre, so that a good many cartridges can be packed in a small space. Of course we can’t ask him.”

At that moment “the professor,” as Cal had called him, appeared, with profuse apologies.

“It was really inexcusable,” he protested, “for me to go away as I did when you young gentlemen had a shelter to build. I should have stayed to help in the work, as I am to share in its advantages. But I am so unused to providing shelter for myself that I quite forgot your larger necessities. Fortunately I heard the blows of your ax and was reminded of my duty. I have come at once to assist you.”

“Oh, you mustn’t think of that, Professor,” answered Cal. “We really need no assistance. My brother and Tom have gone off for supplies of meat and fish, but they’ll be back presently, and meanwhile we two can use the only tools we have for this kind of work. Besides, you have something of your own to do.”

“Nothing that may not be as well done at another time. I must insist upon bearing my share of the work of constructing a camp which you have been courteous enough to invite me to share.”

“But you don’t sleep under a roof—even a flimsy one of palmete leaves,” objected Dick. “We invited you to join us here only because we like good company.”

“Thank you for the compliment. No, I do not sleep under a roof, but your roof will be a great convenience and comfort to me in other ways.”

“I don’t see—” Cal began, but Dunbar broke in.

“You don’t see how? No, of course not. How should you? But that is only because you know so little of my tasks. I must write my scientific reports and articles carefully and voluminously, and I must make accurate color drawings of my specimens to accompany my text. I am badly behind with my work in these ways, and the very best time to bring up the arrears is of long, rainy days, when the living things I must study—all of them except the fishes—are hidden away in such shelters as they can find. But I cannot sit in the rain and write or draw. That would only be to spoil materials of which I have all too little already. So the rainy days are lost to me, or have been, hitherto. Now that I am to enjoy your hospitality, I shall sit in your shelter when it rains, and get a world of writing and drawing done.”

“Well, at any rate, we shall not need your help in this work, and we have no tool for you to work with if we did. As to our little hospitality, it mustn’t and doesn’t involve any obligation on your part. If it did it wouldn’t be hospitality at all, but something very different. Why not put in your time on your own work?”

“I would, if my head didn’t object,” the man of science answered rather dejectedly, Cal thought, but with a smile.

“Have you a headache, then?” the youth asked, putting as much sympathy into his tone as was possible to a robust specimen of young manhood who had never had a headache in his life. “It must be very distressing.”

“No, I haven’t a headache,” the professor answered. “I wish it was only that. No, my head isn’t clear to-day, and when I try to work it gets things jumbled up a bit. I tried this morning to write a scientific account of the habits of a certain fish that these waters bear, and somehow I got him out into the bushes using wings that I had never observed before. Now I must go and catch another specimen of that fish and examine it carefully to see if the wings are really there or not. You see in cases of doubt a scientist dares not trust anything to conjecture or memory. He must examine and make sure.”

So saying, the professor started off to catch the fish he wanted. He had spoken in a half jocular tone and with a mischievous smile playing about his lips, though his words were serious enough.

“What do you think, Dick?” Cal asked as soon as the man was well beyond earshot; “is he a trifle ‘off’? has he lost some of his buttons?”

“Possibly, but I doubt it.”

“But what nonsense he talked!”

“Yes, I know. But did you observe his smile? He was only doing in his way what you so often do in yours. Your smile often contradicts your words—making its bow, as it were, to the nonsense you are uttering. Yet we don’t suspect you of having slipped your cable.”

“I suppose that’s it,” said Cal, “but allow me to suggest that our chatter cuts no palmetes, and we’re in need of a great number.”

By the time the needed poles and crotch sticks were cut and sharpened for driving into the ground, Larry returned, bringing with him one huge fish and a bucket full of croakers and whiting, all of which he had dressed on the shore.

He wrapped the large fish in a mass of wet sea weed and buried it in the hot ashes and coals to bake. After setting such other things to cook as he thought necessary, he joined the others in the work of setting up the poles and fastening their ends securely together with vines as flexible as hempen rope. The wetter parts of the woodlands yielded such vines in abundance, and as somewhat experienced sailors the boys all knew how to tie knots that no strain could loosen.

By the time that the dinner was cooked the framework of the shelter was more than half done.

“We’ll knock off for dinner now,” Larry suggested, “and after dinner the whole force will set to work finishing the framework and covering it. There are bunks to be made, too, and filled with long gray moss, so we’ll have a very full afternoon.”

“By the way, Professor,” asked Cal, as the man of science rejoined the group, “are you quite sure you won’t let us make a bunk for you?”

“Oh, yes—quite sure.”

“Did you catch the fish you wanted to examine, or did he take to his wings and fly away?”

“Oh, that was only my poor little jest. You didn’t take it seriously, did you?”

Then, interrupting the reply that Cal had begun to make, he said rapidly:

“But I did want to make another examination of the fish in question. You see, when I examined a specimen a few days ago, my attention was concentrated upon certain definite points, and when I casually observed something that suggested the possibility of its having a sense of taste, I went on with the other questions in my mind and quite forgot to satisfy myself on this point. But when I sat down this morning to write notes of my observations, the point came back to my mind, and I saw that I must examine another specimen before writing at all. That is what I meant by saying, in figurative speech, that my fish went flying away among the bushes, or whatever else it was that I said.”

“But, Professor,” said Larry, “something you said about a fish’s sense of taste just now awakens my curiosity. May I ask you—”

“Not now,” said Dick. “Let’s reserve all that for this evening after supper. You see Tom isn’t here now, and he will want to hear it all. Maybe the professor will let us turn loose our tongues to-night and ask him the dozen questions we have in our minds.”

“Yes—a thousand, if you wish,” Dunbar answered. “I have studied fish with more interest, perhaps, than I ever felt in investigating any other subject, and naturally I like to air the results of my inquiries.”

Larry busied himself taking the dinner from the fire, and as he did so Tom returned.

“Hello, Tom!” called out Cal as the boy was struggling through the bushes back of the camp. “Just in time for dinner. Did you get anything worth while?”

“Judge for yourself,” he replied, entering the open space and dropping a huge turkey gobbler on the ground. “Isn’t that a beauty? Got him on the wing, too. But I forgot, Cal, you don’t approve of post-mortem chatter over game. One thing I must tell you, anyhow. I found a patch of these and brought home some samples in my pockets to see if it’s worth while to go after more.”

As he spoke he drew out a number of sweet potatoes and cast them down.

“Are there more to be had?” Larry asked eagerly.

“Yes, bushels of them—growing wild.”

“Good! Tom, you’ve a positive genius for finding precisely what we want. Our supply of bread and bread substitutes is very scant, or was before you made this discovery, and with all due respect for your opinion, Professor, I am satisfied that we need a considerable proportion of starchy foods to go with our meat.”

“Oh, I agree with you as to that,” quickly answered the professor. “I have never doubted it. I only said that man, being an omnivorous animal, can live upon an exclusive diet of meat just as he can live on the starchy foods alone. I think I stated distinctly that he is better off with both than with either alone.”

“You certainly did say that, Professor,” said Dick; “it is only that Larry was inattentive at the time of your lecture. But I say, Tom, is it far to your potato patch?”

“Only about half a mile or a little less.”

They were all busily eating dinner now, and for a minute there was nothing more said. Presently Tom spoke:

“I say, Larry, which of you fellows can best be spared to go with me after dinner, and help me bring in the deer?”

“What deer?” asked all in a breath.

“Why, the one I shot an hour or so ago. I managed to hang him up in a tree out of reach of other animals, I think, but I suppose he ought to be brought to camp pretty soon.”

Cal rose threateningly.

“I am strongly tempted to throw things at you, Tom Garnett,” he began. “But there isn’t anything to throw except the ax, and if I threw that I might incapacitate you for walking, and without your assistance we might not be able to find that deer. What do you mean, sir, by interrupting us at dinner with a surprise like that? Don’t you realize that it is bad for the digestion? In plain language that even your intelligence can perhaps grasp, why in the name of all that is sensible, didn’t you tell us about the thing when you first came?”

“I’ve associated with you, Cal, too long and too intimately to retain a just appreciation of what is sensible. Anyhow, I wanted the fun of springing the thing on you in that way. If you’ve finished your dinner, we’ll be off after the venison. It isn’t half a mile away.”

XXX

DUNBAR TALKS AND SLEEPS

IT required nearly all the afternoon for Tom and Cal to bring the deer to camp and dress it. In the meantime Larry, Dick and Dunbar—who insisted upon helping and did his part very cleverly—worked upon the shelter and the bunks inside. As a result the hut was ready for use that night, though not quite finished in certain details.

By Larry’s orders no further work was to be done after supper, but supper was to be late, as there was the turkey to be roasted, and he wanted to roast it right. While he was preparing the bird for the fire, Dick was rigging up a vine contrivance to serve in lieu of a spit, and Tom and Cal employed the time in bringing a bushel or two of Tom’s wild sweet potatoes to camp.

The turkey was suspended by a long vine from the limb of a tree, so hung as to bring the fowl immediately in front of a fire built at that point especially for this roasting. Dick had bethought him to go to the dory and bring away a square of sheet copper, carried for boat-repairing purposes. This he scoured to brightness with sand, after which he fashioned it into a rude dripping pan, and placed it under the turkey to catch the juices for basting purposes. There was nothing remotely resembling a spoon in the camp or the boat, but Dick was handy with his jackknife, and it did not take him long to whittle out a long-handled wooden ladle with which to do the basting.

By another device of his the roasting fowl was kept turning as fast or as slowly as might seem desirable. This device consisted of two very slender vines attached to the supporting vine at a point several feet above the fire. One of the “twirlers,” as Dick called the slender vines, was wrapped several times around the supporting vine in one direction and the other in the opposite way.

Sitting on opposite sides of the fire, and each grasping a “twirler,” Dick and Larry kept the turkey turning first one way and then the other.

While they were engaged in this, an abundant supply of Tom’s sweet potatoes were roasting in the ashes.

“Now we are at Quasi,” said Cal, just before the turkey was declared “done to a turn”—“at Quasi, the object of all our hopes, the goal of our endeavors, and the guiding star of all our aspirations during a period of buffetings, trials and sore afflictions. We are securely at Quasi, and our residence—which prosaic people might call a hut, hovel or shanty, but which is to us a mansion—is practically finished. It is only meet and fit, and in accordance with Homeric custom, that we should celebrate the occasion and the toilsome achievements that have made it possible, by all possible lavishness of feasting. All of which means that I am going to make a pot of robust and red-hot coffee to drink with the turkey and ‘taters.’”

It was a hungry company that sat down on the ground to eat that supper, and if there was anything lacking in the bill of fare, such appetites as theirs did not permit the boys to find out the fact.

“It is an inflexible rule of good housewives,” drawled Cal, when the dinner was done, “that the ‘things’ as they call the dishes, pots, pans, and the like, shall be cleared away and cleansed. So here goes,” gathering up the palmete leaves that had served for plates and tossing them, together with the bones and fragments of the feast, upon the fire, where they quickly crackled into nothingness. “There aren’t any cooking utensils, and as for these exquisitely shaped agate iron cups, it is the function of each fellow to rinse the coffee out of his own. Oh, yes, there’s the coffee pot I forgot it, and by way of impressing the enormity of my fault upon a dull intelligence I’ll clean that myself. A hurried scouring with some sand and water, followed by a thorough rinsing, ought to do the business finely.”

“I say, Cal,” said Dick, “I wish you would remember that this is your off night.”

“I confess I don’t understand. Do you mean that I shall leave the coffee pot for some other member of the company to scour?”

“No. I mean this is your off night for word-slinging. The professor is going to tell us some things and we want to hear him. So, ‘dry up.’”

“I bow my head in contriteness and deep humiliation. You have the floor, Professor.”

“May I ask you young gentlemen not to call me ‘professor’?” Dunbar asked very earnestly.

“Why, of course, we will do as you like about that,” answered Larry; “we have been calling you ‘professor’ merely out of respect, and you told us you were or had been a professor in a college.”

“Yes, I know, and I thank you for your impulse of courtesy. I used the word descriptively when I told you I had been a ‘professor’ of Natural History. Used in that way it is inoffensive enough, but when employed as a title—well, you know every tight-rope walker and every trapeze performer calls himself ‘professor.’”

“Well, you must at least have a doctorate of some kind,” said Dick, “and so you are entitled to be addressed as ‘Dr. Dunbar.’”

“No, not at all. Of course a number of colleges have offered me baubles of that cheap sort—asking to make me ‘LL.D.,’ or ‘Ph. D.,’ or ‘L. H. D.,’ or some other sham sort of a doctor, but I have always refused upon principle. I hate shams, and as to these things, they seem to me to work a grievous injustice. No man ought to be called ‘Doctor’ unless he has earned the degree by a prescribed course of study and examinations. Honorary degrees are an affront to the men who have won real degrees by years of hard study. With two or three hundred colleges in this country, each scattering honorary degrees around and multiplying them every year, all degrees have lost something of their value and significance.”

“How shall we address you then?” asked Larry.

“Simply as ‘Mr. Dunbar.’ The President of the United States is entitled to no other address than ‘Mr. President.’ In a republic certainly ‘Mr.’ ought to be title enough for any man. Call me ‘Mr. Dunbar,’ please.”

“Well, now, Mr. Dunbar, won’t you go on and tell us what you promised?”

“What was it? I have quite forgotten.”

“Why, you said you had been led to suspect that your fish—the kind that takes wing and flies away into the bushes—had a sense of taste. Did you mean to imply that fishes generally have no such sense?”

“Yes, certainly. There are very few fishes that have capacity of taste. They have no need of it, as they bolt their food whole, and usually alive. There are curious exceptions, and—”

“But, Mr. Dunbar,” interrupted Tom, “is it only because they swallow their food whole that you think they have no sense of taste? Is there any more certain way of finding out?”

“Yes, of course. The sense of taste is located in certain nerves, called for that reason ‘gustatory nerves,’ or ‘taste goblets.’ Now, as the fishes generally have no gustatory nerves or taste goblets, we know positively that they do not and cannot taste their food. That is definite; but the other reason I gave is sufficient in itself to settle the matter. The gustatory nerves cannot taste any substance until it is partially dissolved and brought into contact with them in its dissolved state. You can test that for yourself by placing a dry lump of sugar in your mouth. Until the saliva begins to dissolve it you can no more recognize any taste in it than in a similar lump of marble.”

“But why do they eat so voraciously then? What pleasure do they find in it?” asked Dick.

“Chiefly the pleasure of distending the stomach, but there is also the natural craving of every living organism for sustenance, without which it must suffer and die. That craving for sustenance is ordinarily satisfied only by eating, but it may be satisfied in other ways. Sometimes a man cannot swallow because of an obstruction in the canal by which food reaches the stomach. In such cases the surgeons insert a tube through the walls of the body and introduce food directly into the stomach. That satisfies the desire for sustenance, though the patient has not tasted anything. When a fish takes a run and jump at a minnow and swallows it whole at a gulp, he is doing for himself much the same thing that the surgeon does for his patient.”

“But, Mr. Dunbar,” Tom asked, “why is it then that the same species of fish will take a particular kind of bait at one time of year and won’t touch it at other times? In the very early spring I’ve caught lots of perch on worms, while a little later they would take nothing but live bait, and still later, when they were feeding on insects on the surface, I’ve known them to nose even live bait out of their way, refusing to take anything but the insects. If they don’t taste their food, why do they behave in that way?”

“Frankly, I don’t know,” Dunbar answered. “I have formed many conjectures on the subject, but all of them are unsatisfactory. Perhaps somebody will solve the riddle some day, but at present I confess I can’t answer it.”

Dunbar stopped as if he meant to say no more, and Tom became apologetic.

“Won’t you please go on, Mr. Dunbar? I’m sorry I interrupted.”

“Oh, but you must interrupt. If you don’t interpose with questions, how am I to know whether I’ve made my meaning clear or not? And how am I to know what else you wish to hear? No, no, no. Don’t withhold any question that comes into your mind, or I shall feel that I’m making a bore of myself by talking too much.”

“You spoke,” said Dick, “of certain fishes that are exceptions to the rule.”

“Oh, yes; thank you. I meant to come back to that but forgot it. The chief exception I know of is the bullhead, a small species of catfish that abounds in northern waters, particularly in the Adirondack lakes. The bullhead has gustatory nerves all over him. He can taste with his tail, or his side, or his head, as well as with his mouth. Of course there’s a good reason for the difference.”

“I suppose so, but I can’t imagine what it is,” said Larry.

“Neither can I,” echoed Tom and Dick. Cal continued the silence he had not broken by a word since Dunbar had begun. Observing the fact, Dick was troubled lest his playful suppression of Cal at the beginning had wounded him. So, rising, he went over to Cal’s side, passed his arm around him in warm friendly fashion, and said under his breath:

“Did you take me seriously, Cal? Are you hurt or offended?”

“No, you sympathetically sublimated idiot, of course not. It is only that I want to hear all I can of Mr. Dunbar’s talk. You know I’ve always been interested in fish—even when they refuse to take bait. Hush. He’s about to begin again.”

“Oh, it is obvious enough when you think about it,” said Dunbar. “It is a fundamental law of nature that every living thing, animal or vegetable, shall tend to develop whatever organs or functions it has need of, for defense against enemies or for securing the food it needs. You see that everywhere, in the coloring of animals and in a thousand other ways. The upper side of a flounder is exactly the color of the sand on which he lies. That is to prevent the shark and other enemies from seeing him and eating him up. But his under side, which cannot be seen at all by his enemies, is white, because there is no need of color in it. I could give you a hundred illustrations, but there is no need. Your own daily observation will supply them.”

Again Dunbar paused, as if his mind had wandered far away and was occupying itself with other subjects. After waiting for a minute or two Cal ventured to jog his memory:

“As we are not familiar with the bullhead—we who live down South—we don’t quite see the application of what you’ve been saying, Mr. Dunbar. Would you mind explaining?”

“Oh, certainly not,” quickly answered the man of science, rousing himself as if from sleep. “I was saying—it’s very ridiculous, but I’ve quite forgotten what I was saying. Tell me.”

“You were telling us about the bullhead’s possession—”

“Oh, yes, I remember now. You see fishes generally hunt their prey by sight, in the clear upper water and in broad daylight. They quit feeding as soon as it becomes too dark to see the minnows or other things they want to eat. As they hunt only by sight, they have no need of the senses of smell and taste, and so those senses are not developed in them. With the bullhead the thing is exactly turned around. He never swims or feeds in the upper waters. He lives always on or very near the bottom of comparatively deep water, in thick growths of grass, where sight would be of little use to him for want of light. He feeds almost entirely at night, so that those who fish for him rarely begin their sport before the dusk falls. In such conditions Mr. Bullhead finds it exceedingly convenient to be able to taste anything he may happen to touch in his gropings. So with him the sense of taste is the food-finding sense, and in the long ages since his species came into being that sense has been developed out of all proportion to the others. He has very little feeling and his nervous system is so rudimentary that if you leave him in a pail without water and packed in with a hundred others of his species, he seems to find very little to distress him in the experience. You may keep him in the waterless pail for twenty-four hours or more, and yet if you put him back into the pond or lake he will swim away as unconcernedly as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. But then all species of fish are among the very lowest forms of vertebrate creatures, so that they feel neither pain nor pleasure at all keenly.”

Suddenly Dunbar ceased speaking for a minute. Then he seemed to speak with some effort, saying:

“There are many other things I could tell you about fish, and if you’re interested, I’ll do so at another time. I’m very sleepy now. May I pass the night here?”

“Certainly. I’ll bring you some moss—”

“It isn’t at all necessary,” he answered, as he threw himself flat upon the earth and fell instantly into a slumber so profound that it lasted until Cal called him to breakfast next morning.

XXXI

DUNBAR’S STRANGE BEHAVIOR

DUNBAR was very silent during breakfast. He answered courteously when spoken to, as he always did, and there was no suggestion of surliness in his silence. In response to inquiries he declared that he had slept well and hoped the boys had done the same. But he added no unnecessary word to anything he said, and made no inquiries as to plans for the day. His manner was that of a person suffering under grief or apprehension or both.

As soon as breakfast was over he started off into the woods in a direction opposite to that in which his camp lay. He took neither his rifle nor his butterfly net with him. He simply walked into the woodlands and disappeared.

At dinner time he was nowhere to be found. As evening drew near the boys agreed to postpone their supper to a later hour than usual in anticipation of his return. But late as it was when at last they sat down to their evening meal, he was still missing.

The boys were beginning to be alarmed about him, for they had already learned to like the man and regard him as a friend.

“We must do something at once,” suggested Dick.

“But what can we do?” asked Larry. “I confess I can think of few possibilities in the way of searching for him at this time of a very dark night—for the clouds completely shut out the moonlight. Has anybody a suggestion to offer? What say you, Cal?”

“First of all,” was the reply, “we must carefully consider all the possibilities of the situation. Then we shall be better able to lay plans of rescue that may result in something. Let’s see. To begin with, he hasn’t left Quasi. He hasn’t any boat and there is absolutely no land communication with the main. So he is somewhere on Quasi plantation.

“Secondly, what can have happened to him? Not many things that I can think of. Old woods wanderer that he is, it isn’t likely that he has succumbed to any woodland danger, if there are any such dangers here, as there aren’t. There isn’t any wild beast here more threatening than a deer or a ’possum. He had no gun with him, so he cannot have shot himself by accident. He may have got lost, but that is exceedingly unlikely. He is used to finding his way in the woods, and it is certain that he thoroughly explored Quasi during the time he was marooned here and flying his distress signal. If by any possible chance he is lost, he’ll soon find himself again. The only other thing I think of is that he may have tripped and fallen, breaking something.”

“I should doubt his doing that,” said Larry, “for he’s as nimble as any cat I ever saw. Still, there’s the chance. What shall we do to meet it?”

“We can’t scatter out and search the woods and thickets in the dark,” suggested Dick.

“No,” said Tom; “if we did he would have to go in search of four other lost fellows if he should happen to turn up. But we can keep up a big fire and we can go out a little way into the woods, fire our shotguns, give all the college yells we know, and then listen.”

“Good suggestion, that about shooting and yelling,” said Cal. “Besides, I like to yell on general principles. But we shan’t need to keep up a bonfire, and the night is very hot.”

“But he might see the bonfire,” answered Tom in defense of his plan, “and he’d come straight to it, of course, if he’s lost.”

“We’ll put up something else that he can see farther and better.”

“What?”

“A fat pine torch.”

“Where?”

“Did you observe a catalpa tree that stands all alone over there on the highest part of the bluff, which is also the highest point in the whole land of Quasi?”

“Of course, if you mean over there, near the _Hunkydory’s_ anchorage.”

“Yes, I mean that. There isn’t another tree anywhere near it. I can’t imagine how it came to grow out there on that bald bluff, unless somebody planted it. However, that’s no matter. The tree is there and a torch fixed in the top of it could be seen from almost every nook and corner of Quasi, while here we are in a pocket of trees and thick growths of every kind. A bonfire here could be seen a very little way off.”

Cal’s modification of Tom’s plan was promptly approved as the best possible for that night. The company went into the woods, pausing at several points to fire their guns and to yell like demons.

No results following, they returned and set to work making huge torches of fat pine, one of which was kept burning in the tree-top throughout the night, a fresh one being lighted whenever an old one burned out.

It was all to no purpose. Morning came and still there was no sign of Dunbar.

Breakfast was cooked and eaten, together with a reserve supply of food for the boys to carry with them on the search of the plantation, which they had decided to make that day. Still no sign of the missing man!

“Now, Cal,” said Larry, “this thing is becoming serious. We must find poor Mr. Dunbar to-day whatever else happens. We must scour the place till we accomplish that. We must scatter, but we must see to it that we get together again. Suppose you suggest a plan of procedure. You’re better than any of us at that.”

“I will,” said Cal, who had lost all disposition to be facetious. “He may be along the shore somewhere, so two of us had better follow the sealine, one going one way and the other in the opposite direction. They can cover double ground by going through the woods and open glades, only keeping near enough the shore to see it well. The other two will need no directions. Their duty will be to search the woods and thickets. Where the woods are open they can cover the ground rapidly, and also in the old fields wherever they haven’t grown up too thickly. But the denser woods and canebrakes must be searched. Look particularly for trails. No one can possibly pass into or through such growths without leaving a trail behind. Look for trails and follow them; don’t bother about the unbroken growths. Now as to getting back here. We must all come back well before nightfall. No matter where we may be on Quasi, it will be easy to find some point near from which the lone catalpa tree can be seen. Make for that all of you and nobody will get lost. Finally, if any of you find Mr. Dunbar and need help, fire three shots about half a minute apart and we’ll all go to the point of firing. Now let’s be off.”

It was nearly sunset when Tom reached the catalpa tree on his return. He had not found Dunbar, but for reasons of his own he waited rather impatiently for the coming of his comrades. They were not long delayed, but the blank, anxious face of each as he appeared was a sufficient report to the others.

“The search is a failure!” said Larry, dejectedly.

“Absolutely,” answered Cal.

“No, not absolutely,” said Tom, feeling in his pocket. “I found something, and I’ve waited till you should all be here before speaking of it.”

“What is it? Tell us quick.”

“This,” answered Tom, drawing forth a letter, “and this,” producing a pruning knife with a curved blade, which they had all seen Dunbar use. “The letter was pinned to a tree with the point of the knife blade.”

“Never mind that,” said Larry, impatiently; “read the letter.”

Tom read as follows:

“I expect to be with you young gentlemen very soon. But in case I never see you again, please don’t think me ungrateful for all your kindnesses. There are times when I cannot endure a human presence—even the—”

Tom stopped reading, and explained:

“It breaks off right there, and there is no signature, or address, or anything else.”

The boys stared at each other in amazement, and for a time uttered no word. When they begun talking again it was only to wonder and offer conjectures, and the conjectures seemed so futile that at last the little company ceased to try to read the riddle. Then Larry said:

“Come on. There’s nothing more to be done to-night and we’re all half famished. We must have a good hearty supper, and then perhaps we’ll think of something more that we can do.”

“I doubt that,” said Cal; “but I say, Tom, you have a positive genius for finding things—turtles’ eggs, smugglers’ camps, sweet potato patches, letters hidden in the woods, and everything else. Perhaps you’ll find poor Mr. Dunbar yet.”

“I was just thinking of some other things that we ought to find, and that right away.”

“What things?”

“Why, Mr. Dunbar’s. You know he has never brought any of them to our camp, and we know he writes and draws and all that. He must have some place up near his old bivouac where he can keep his papers and drawings and specimens dry. It seems to me we ought—”

“Of course we ought,” broke in Cal. “There may be something there to give us a clue. What do you say, Larry?”

“It is a good suggestion of Tom’s, and we’ll act upon it at once.”

Turning in a direction opposite to that which led to their own camp the boys visited the spot where Dunbar had lived before they came to Quasi. They searched in every direction, but found no trace of any of the man’s belongings. It was rapidly growing dark when at last they gave up the work of exploring, and decided to resume it again in the morning.

As they approached their camp through the woods and thickets, they were surprised to see their camp-fire blazing up briskly, though none of them had been near it since the early morning. As they came out of the bushes, they were still more astonished to see Dunbar busying himself with supper preparations. Larry had just time enough before Dunbar saw them to say to the others in an undertone:

“Not a word about this, boys, until he asks.”

“Good evening, young gentlemen,” was Dunbar’s greeting, delivered in a cheery voice; “I have taken the liberty of getting supper under way in anticipation of your coming. I am sure you must be tired and hungry after a hard day’s shooting. By the way, a cup of tea is always refreshing when one is tired, and fortunately I have a little packet of the fragrant herb among my things. I’ll run up there and fetch it.”

As he spoke he started off briskly and nimbly.

“Evidently he isn’t tired, anyhow,” suggested Dick.

“And evidently he has some dry place in which to keep his things,” added Cal, “and I mean to ask him about it.”

“Don’t,” said Larry, earnestly. “That would be grossly impertinent.”

“Not at all, if it’s done in the proper way,” Cal replied, “and I’ll do it in that way.”

And he did. When Dunbar returned, he carried the tea, closely sealed up in tin foil.

“Is that thin tin foil sufficient to keep tea dry?” Cal asked.

“If you keep the packet in a dry place it is,” Dunbar answered. “The tin-foil prevents the delicate aroma of the tea from escaping, and at the same time forbids the leaves to absorb moisture from the air. When I’m moving about in a boat I carefully wrap any tea I may have in my waterproof sheets, but that is apt to give it an undesirable flavor, so my first care upon landing is to provide a dry storage place for my tea, my ammunition, my papers and whatever else I may have that needs protection. By the way, I’ve never shown you my locker up there. I’ll do so to-morrow morning. I’ll not forget, as I must go there for writing and drawing materials. I have some things in my mind that I simply must put down on paper at once.”

At that moment he thrust his hand into his pocket and felt there for some seconds. Then he said:

“That’s very unfortunate. I’ve managed to lose my knife.”

“I think I must have found it, then,” said Tom, holding it out; “isn’t that it?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m particularly glad to get it again, as it is the only one I have at Quasi. I usually buy half a dozen at a time, and so the loss of one doesn’t annoy me. But just now I have only this one.”

He did not ask where or when Tom had found the knife, nor did he seem in the least surprised that it was found. The circumstance did not seem to remind him of his letter or of anything else.

The boys were full of wonder and curiosity, but they asked no questions.

XXXII

A RAINY DAY WITH DUNBAR

DUNBAR was in excellent spirits that evening. He seemed indeed like one who has had some specially good fortune happen to him, or one suddenly relieved of some distress or sore annoyance.

Throughout the evening he talked with the boys in a way that greatly interested them. He made no display of learning, but they easily discovered that his information was both vast and varied, and better still, that his thinking was sound, and that he was a master of the art of so presenting his thought that others easily grasped and appreciated it.

When at last the evening was completely gone, he bade his companions a cheery good night, saying that he would go over to the bluff and sleep near the catalpa tree.

“You see there are no sand flies to-night,” he explained, “and I like to smell the salt water as I sleep.”

“What do you make of him, Larry?” Dick asked as soon as their guest was beyond hearing.

“I don’t know. I’m puzzled. What’s your opinion?”

“Put it in the plural, for I’ve a different opinion every time I think about it at all.”

“Anyhow,” said Tom, “he must be crazy. Just think—”

“Yes,” interrupted Cal, “but just think also how soundly he thinks. Let’s just call him eccentric and let it go at that. And who wouldn’t be eccentric, after living alone in the woods for so long?”

“After all,” Dick responded, “we’re not a commission in lunacy, and we’re not under the smallest necessity of defining his mental condition.”

“No,” Cal assented; “it’s a good deal better to enjoy his company and his talk than to bother our heads about the condition of his. He’s one of the most agreeable men I ever met—bright, cheerful, good natured, scrupulously courteous, and about the most interesting talker I ever listened to. So I for one give up trying to answer conundrums, and I’m going to bed. I wouldn’t if he were here to go on talking, but after an evening with him to lead the conversation, I find you fellows dull and uninteresting. Good night. Oh, by the way, I’ll slip away from here about daylight and get some pan fish for breakfast.”

Early as Cal was in setting out, he found Dunbar on the shore ready to go with him.

“I hope to get a shark,” the naturalist said, “one big enough to show a well-developed jaw, and they’re apt to bite at this early hour. I’ve a line in the boat there with a copper wire snell.”

“Are you specially interested in sharks?”

“Oh, no, not ordinarily. It is only that I must make a careful drawing or two, illustrative of the mechanical structure and action of a shark’s jaw and teeth, to go with an article I’m writing on the general subject of teeth in fishes, and I wish to draw the illustrations from life rather than from memory. It will rain to-day, and I’m going to avail myself of your hospitality and make the drawings under your shelter.”

“Then perhaps you’ll let us see them?”

“Yes, of course, and all the other drawings I have in my portfolio, if they interest you.”

“They will, if you will explain and expound a little.”

Dunbar gave a pleased little chuckle as he answered:

“I’ll do that to your heart’s content. You know, I really think I like to hear myself talk sometimes.”

“Why shouldn’t you? Your talk would delight anybody else.”

“Here’s my shark,” excitedly cried Dunbar, as he played the fish. “He’s nearly three feet long, too—a bigger one than I hoped for. Now if I can only land him.”

“I’ll help you,” said Cal, leaning over the rail with a barbed gaff hook in his hand. “Play him over this way—there, now once more around—here he is safe and sound.”

As he spoke he lifted the savage-looking creature into the boat and Dunbar managed, with some little difficulty, to free the hook from his jaws without himself having a thumb or finger bitten off.

“Not a tooth broken!” he exclaimed with delight. “I’ll dissect out the entire bony structure of the head to-day and make a drawing of it. Then I’m going to pack it carefully in a little box that I’ll whittle out, and present it—if you don’t mind—to young Wentworth. He may perhaps value it as a souvenir of his visit to Quasi.”

Cal assented more than gladly, and the two busied themselves during the next half hour completing their catch of whiting and croakers for breakfast. When they reached the camp the rain Dunbar had predicted had set in.

As soon as breakfast was over Dunbar redeemed his promise to show the boys his lockers.

“I’m going over there now,” he said, “to get some paper, pencils and drawing board. Suppose you go with me, if you want to see some of my woodland devices.”

They assented gladly. They were very curious to see where and how their guest cared for his perishable properties, the more because their own search for the lockers had completely failed.