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The High School Boys' Fishing Trip, a fiction by H. Irving Hancock |
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Chapter 8. The Man With The Haunting Face |
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_ CHAPTER VIII. THE MAN WITH THE HAUNTING FACE The noon meal had been eaten, and the camp put to rights. The water before them and the woods behind them called to nature-loving Dick & Co., yet the invitations were ignored. What could be in the innocent-looking box? That was the question that held six minds in the thraldom of curiosity. "I can't stand this suspense any longer!" muttered Reade towards three o'clock in the afternoon. "Open the box yourself," prompted Danny Grin. "I will," offered Reade, advancing toward the box. "I don't care if it's a ton of dynamite, all fixed up with clock work and automatic fuses. I want to find it out." But Greg Holmes sprang forward. "Wait just a little longer, Tom," he urged. "Dick will be back in a few minutes and then we'll get him to agree to it." "Dick Prescott doesn't open the box," Tom retorted. "It's addressed to him, anyway," said Greg firmly. "I guess that's right," interposed Dave, nodding. "And Dick will be here soon." Dick reappeared within five minutes. He had taken two buckets and had gone to a spring at some distance from camp for water. "Dick," said Greg, "there's Tom on the ground on the other side of that tree. He's growling like a Teddy bear because no one has opened the box." "I think we'd better open it," nodded Prescott, after glancing at the faces of the others, for he saw that their curiosity was at fever heat. "Hooray!" yelled Greg. "Come on, fellows!" There was a rush for the hammer and cold chisel, but young Holmes won. "You pry the lid up on one side, and then give me a chance at the other side," proposed Tom Reade. But Greg, smiling quietly, soon had the entire lid off the box. Nothing but a lot of multi-colored, curly packing paper met their gaze. "The world destroyer must be underneath this ton of rubbish," grunted Darry, kneeling and prying the strings of paper out. At last he delved down to a parcel wrapped in stout manila paper and securely tied with cord. "Cut the strings," advised Reade, passing Dave a pocket knife with one blade open. Darrin, however, had lifted the parcel out to lay it on the ground. It was fairly heavy, but Dave handled it with ease. Now he cut the strings. As the papers were pushed aside he and the others saw nothing at first but a lot of khaki-colored canvas. "Fellows," declared Dick, "I don't believe this is a practical joke, at all. It looks to me as though someone had sent us something very much like a cook tent." All thought of danger having now passed, Prescott and his comrades unfolded the canvas. At the bottom of the package they found something that caused them to send up a wild hurrah. Two daintily modeled white maple paddles lay there. There were two other objects made of wood that looked like seats. "Fellows," gasped Dick, "don't you understand what this is?" "I do," nodded Tom huskily. "I do, if not another soul in the world does. Fellows, it's a collapsible canoe, all ready to set up and run into the water. It's our boat, that we've been wanting so badly. It's a beauty! Oh, shake it out! Lay it and let's put the braces in! I shan't be able to breathe again until I see this thing of beauty floating on the water!" Yet Tom was no more excited than were the other members of Dick & Co. All took a hand, and all tried to work so nimbly that they got considerably in the way of one another. Yet at last the canoe was ready to be picked up and carried to the lake's edge. "Here's even a painter to tie it to a tree with," shouted Dave. "Say! Whoever bought this canoe knew all about one!" "Don't anyone try to get into the craft yet," ordered Dick, as the canoe was slid out upon the water, Prescott holding the painter, which he tied around a sapling growing near the water's edge. "We want to make sure that this canoe is waterproof. If it stands twenty minutes without taking in water we'll know it's all right." Since they couldn't board the canoe, these delighted boys joined hands, dancing about in a ring. Then, suddenly, they started off in burlesqued figures of an Indian war-dance, whooping like mad. While the excitement was at its height, Reade suddenly seized Hazelton by his collar, rushing him to the lake. Into it went both boys, Tom ducking Harry's head under the water. "Wha-a-at's that for?" sputtered Hazelton as soon as he could talk. "Because you needed it," replied Tom soberly. "Will you kindly do as much for me? We were all such chumps that we cheated ourselves out of the best black bass fishing to-day that ever mortal saw. So we all ought to be ducked." Harry stared at his friend in some astonishment. "On second thought, though," concluded Reade, "you needn't duck me. You may postpone it. I'm going bass fishing the very instant that the canoe is judged to be safe." "And I'll be the bass-hunting pin-head who merely does the paddling," proposed Danny Grin meekly. "I guess you're the biggest pin-head in camp, all right---after myself," nodded Reade. "So we ought to hit it off as bass fishermen, Danny boy." "Fellows," hinted Dick judicially, "I think we had better turn the canoe over to Tom for the first trip. His craze to go bass fishing is so acute that it fairly pains him. Tom can have the first trip, can't he?" There was a general assent. Tom darted away to overhaul such tackle as he had for bass fishing. He came back with a small but tough jointed rod, some very long lines, and some flashily, bright spoons. "Danny, get a shovel and dig for some grubs," Tom ordered, as he sorted tackle. "When you can't fool black bass with one thing you must try another. If you fellows see any tiny chubs swimming about in the little coves here, try to get a lot of them. We can keep them in a bucket of water. Perch? Bah! The real fishing is about to begin now!" "Do you really expect to get any bass today, Tom?" Dick inquired. "Hard to say," replied Reade, shaking his head as he glanced up from the tackle he was overhauling to look out upon the lake. "I haven't seen a single bass jump in five hours now. But I may get two or three. I certainly will, if the bass are sportsmanlike enough to give me any show at 'em." By the time that Tom had his tackle in shape Dick and Dave pronounced the canoe wholly water tight. Dan Dalzell, equipped with one of the paddles, took a kneeling position just back of the bow seat. Tom got in next, squatting with his face to the stern of the canoe. None of the others were to go. At a pinch this ten-foot canoe might hold three, but fishermen as a rule do not care to have extra passengers in their boats. "Give 'em a cheer, boys!" cried Darry, as Danny Grin, with a few deft strokes of the paddle, propelled the craft away from the shore. "And let that cheer be the last," called back Tom, in a low voice that nevertheless traveled backward over the water. "Don't frighten my bass from coming up to take a look at me." "Tom surely is the sincere old bass fisher, isn't he?" demanded Harry Hazelton. "I don't know," Dick made answer. "We can tell better when we've seen him hook and land a few fish." "Paddle slowly right across the lake, Danny," begged Tom, watching his trolling line. From the camp the boys watched until they grew tired of the monotony. Reade did not seem destined to secure a single "strike" from bass that afternoon. "At half-past four o'clock," proposed Darrin, "I'll go down to the old pier and see what I can do toward catching a string of perch for to-night." "I'll go with you," nodded Hazelton. "All right," agreed Dick. "Greg and I will get in the water and wood, and see to whatever else we're to have for supper. I don't believe Tom will bring us anything." Nor did Reade himself believe it. For two solid hours Dan Dalzell paddled lazily wherever his skipper told him to. The nearest that Tom seemed destined to get a "strike" was when his hook caught in the weeds. At last they were some distance out on the lake, perhaps a hundred and fifty yards from shore. Reade, wholly discouraged, was about to give the order to make for camp. Turning about in the canoe, Reade discovered that Dalzell was in a brown study, slowly lifting his paddle and lifting it out again, but without watching his course. "Look out, Danny boy," cautioned Tom, "or you'll scratch the sides of the canoe on those bushes right ahead." Dan glanced up with a start, backing water. They had now passed in under the shadow of trees, for the sun was low, and it was somewhat dark and gloomy in there. "It's queer for bushes to be growing so far out from shore," muttered Tom, "and it shows how shallow the water must be about here. You had better back water out of here, Danny." Dalzell was about to do so when his glance fell on something that halted his arm. In the same moment Tom Reade saw the object that had arrested Dan's attention. From between the bushes peered a pair of deep-set, frightened eyes that looked out from the haggard, despairing face of a man whose head alone was visible. Just for the moment neither Tom nor Dalzell could really guess whether the face belonged to the living or the dead. The sight caused cold shivers to run up and down their spines, for that face was ghastly and haunting in the extreme. But quickly Tom Reade found his voice sufficiently to ask huskily: "What's your trouble, my friend?" _ |
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