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The Launch Boys' Adventures in Northern Waters, a novel by Edward Sylvester Ellis |
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Chapter 6. A Warm Reception |
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_ CHAPTER VI. A WARM RECEPTION
Mike Murphy pointed to a small, faded yellow house which stood at the top of a gentle slope on their right. It was a hundred yards from the river and a faintly marked, winding path led from it down to the bank. The surrounding land showed meagre cultivation, and the looks were anything but inviting. On the little porch sat a big man with grizzled whiskers, smoking a brier-wood pipe, his beamlike legs crossed and his arms folded as he moodily watched the launch. "It strikes me as a poor promise," remarked Alvin, who, nevertheless, asked Chester to steer to the shore to see whether a landing could be readily made. The prospect was good, as a shaky framework had evidently been placed there for use, though no small boat was near. Chester brought the _Deerfoot_ alongside with the skill that the owner of the launch would have shown. Alvin sprang lightly upon the structure, which sagged under his weight, caught the rope tossed to him by Chester, and fastened it around one of the rickety supports. The boat was made fast. "I'll walk up to the house and have a talk with the gintleman," said Mike, stepping carefully out upon the boards. "Do I look hungry?" he asked of Alvin, who replied: "You always have that expression." "I'm glad to hear it, fur I wish to impriss the gintleman that that's my condition. I'll assoom a weak, hisitating walk. Do ye abide here aginst me return and repoort." Detective Calvert retained his seat and lighted another cigar. Chester sat with his hand idly resting on the wheel. Alvin kept his place on the tiny dock, and all three watched Mike Murphy. They smiled, for the stooping shoulders of the Irish youth and his feeble gait were those of a man of four-score. The huge stranger sat like a statue, slowly puffing his pipe, his glowering eyes fixed on the approaching lad. With each advancing step, Mike's doubts increased. The nearer he came to the stranger, the more forbidding he appeared. Had the lad followed his inclination he would have turned back, but he knew his friends were watching him. Besides which, he was really hungry. He had passed half the distance between the boat and the house, scrutinizing the scowling fellow all the time, when the latter made his first movement. He uncrossed his huge legs, took the pipe from between his lips and emitted a low whistle. "He must be so cheered at sight of me that he is obleeged to give exprission to his feelings--Begorra!" Around the end of the house dashed a mongrel dog, and halting abruptly with pricked ears, glanced at his master to hear his command. The canine was of moderate size, black and white in color, one eye wrapped about by an inky splash of hair that made him look as if the organ was in mourning. Holding the pipe away from his lips, the man pointed the stem toward Mike, who had paused, and said to his dog: "Sick him, Nick! Sick him!" And the dog proceeded to "go for" the caller. Had the latter run away, the brute would have been at his heels, nipping and biting at each step. But Mike had no thought of retreating. He was filled with anger at his inhospitable reception and gave his whole attention to the animal, which with a muttered growl charged full speed at him. Mike noticed that a collar with projecting spikes encircled the stumpy neck, and never was one of his breed more eager to bury his teeth in a victim's anatomy. "This is going to be a shindy sure, as Micky Rooney said when he tackled five p'licemen--and I haven't even a shillaleh in hand." Mike coolly braced himself for the shock, not yielding an inch nor turning his gaze from his foe. It was no longer a doddering old man who faced the stranger, but a sturdy youth, muscular, brave and always eager for the fray. Nothing could surpass the skill with which the first assault was repelled. At the exact moment Mike launched his shoe, the toe of which caught Nick under the jaw and caused him to turn a backward somersault. He uttered several yelps, but the blow added if possible to his rage. The dog was so bewildered for the moment that he lost his sense of direction, and made a dash toward the porch where his master was watching proceedings. "Sick him, Nick! Sick him!" he called, pointing his finger at the lad. Nick impetuously obeyed orders, and at the critical moment Mike launched a second kick, which, however, was not delivered with the mathematical exactness of the first. It landed in the canine's neck and drove him back several paces, but he kept his balance, and came on again with the same headlong fierceness as before. It was at this juncture that Stockham Calvert flung away his cigar, sprang from his chair and with one bound landed beside Alvin Landon. "I don't intend that Mike shall get into trouble." As he spoke, he laid his hand on his hip pocket where reposed his revolver. "It looks as if it's the dog that is in trouble," replied Alvin, his cheek tingling with pride at sight of the bravery of his comrade. "If he had to fight only one brute I shouldn't fear, but there are two against him. When Mike is through with the dog he will have to face his master. I shall be ready to give him help." "You don't mean to shoot the fellow?" said the alarmed Captain. "It won't be necessary," was the quiet response. The next exploit of Mike was brilliant. He did not kick at the dog, for that only deferred the decisive assault, but as the mongrel rose in air, he side-stepped with admirable quickness, gripped him by the baggy skin at the back of his neck, and, slipping his hand under the spiky collar, held him fast. The brute snarled, writhed, snapped his jaws and strove desperately to insert his teeth into some part of his captor, who held him off so firmly that he could do no harm. Mike now turned and began walking hurriedly toward the launch, with the squirming captive still in his iron grip. The infuriated owner sprang from his seat and leaped down the steps. "Drop that dog!" he shouted, striding after Mike, who called back: "I'll drop him as soon as I raich the river." Afraid of being checked, the youth broke into a trot, and an instant later was at the landing, the yelping mongrel still firmly gripped. Back and forth Mike swung him as if he were the huge bob of a pendulum, and then let go. He curved over the launch, like an elongated doughnut, and dropped into the current with a splash. But all quadrupeds swim the first time they enter the water. In an instant, the brute came to the surface, and working all his legs vigorously, came smoothly around the stern of the launch, and headed for Mike with the purpose of renewing the attack. The man, who had dropped his pipe and strode down the walk, was over six feet in height, of large frame, and manifestly the possessor of great muscular strength. Although he knew his dog had suffered no harm and was safe, he was enraged over his maltreatment and resolute to wreak vengeance upon the author of the insult. Mike read his purpose, poised himself and put up his fists. "Now for the next dog and it's mesilf that is ready fur him." It would give me pleasure to tell how Mike Murphy vanquished the giant who attacked him, but such a statement would be as untrue as absurd. You have read of the dude who daintily slipped off his kid gloves, adjusted his eyeglasses, and proceeded to chastise an obstreperous cowboy; but take it from me that no such thing ever occurred, except in stories. Nature governs through rigid laws, and two and two will always make four. It might have been creditable to the courage of the Irish youth thus to engage in a bout with a man who would have quickly beaten him to the earth, but it would have shown very poor judgment. Had they clashed there could have been only one end to the encounter. But they did not clash. Several paces separated the two, when Stockham Calvert, his thin gray coat buttoned around his trim form, stepped quickly between them, and, looking sharply into the face of the savage stranger, said in a voice that showed not the least agitation: "Stop! he's my friend!" He raised one hand, palm outward by way of emphasis of his warning words. "Who are you?" demanded the other, stopping short, his eyes flaming above his shaggy beard and under his straw hat, like an animal glaring through a thicket. "Come on and you'll learn!" was the reply in the same even tones, as Calvert assumed the posture of a trained pugilist. Now it is proper to say of this man that he had been the champion boxer in college, and in his New York club he was easily the master of every one with whom he had donned the gloves. Though of only average size and stature and inclined to thinness, his muscles were of steel, he had the quickness of a cat, and had been told more than once, that if he would enter the "magic circle" he would hold his own with the best in the profession. But, like all gentlemen who are masters of the manly art, he disliked personal encounters, and many a time had submitted to insulting words and even the accusation of timidity, rather than to call his iron fists and superb skill into play. You might have been in his company for months without suspecting his attainments in that respect. His business required that he should always carry a revolver, and when he placed his hand on his hip at sight of Mike Murphy's personal danger, the action was instinctive, but he instantly gave up all thought of using so deadly a weapon. He was certain there was no necessity for it; he had no more doubt of his mastery of the bulky brute, who was equally confident, than he had of his ability to handle any one of the three lads who were his companions. _ |
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