Chapter XXXVII: Tom’s Final “find” 360 (8)

The matter proved simple enough. Dunbar led them a little way into the woods and then, falling upon his knees, crawled into the end of a huge hollow log. After he had reached the farther end of the hollow part he lighted a little bunch of fat pine splinters to serve as a torch, and invited his companions to look in. They saw that he had scraped away all the decaying wood inside the log, leaving its hard shell as a bare wall. In this he had fitted a number of little wooden hooks, to each of which some of his belongings were suspended.

It was a curious collection. There were cards covered with butterflies, moths and beetles, each impaled upon a large pin. There were the beaks and talons of various birds of prey, each carefully labeled. There were bunches of feathers of various hues, some dried botanical specimens and much else of similar sorts.

From the farther end of the hollow he brought forth several compact little portfolios, each so arranged that no rain could penetrate it when all were bound together and carried like a knapsack.

“I’ll take two of these portfolios with me to your shelter,” he said, taking them under his arm. “One of them contains the writing and drawing materials that I shall need to-day. The other is filled with my drawings of various interesting objects. Some of them may be interesting to you during this rainy day, and each has a description appended which will enable you to understand the meaning of it.”

But the boys had a rather brief time over the drawings that day. They ran through a part of the portfolio while Dunbar was writing, but after an hour he put his writing aside and began dissecting the shark’s head, stopping now and then to make a little sketch of some detail. After that the boys had no eyes but for the work he was doing and no ears but for the things he said.

“You see there are comparatively few species of fish that have any teeth at all. They have no need of teeth and therefore have never developed them.”

“But why is that,” asked Tom; “I should think some of the toothless varieties of fish would have developed teeth accidentally, as it were.”

“Development is never accidental in that sense, Tom. It is Nature’s uniform law that every species of living thing, animal or vegetable, shall tend to develop whatever is useful to it, and nothing else. That is Nature’s plan for the perpetuation of life and the improvement of species.”

After pausing in close attention to some detail of his work, Dunbar went on:

“You can see the same dominant principle at work in the varying forms of teeth developed by different species. The sheepshead needs teeth only for the purpose of crushing the shells of barnacles and the like, and in that way getting at its food. So in a sheepshead’s mouth you find none but crushing teeth. The shark, as you see, has pointed teeth so arranged in rows that one row closes down between two other rows in the opposite jaw, and by a muscular arrangement the shark can work one jaw to right and left with lightning-like rapidity, making the saw-like row of teeth cut through almost anything after the manner of a reaping machine. Then there is the pike. He has teeth altogether different from either of the others. The pike swallows very large fish in proportion to his own size, and his need is of teeth that will prevent his prey from wriggling out of his mouth and escaping while he is slowly trying to swallow it. Accordingly his teeth are as small and as sharp as cambric needles. Moreover, he has them everywhere in his mouth—on his lips, on his tongue, and even in his throat. However, this is no time for a lecture. If you are interested in the subject you can study it better by looking into fishes’ mouths than by listening to anybody talk or by reading books on the subject.”

Again Dunbar paused in order that his attention might be closely concentrated upon some delicate detail of his work.

When the strain upon his attention seemed at last to relax, Cal ventured to say something—and it was startling to his comrades.

“Of course you’re right about the books on such subjects,” he said. “For example, the most interesting of all facts about fish isn’t so much as mentioned in any book I can find, though I’ve searched through several libraries for it.”

“What is your fact?” asked Dunbar, suspending his work to listen.

“Why that fish do not die natural deaths. Not one of them in a million ever does that.”

“But why do you think that, Cal? What proof is there—”

“Why, the thing’s obvious on its face. A dead fish floats, doesn’t it? Well, in any good fishing water, such as the Adirondack lakes, where I fished with my father one summer, there are millions of fish—big and little—scores of millions, even hundreds of millions, if you count shiners and the other minnows, that of a clear day lie in banks from the bottom of the water to its surface. Now, if fish died natural deaths in anything like the proportion that all other living things do, the surface of such lakes would be constantly covered with dead fish. Right here at Quasi and in all these coast waters the same thing is true. Every creek mouth is full of fish and every shoal is alive with them, so that we know in advance when we go fishing that we can catch them as fast as we can take them off the hook. If any reasonable rate of natural mortality prevailed among them every flood tide would strew the shores with tons of dead fish. As nothing of the kind happens, it seems to me certain that as a rule fish do not die a natural death. In fact, most of them have no chance to do that, as they spend pretty nearly their entire time in swallowing each other alive.”

“You are a close observer, Cal. You ought to become a man of science,” said Dunbar with enthusiasm. “Science needs men of your kind.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” answered Cal. “I imagine Science can get on very comfortably without any help of mine.”

“How did you come to notice all that, anyhow, Cal?” asked Dick.

“Oh, it didn’t take much to suggest that sort of thing, when the facts were staring me in the face. Besides, I may be all wrong. What do you think of my wild guess, Mr. Dunbar?”

“It isn’t a wild guess. Your conclusion may be right or wrong—I must think of the subject carefully before I can form any opinion as to that. But at any rate it is a conclusion reasoned out from a careful observation of facts, and that is nothing like a wild guess.”

Thus the conversation drifted on throughout the long rainy day, and when night came the boys were agreed that they had learned to know Dunbar and appreciate him more than they could have done in weeks of ordinary intercourse.

XXXIII

A GREAT CATASTROPHE

DURING the next fortnight or so the association between Dunbar and the boys was intimate and constant. When it rained, so that outdoor expeditions were not inviting, he toiled diligently at his writing and drawing, keeping up an interesting conversation in the meanwhile on all manner of subjects. In the evenings especially the talk around the fire was entertaining to the boys and Dunbar seemed to enjoy it as much as they. He was fond of “drawing them out” and listening to such revelations of personal character and capacity as their unrestrained discussions gave.

On fine days he made himself one of them, joining heartily in every task and enthusiastically sharing every sport afloat or afield. He was a good, strong oarsman and he could sail a boat as well as even Dick could. In hunting, his woodcraft was wonderfully ingenious, and among other things he taught the boys a dozen ways of securing game by trapping and snaring.

“You see,” he explained, “one is liable sometimes to be caught in the woods without his gun or without ammunition, and when that happens it is handy to know how to get game enough to eat in other ways than by shooting.”

During all this time he had no more of his strange moods. He never once fell into the peculiar slumber the boys had observed before, and he never absented himself from the company. Indeed, his enjoyment of human association seemed to be more than ordinarily keen.

Little by little his comrades let the memory of his former eccentricity fade out of their minds, or if they thought of it at all they dismissed it as a thing of no significance, due, doubtless, to habitual living in solitude.

One rainy afternoon he suddenly turned to the boys and asked:

“Does any one of you happen to know what day of the month this is? By my count it must be somewhere about the twenty-fifth of August.”

“My little calendar,” said Cal, drawing the card from a pocket and looking at it attentively for a moment, “takes the liberty of differing with you in opinion, Mr. Dunbar. It insists that this is the thirty-first day of August, of the year eighteen hundred and eighty-six.”

Dunbar almost leaped to his feet in surprise. After a brief period of thought he turned to Larry and asked:

“I wonder if you boys would mind sailing with me over to the nearest postoffice town early to-morrow morning.”

“Why, you know, Mr. Dunbar,” Larry answered, “to-morrow morning is mortgaged. We’re all going out after that deer you’ve located. Won’t the next day answer just as well for your trip?”

“Unfortunately, no. I gave my word that I would post certain writings and drawings to the publisher not later than noon on September 1, and the printers simply must not be kept waiting. Of course, if you can’t—”

“But we can and will,” answered Larry. “Your business is important—the deer hunt is of no consequence. But you’ll come back with us, will you not?”

“I shall be delighted to do so if I may,” he answered. “I’m enjoying it here with you, and my work never before got on so well with so little toil over it. I shall like to come back with you and stay at Quasi as long as you boys do.”

“That’s good news—altogether good. How long are you likely to be detained at the village?”

“Only long enough to post my letter and the manuscript—not more than half an hour at the most.”

“Very well, then. We shall want to buy all the bread and that sort of thing there is to be had over there, but we can easily do that within your half hour. We’ll start about sunrise, and if the wind favors us we’ll be back by noon or a little later, and even if we have no wind, the oars will bring us back before nightfall.”

Dunbar at once set to work to arrange and pack the drawings he wished to send by mail, and as there were titles to write and explanatory paragraphs to revise, the work occupied him until supper time. In the meanwhile the boys prepared the boat, filled the water kegs, bestowed a supply of fishing tackle, and overhauled the rigging to see that every rope was clear and every pulley in free running order.

After supper there was not a very long evening for talk around the fire, for, with an early morning start in view, they must go early to their bunks.

They all rolled themselves in their blankets about nine o’clock and soon were sleeping soundly—the boys under the shelter and Dunbar under the starry sky—for the rain had passed away—by that side of the fire which was opposite the camp hut.

Their slumber had not lasted for an hour when suddenly they were awakened by a combination of disturbances amply sufficient, as Dick afterwards said, “to waken the denizens of a cemetery.”

The very earth was swaying under them and rocking back and forth like a boat lying side on to a swell. Deep down—miles beneath the surface it seemed, there was a roar which sounded to Cal like “forty thousand loose-jointed wagons pulled by runaway horses across a rheumatic bridge.”

As the boys sprang to their feet they found difficulty in standing erect, and before they could run out of their shelter, it plunged forward and fell into the fire, where the now dried palmete leaves which constituted its roof and walls, and the resinous pine poles of its framework, instantly blazed up in a fierce, crackling flame.

“Quick!” cried Dunbar, as Larry, Dick and Cal extricated themselves from the mass, “quick—help here! Tom is entangled in the ruins.”

The response was instantaneous, and before the rapidly-spreading flames could reach him, the other four had literally dragged their comrade from the confused mass of poles and vines in which he had been imprisoned. If the work of rescue had been prolonged for even a minute more, it would have been too late, and Tom would have been burned to a crisp. As it was, he was choking with smoke, coughing with a violence that threatened the rupture of his breathing apparatus somewhere, and so nearly smothered for want of air as to be only half conscious.

A bucket of water which Dunbar had dashed over him “set him going again,” as he afterwards described the process of recovering breath and consciousness, and as the paroxysms of coughing slowly ceased he stood erect by way of announcing a recovery which he was still unable to proclaim in words.

At that moment a second shock of earthquake occurred, a shock less violent than the first, but sufficient to topple Tom and Larry off their feet again.

It did no harm, chiefly because there was no further harm to do, and the little company busied themselves saving what they could of their belongings from the burning ruins.

After they had worked at this for ten minutes, a third shock came. It was feebler than either of the others, but just as the boys felt the earth swaying again there was an explosion under the burning mass, followed by a rapid succession of smaller explosions which scattered shot about in a way so dangerous that at Cal’s command all the company threw themselves prone upon the ground.

This lasted for perhaps a minute, and fortunately nobody received a charge of shot in his person from the bursting cartridges that had made the racket. Fortunately, too, the box of cartridges thus caught in the flames and destroyed was the only one involved in the catastrophe. The rest had been kept, not in the hut, but in the _Hunkydory’s_ lockers.

But when they came to take account of their losses, which they did as soon as the first excitement had passed away, they found that the damage done had been considerable.

For one thing, their entire supply of meat was destroyed; so was their bread and their coffee.

“We shall not starve, anyhow,” Cal decided. “We can kill as much game as we need and as the bottom doesn’t seem to have dropped out of the sea, we can still catch fish, oysters, shrimps and crabs. As for bread, we still have Tom’s sweet potato patch to draw upon. There wasn’t more than a pound of coffee left, so that’s no great loss.”

For the rest, the very few clothes the boys had brought with them in addition to what they wore, were all lost, but they decided that they could get on without them—“Mr. Dunbar’s fashion.” Tom was the worst sufferer in that respect, as the garments he wore had been badly torn in his rescue from the fire, but he cheerfully announced:

“I can manage very well. I’ll decline all dinner, dance and other invitations that require a change from every-day dress. I’ll have some cards engraved announcing that ‘Mr. Thomas Garnett is detained at the South and will not be at home to receive his friends until further notice.’ Then I’ll borrow some of your beetle-detaining pins, Mr. Dunbar, and pin up the worst of the rents in my trousers.”

“We’ll do better than that, Tom,” the naturalist answered. “I’ve quite a little sewing kit tucked away in my log locker. You shall have needles, thread and a thimble whenever you wish to use them.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dunbar; but please spare me the thimble. I never could use a contrivance of that kind. Every time I have tried I have succeeded only in driving the needle into my hand and breaking it off well beneath the skin.”

“Boy like,” answered Dunbar. “You’re the victim of a traditional defect in our system of education.”

“Would you mind explaining?” asked Cal.

“Certainly not. I hold that the education of every human being ought to include a reasonable mastery of all the simple arts that one is likely to find useful in emergencies. We do not expect girls to become accountants, as a rule, but we do not on that account leave the multiplication table out of a girl’s school studies. In the same way we do not expect boys generally to do much sewing when they grow to manhood, but as every man is liable to meet emergencies in which a little skill in the use of needle, thread and scissors may make all the difference between comfort and discomfort, every boy ought to be taught plain sewing. However, we have other things to think of just now.”

“Indeed we have,” answered Cal, “and the most pressing one of those other things is to-morrow morning’s breakfast. Does it occur to any of you that, except the salt in the dory’s locker, we haven’t an ounce of food of any kind in our possession?”

“That is so,” “I hadn’t thought of that;” “and we’ll all be hungry, too, for of course we shall not sleep”—these were the responses that came quickly in answer to Cal’s suggestion.

“We’ll manage the matter in this way,” said Cal, quite as if no one else had spoken. “When ’yon grey streaks that fret the clouds give indication of the dawn,’ Mr. Dunbar will go fishing. As soon as it grows light enough for you to walk through the woods without breaking more than two or three necks apiece, the rest of you can take that big piece of tarpaulin, go out to Tom’s potato patch, and bring back a large supply of sweet potatoes. After breakfast one or two of us can go for some game, while the rest repair damages here. It will take two or three days to do that.”

As he spoke he looked about him as if to estimate the extent of the harm done.

“Hello!” he cried out a moment later. “That’s bad, very bad.”

“What is it, Cal?”

“Why, our well has completely disappeared—filled up to the level by the surrounding earth, which seems to have lost its head and in that way got itself ‘into a hole,’ just as people do when they forget discretion. That means that we’ve got to dig out the well to-day, and in the meantime drink that stuff from the spring down under the bluff. Our day’s work is cut out for us, sure enough.”

Tom had disappeared in the darkness while Cal was speaking, and as Cal continued to speak for a considerable time afterwards, marking out what Dick called a “programme of convenience,” he had not finished when Tom returned and in breathless excitement announced that the spring under the bluff was no more.

“The whole of that part of the bluff has slumped down to the beach,” he said, “and even the big catalpa tree is uprooted and overturned. Of course the spring is completely filled up, and we’ll all be half famished for water before we get the well dug out again.”

“Don’t indulge in too hopeless a grief over the loss of the spring, Tom,” said Cal in his most confidently optimistic tone. “We can make another just as good anywhere down there in half an hour or less. That puddle held nothing but sea water that had leaked through the sand, partly filtering itself in doing so. We can dig a little hole anywhere down that way, and if we choose the right sort of place we’ll get better water than the spring ever yielded. I’ll look after that when Mr. Dunbar and I go fishing. We’ll have the sand out of this well by noon, too—it’s very loose and easily handled.”

“But, Cal,” interrupted Tom; “we haven’t a thing to dig with. The two shovels we had were in the hut.”

The others stood aghast; Cal faced the situation with hopeful confidence.

“That’s bad,” he commented. “Of course the handles are burned up, but the iron part remains, and even with the meagre supply of cutting tools we have—which is to say our jackknives and the little ax—we can fashion new ones. It will take valuable time, but we must reconcile ourselves to that.”

“Well, we must get to work at something—it’s hard to know where to begin,” said Larry in a despondent tone. “What’s the first thing to be done, Cal?”

“The first thing to be done is to cheer up; the next thing is to stay cheered up. You fellows are in the dumps worse than the well is, and you’ve got to get out of them if you have to lift yourselves out by the straps of your own boots. What’s the matter with you, anyhow? Have we lived a life of easy luxury here at Quasi for so long that you’ve forgotten that this is an expedition in search of sport and adventure? Isn’t this earthquake overthrow an adventure of the liveliest sort? Isn’t the loss of our belongings by fire a particularly adventurous happening?”

“After all,” broke in Tom, who had a genuine relish for danger, difficulty and hardship, “after all, we’re not in half as bad a situation as we were when we faced the revenue officers from behind our log breastwork. Our lives were really in danger then, while now we have nothing worse than difficulty to face.”

“Yes, and a few months hence we’ll all remember this thing with joy and talk of it with glee.”

“You’re right about that,” said Dunbar, “and it is always so. I have gone through many trying experiences, and as I recall them the most severely trying of them are the ones I remember with the greatest pleasure. Besides, in this case the way of escape, even from such difficulties as lie before you, is wide open. The dory is at anchor down there and if you are so minded you can sail away from it all.”

“What! Turn tail and run!” exclaimed Tom, almost indignantly.

“No, we’re not thinking of that,” said Cal. “We’ll see the thing out, and, by the way, it’s growing daylight. Come, Mr. Dunbar! We have a pressing engagement with the fish and we must have an early breakfast this morning on all accounts. We have a lot to do, and you mustn’t be later than noon in reaching the postoffice, you know.”

“Oh, I’ve abandoned that,” responded Dunbar.

“But why?” asked Larry. “Of course we can’t go with you as we planned, but you can take the dory and make the trip for yourself. And perhaps you won’t mind taking some money along and buying out whatever food supplies the country store over there can furnish. We need bread especially, and coffee and—”

“And a few pounds of cheese won’t come amiss,” added Dick.

“But I tell you I am not going,” said Dunbar. “I have accepted and enjoyed your hospitality when all was going well with you; do you suppose I’m going to abandon you even for a day, now that you’re in trouble and need all the help you can get?”

“Your reasoning is excellent,” said Cal, purposely lapsing into his old habit of elaborate speech, by way of relieving the tension that had made his comrades feel hurried and harassed; “your reasoning is excellent, but your premises are utterly wrong. You can help us mightily by sailing up to that postoffice town and bringing back the supplies we need, while you cannot help us at all by remaining here. We four are more than enough to keep the few tools we have left constantly busy. With a fifth person included in the construction gang, there would always be one of us who must idly hold his hands for want of anything to work with. No, Mr. Dunbar, the best service you can render to the common cause is to sail up to the village, redeem your promise by mailing your papers, and bring back all you can of provisions adapted to our use. So that’s settled, isn’t it, boys?”

Their answer left no room for further argument, and as the daylight was steadily growing stronger, the party separated, Cal and Dunbar going in quest of fish for breakfast, and the others struggling through tangled thickets toward the wild sweet potato field.

XXXIV

MAROONED AT QUASI

IT was a bright, sunny day that followed—a day offering no suggestion of the convulsion of the night before. There was a good sailing breeze blowing in from the sea. It gave Dunbar the wind over the starboard quarter for his voyage to the village, and promised to be nearly abeam for his return.

“The dory will take me there and back by noon or a little later,” he called to the others as the sails filled and the boat heeled over to port.

The Rutledge boys had urged him to take the money they offered him for the purchase of supplies, but he had declined.

“I have a plenty of my own,” was his answer, “and whatever I can buy up there I’ll bring back as my contribution to the general welfare.”

It was idle to argue the matter, and not very safe either, Dick thought, for in their intercourse with him the boys had learned that with all his kindly good-nature, Dunbar was exceedingly proud and very sensitive.

When the dory had gone, the boys set to work with a will upon the task of re-establishing Camp Quasi. Tom was sent out after game. Dick, who was the cleverest of them all in using tools, and especially his jackknife, busied himself in fitting new handles into their two shovels. With these and the bait pails for excavating tools, the three who remained in camp toiled diligently in removing the sand from their well.

Tom returned a little before noon, bringing in game enough of one kind and another to keep the company in meat for two days to come.

There was no sign of Dunbar and the dory as yet, and as the rest were hungry, it was decided that Cal should cook dinner at once, while Tom worked at the well in his stead. The cooking occupied a considerable time, and it was two o’clock in the afternoon when the tired boys finished eating. They had not slept since the earthquake at ten o’clock the night before; they had worked hard during the night in an endeavor to save what they could of their belongings, and they had worked still harder ever since dawn. Moreover, the excitement had been even more wearying than the work. Now that it had passed away and its victims had eaten a hearty dinner, the desire for rest and sleep became irresistible.

Cal had made measurements and reported that two hours more of digging, or perhaps even less than that, would give them a water supply once more. At Larry’s suggestion, therefore, the worn-out fellows decided to sleep for an hour or two.

“We’ll do the rest of the well-digging in the cool of the late afternoon,” he said between a succession of yawns.

“Let’s hope,” said Tom, “that Mr. Dunbar won’t get here and wake us up before we’re ready.”

“There’s not much danger of that,” answered Cal.

“Why not, Cal?”

“You’d know without asking if you were as observant to-day as you usually are. I suppose you didn’t notice that the wind died out before noon, and there hasn’t been a sailing breath since.”

“That’s so,” said Tom, “and he’ll have to row the whole way. I ought to have thought of that.”

“Well, please don’t apologize now. It would only keep us awake when every moment is precious for slumber. I give notice now that I’m asleep and you can’t pull another word out of me with a corkscrew.”

When the weary fellows waked the afternoon was nearly gone, but before resuming their work, and by way of refreshing themselves for it, they went down to the beach and took a plunge into the sea.

“No sign of Mr. Dunbar yet,” said Tom, who was beginning to be uneasy.

“No,” answered Larry, “but we needn’t bother about him. He’ll turn up quite unexpectedly when he gets ready. He always does that you know. What we’ve got to do is to finish our well in the shortest possible time. So, on with your duds, and let’s get to work.”

“You’re ‘mighty right,’ Larry,” said Dick. “I’ve quenched my thirst with sour wild grapes till my teeth have an edge like those of a buck-saw, and I begin to crave some unseasoned water.”

“I imagine we’re all in the same condition,” said Cal, as they hurried back to the ruins of the camp, “and it is altogether well that we are so.”

“How’s that, Cal?”

“Why, stimulated by thirst and encouraged by a sure prospect of reward, we’ll stop fooling away our time and do a little real work.”

Two hours later there was an abundant water supply in the well, and it had so far “settled” that the boys drank it freely with their late supper.

When the meal was over they all strolled down to the shore again and listened for the sound of oars in the direction from which Dunbar was expected. Nobody had suggested this. No word of uneasiness had been uttered, but every member of the company was in fact uneasy about the missing member of the group. After their return to camp this feeling was recognized as something in the minds of all. Presently Tom offered a suggestion:

“What do you think, Larry? Won’t it be just as well to show a light down that way, in case he should have trouble in finding the landing during the night?”

“That’s a good idea, Tom, but we’re so nearly out of oil now—indeed, we haven’t any except what is in the lanterns—that it must be a torch—”

“Or a camp-fire,” suggested Cal. “There are no sand flies to-night, and there’s nothing to keep us here. Why not move down to the bluffs and build a camp-fire there? Then we can sleep by it and keep it going all night.”

This plan was carried out, but it resulted in nothing. When the boys returned to their work of rebuilding the shelter the next morning, Dunbar had not yet made his appearance, nor was anything to be seen of the dory in such of the waterways as were open to view between the mud marshes that dotted the great bay or inlet in every direction.

But as the boys busied themselves with their work on the hut, their minds were occupied and their anxiety as to Dunbar was less than during the night before.

When another day had passed, however, and still Dunbar did not return, that anxiety became very keen indeed. They built their fire again on the bluff, and they tried hard to sleep by it, but with little success. They would resolve to stop talking and go to sleep, and for a few minutes all would be quiet. Then one after another would grow restless and sit up, or walk about, or say something that set the talk going again.

Presently, when all had given up the attempt to sleep, Larry made a final end of all efforts in that direction by saying:

“You see, boys, this thing is really very serious. We are all anxious about Mr. Dunbar’s safety, but we’ve got our own to think about also.”

Every one of the company had thought of that, but until now all of them had avoided mentioning it.

“You see it isn’t Mr. Dunbar alone that is missing; the dory is gone too, and if he doesn’t return the dory won’t.”

“No, and in that case,” commented Dick, “our situation will be really very serious. We are here on what is practically an island that nobody ever visits; we are without a boat, and there is no possible way of escape from here without one.”

“Can’t we build some sort of craft that will answer our purpose?” asked Tom, hopefully.

“What with?” Larry responded. “We have no materials and no tools except the one little ax. There isn’t so much as a nail anywhere on Quasi plantation, and if there were kegs full, we haven’t a hammer to hit them with.”

“We might drive nails with stones,” suggested Dick.

“We might if we had one of your Massachusetts quarries to furnish the stones. But on all this coast there isn’t a rock or a stone as big as a filbert. No, we have no tools and no substitutes for tools.”

“Yes,” growled Cal, who alone was lying down with closed eyes in an endeavor to get to sleep, “and you fellows are doing all you can to wear out the strength we need for the emergency by profitless chatter, when we ought to be sleeping and refreshing ourselves to meet conditions as they arise. Don’t you see the folly of that? Don’t you realize that you aren’t bettering things, but making them worse?

“The very worst preparation for meeting difficulties is to fall into a panic about them. Besides, there’s no occasion for panic or for melancholy brooding; Dunbar may turn up with the dory safe and sound. If he doesn’t, I grant you we’ll have some problems to wrestle with and we’ll need the clearest heads we can keep on our shoulders. You’re doing all you can to muddle them.”

“But, Cal, it is necessary to face this situation and think of ways in which—”

“That’s precisely what you’re not doing. Not one of you has offered a single suggestion that is worth while. Besides, this isn’t the time for that. Troubles always look worse at night than by daylight. The best we can do now is to make up our minds to two things.”

“What are they, Cal?”

“First, that if we’re in a hole, we’ll find some way of getting out of it, and, second, that it is high time to go to sleep.”

“Have you thought of any plans, Cal?”

“Not exactly; but I have some ideas that may be worthy of attention on the part of this distinguished company, if this distinguished company will individually and collectively stop gabbing and let sleep respond to the wooing of closed eyelids. Silence in camp!”

XXXV

AGAIN TOM FINDS SOMETHING

WHEN morning came all the boys admitted that Cal had been right in saying that troubles exaggerate themselves at night and seem far less hopeless when faced by daylight. The situation was the same that morning that it had been at midnight, but it did not seem so bad. Dunbar had not appeared and every hour that passed made it less probable that he ever would return. But somehow even that prospect did not altogether appal the boys when they thought of it by daylight.

Nevertheless, their minds were greatly disturbed as they waited throughout that day for Cal to unbosom himself of the ideas and suggestions he had promised to offer. They hoped he would do so at breakfast, but he talked instead of plans for that day’s work in rebuilding the hut. While they were engaged in building it there was no opportunity for him to set forth his views; they could not get together to hear his plans without delaying the work, and they were agreed that nothing must be permitted to interrupt that. They looked forward to dinner as the opportunity he would probably seize upon for explaining, but when during that meal some one threw out a hint that that was as good a time as any, Cal replied:

“We’ll wait till evening; we must give Mr. Dunbar till then to return. If he doesn’t put in an appearance by sunset to-day we may as well give up looking for him. Then will be the time for discussing the situation and planning ways out of it. Now we’ll all get to work again.”

There was something in Cal’s manner and in his general cheerfulness which comforted his comrades, though it would have puzzled them to say how or why. It was evident at any rate that Cal had not lost hope. It was obvious that he saw nothing in the situation that should suggest despair, and his manifest confidence was in some degree contagious.

The sun was still an hour high when suddenly Cal called out:

“Suppose we let it go at that, boys. The thing’s good enough as it stands and we can get on with it for the few weeks that remain of our stay at Quasi.”

“Then you really see a way out?” asked Larry. “What is it?”

“Come on over to the bluff and we’ll have a last look for Mr. Dunbar. If he isn’t within sight we’ll give him up and make up our minds that we shall never see the _Hunkydory_ again. Then we’ll talk the thing over and see what is to be done.”

They set out for the bluff, restraining their impatience to hear what Cal might have to say with a good deal of difficulty, and only because they must. They knew he would say nothing until he should be ready, and that if they hurried him he would remain silent the longer.

No sign appearing of Dunbar or the dory, Cal sat down with the others and seemed ready to say what was in his mind.

“This is a situation that we didn’t reckon upon, but it is by no means hopeless, and we shall enjoy talking about it as the crowning event in our trip to Quasi when we come to think of it only as a memory.”

“But we’re not out of it yet,” interrupted Larry, “and I for one see no prospect of getting out.”

“There speaks despair, born of pessimism,” Cal smilingly said. “‘Hope springs eternal in the human breast,’ you know, and my breast is altogether human and hopeful. But let us suppose your despair is well founded, and see what then. At worst we shall not starve to death. There is plenty of game—”

“Yes, and fish too,” Tom interjected.

“Yes, and fish too. It won’t be easy to get them without a boat, but we’ll manage in some way.”

“We can easily make a raft to fish from,” suggested Dick.

“I had thought of that,” resumed Cal, “but it’s impracticable.”

“Why so?”

“Because we have no anchor and nothing that will serve as a substitute for one. Of course the tide would quickly sweep our raft away from any bar we might try to fish upon. No, what fish we get will have to be caught with the castnet at low tide, and in the mouths of sloughs where mullets feed, particularly at night. But there is game, and there are oysters, and no end of crabs. We shall not starve to death. We have no bread left, and Tom’s sweet potato patch is about exhausted, but we can live on the other things for the two or three weeks that we must stay here.”

“You’ve said something like that several times, Cal,” said Larry, with a touch of impatience. “What do you mean by it?”

“I mean that this is the beginning of September; that the college session will begin on the first of October—less than a month hence; that our honored parents expect us to be in attendance at that time; and that if we don’t get home in time to pack our trunks they will send out and search for us; and finally, that as Major Rutledge, of Charleston, whom I have the honor to call father, knew in advance that we intended to visit Quasi on this trip, Quasi will be the place at which he will first look for us. So we’ll have our little frolic out and it will be great fun to tell the fellows at college about it after we get acquainted with them.”

The spirits of the boys responded promptly to Cal’s confident prophecy, which indeed was not so much a prophecy as a statement of simple facts known to all of them, though in their half panic-stricken mood they had not thought of them before.

Presently Dick had something to say that added a new impulse to activity.

“Of course, Cal is right, and we’ll be rescued from Quasi before the end of the month, but I for one would like us to get away without being rescued. Think of the alarm and distress our mothers will suffer if we do not turn up in time, especially as this earthquake has happened. They will think we’ve come to grief in some way and—I say, boys, we simply _must_ get away from here before they take the alarm.”

“We certainly ought to if there was any way,” said Cal, “but of course there isn’t.”

“Yes, there is,” answered Dick, confidently. “You’re the pessimist this time, Cal.”

“Go ahead and tell us your plan,” responded Cal. “I’m always ready for the hopeful prospect if I can find it. What do you propose, Dick?”

“To build a sort of catamaran. It can’t be much of a craft because we have no tools and no fit materials, but these waters are so closely land-locked that all we need is to make something that will float. We can paddle it to the village up there, ten miles or so away, and from there we can walk to the railroad.”

“So far, so good,” said Cal, when Dick ceased to speak. “Go on and tell us the rest.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why the ‘how’ of it all. What is the plan of your catamaran, and how are we to make it?”

“Don’t be sceptical, Cal, till you’ve—”

“I’m not sceptical—not a bit. I’m only asking what we are to do and how, so that we may get to work at it early in the morning, or to-night, for that matter, if there’s anything that can be done by fire light. You spoke of our parents awhile ago, and of the alarm they must feel if we don’t get back on time. I’ve been thinking of my mother ever since. She’s an invalid, you know, and a shock of that sort might kill her. So I’m ready to work by night or by day, or both, if it will help to spare her. Go on and tell us your plan.”

“I will. You know, of course, what a catamaran is, so I need not explain that. We will cut two logs, about twelve or fourteen feet long, one of them eight or ten inches thick and the other a mere pole. We’ll hew their ends sharp—boat-fashion—and lay them parallel to each other, seven feet or so apart. We’ll fasten them securely in place with stout poles at the bow and stern and amidships, binding the poles in place with limber vines. That will complete our framework. Then we’ll place a light pole longitudinally on the cross braces and about three feet inside the larger of our two logs. From the log to this pole we’ll construct a light deck of cane on which to stand as we paddle and push the craft along. Of course it will be a rude thing, very hard to manage, but as no part of it will be in the water except the two logs—one a mere pole—it will offer very little resistance, not half as much as a raft would.”

“No, not a tenth,” answered Larry.

“Come on,” said Cal. “We’re burning daylight. This job is yours, Dick, and you are to boss it, but I’ll be foreman of the gang and keep myself and the rest of you at work. We’ll let supper go till after dark, and utilize what’s left of the daylight in cutting cane, vines, poles and whatever else you need. Then we’ll be ready in the morning to cut the logs and begin the work of construction. Hoop la! We’ll be afloat again before the week’s up! Dick, you’re a dandy, and I’ll never accuse you of pessimism again. ‘Look up and not down, forward and not back, out and not in, and lend a hand.’ Dr. Hale put all there is of sound philosophy into that one sentence.”

After the darkness made an end of work for that day the boys sat down gleefully to their supper, and hopefully laid plans for the morrow. Presently Larry jestingly turned to Tom:

“It’s your turn now, Tom. You are credited in this company with something like a genius for finding things at the critical moment when we need them most. Why don’t you bring your abilities to bear on the present situation and find something—a chest of tools or a keg of nails, or something else useful?”

“Perhaps I will,” answered Tom. “Anyhow, I’m going out now to see what I can find in three traps I set yesterday. There have been coon tracks over that way every morning recently, and the gentleman who made them may have walked into one of my traps.”

The boys kept a number of torches ready for lighting, now that the lack of oil rendered the lanterns useless, and taking one of these with him, Tom set out to inspect his traps. He was gone for so long that his comrades were wondering what had become of him, when suddenly he appeared, coming from the direction of the bluff, though he had gone quite the opposite way.

“Did you get your coon?” asked Larry.

“No,” said Tom; “but I found something.”

“What was it, and where is it?”

“Be patient and I’ll tell you about it. After I had looked at my traps it occurred to me that I might as well come back by way of the bluffs, on the chance—”

“Ah, I guess it all,” interrupted Cal. “You found the dory at anchor there and Mr. Dunbar busy polishing his finger nails preparatory to his return to camp. Or perhaps you found a—”

“Stop your nonsense, Cal,” commanded Larry. “Don’t you see that Tom really has something to tell us!”

“Go ahead, Tom; I’m as mum as the Sphinx,” answered Cal, who found it difficult to keep his jubilant spirits within bounds now that he had something to do which promised results.

Tom resumed:

“I don’t know whether it means anything or not, but it’s interesting at any rate and I may as well tell you about it. As I was passing the uprooted catalpa tree, my foot sank into wet sand, and as the sand there had always been as dry as powder, I looked about to see what it meant. To my surprise I saw water trickling out from under the roots of the tree, and I went close up to inspect. As I was looking at the new-born spring my eye was caught by something curiously entangled among the upturned roots of the tree. It was so wound about by the roots and so buried in sand that I could make out its shape only in part, and that with difficulty. To make matters worse my torch was burned out by that time, so that I had only my fingers to explore with. I felt of the thing carefully, and made out that it is a keg of the kind that people sell gunpowder in. But I could get at only a small part of the chine, so I could learn no more about it. We can cut the roots away and dig it out to-morrow.”

“We’ll cut the roots away and dig it out to-night,” answered Cal, rising and lighting a torch. “We have work to do to-morrow and can’t spare time. Besides, this is a mystery and we sha’n’t sleep till we solve it; grab a cold torch each of you and come on. I’ll carry the little ax.”

XXXVI

WHAT THE EARTH GAVE UP

TOM’S account of the way in which the powderkeg was entangled in the roots of the catalpa tree was more than borne out by the fact as the boys found it. It seemed to them a wonder that Tom had discovered it at all, so completely was it wrapped up in the knotted mass of root growths.

After digging away the earth until the whole root entanglement was exposed to view, the boys set Dick Wentworth at work cutting away the roots with his jackknife, a thing at which only one person could work at a time. When Dick’s hand grew tired, another of the boys relieved him at the task and the work was hurried as much as possible, not so much because it was growing late as because the little company’s curiosity was intense.

“Wonder how on earth anybody ever got the thing under the roots of a tree that way?” ventured Tom, as he toiled with his knife.

“Simple enough,” answered Cal. “He didn’t do it.”

“How did it get there, then?”

“Why, the tree grew there after the keg was buried, of course. Somebody stuck a catalpa bean in the ground directly over the keg. Probably the man who buried the thing did that; he wanted to provide a landmark by which to find the spot again, and probably he knew there wasn’t another catalpa tree on all Quasi plantation.”

“But that tree has been standing here a long time—twenty or twenty-five years I should say.”

“That only means that the keg was buried here twenty or twenty-five years ago at the least, and ’pon my word, it looks it.”

“What I’m wondering about,” interposed Larry, “is what the keg contains. It must be something important or nobody would have taken the pains to bury it and plant a tree over it.”

“And yet,” argued Dick, “if it is anything important, why did anybody bury it away out here and never come back for it?”

“It all depends,” answered Cal, “on just what you mean by ‘important.’ Things are important sometimes and utterly unimportant at others; important to one person and of no consequence to anybody else. At this moment I feel that my breakfast in the morning is becoming a thing of very great importance to me; but I don’t suppose poor Dunbar, wherever he is, cares a fig about it.”

“By the way, what can have become of the poor fellow? I wonder if he managed to fall out of the dory and get drowned?”

It was Tom who asked the question. Cal, who had thought a great deal about the matter, answered it promptly:

“That isn’t likely,” he said. “Indeed, it is scarcely possible. Dunbar was too good a boatman to fall overboard, and too good a swimmer to drown if he did. He would have climbed back into the dory with no worse consequence than a ducking in warm sea water.”

“What’s your theory then, Cal?”

“Why, that he has had one of his peculiar ‘spells.’ You remember that when he was missing from camp the last time he wrote us a letter, but when his lost knife was returned to him he seemed to remember nothing about it. More than that, he seemed to think the day he returned was the same as the day he went away. In other words, his memory was a blank as to the time he was away. Then, too, you remember that when we first found him here he couldn’t remember whether he had come three weeks or four weeks before. Still again, you remember how badly he was mixed up about the date just before he went away this time, and that too in spite of the fact that he had important papers to post before a given time.”

“Then you think he’s crazy?”

“I don’t know about that, because I’m not a doctor or an alienist, or anything else of the kind. But I think he has a way of losing himself now and then, though at ordinary times his head is a remarkably clear one.”

“I have read of such cases,” said Dick. “They call it ‘double consciousness,’ I believe. I don’t know whether it is regarded as a kind of insanity or not. Then you think, Cal—”

“I hardly know what I think. You see I don’t know the facts in this case. We know absolutely nothing of what Dunbar did or what happened to him after he passed out of sight behind the marsh island over there. So we haven’t enough facts to base any thinking at all upon. But it has occurred to me that after he left us one of his fits of self-forgetfulness may have come on, and it may have lasted ever since.”