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Ned Wilding's Disappearance: or, The Darewell Chums in the City
Allen Chapman
Chapman Allen
Ned Wilding's Disappearance; or, The Darewell Chums in the City
CHAPTER I
THE NEW GUN
The Keene household was suddenly aroused from peacefulness, one quiet afternoon, by a loud thud as if something had fallen. It was followed by a report like an explosion. Then, from Bart’s room, sounded a series of yells.
“Wow! Ouch! Jimminities!”
“He’s hurt!” exclaimed his sister Alice, as she ran toward her brother’s room. As she entered she saw him running about the apartment, which was filled with smoke, holding one hand in the other. Drops of blood were coming from his fingers.
“What’s the matter? Are you hurt?” asked Alice. “Oh, Bart, are you really hurt?”
“Am I hurt? Do you think I’m doing this for fun? Where’s mother?”
“She’s gone out. I’m the only one home.”
“Get a rag or something, will you please Alice?” and Bart danced around on one leg, holding the other limb out so stiffly that he knocked over several chairs.
“Is your leg hurt too, Bart?”
“No, it’s only my three fingers.”
“But you stuck one leg out so I thought that was injured also.”
“I’d stick ’em both out if it would only ease this pain any! Maybe my fingers will have to come off!”
“Oh, Bart! What did it?”
“My new gun. I went to lay it down on the table and it fell to the floor and went off. Did you hear it?”
“I couldn’t very well help it. Did the bullet go through your hand?”
“It doesn’t shoot bullets. It shoots shot, and I guess it only grazed a few fingers. Most of the shot went into the wall,” and Bart gazed at a dark spot on the wall-paper, and then looked at his injured hand. “I didn’t think it would go off so easily,” he added.
“Oh, those horrid guns!” exclaimed the girl. “I just knew when papa let you send for it – ”
“Say, Alice, if you ever intend to be a trained nurse you’d better get to work on me before I faint!" cried Bart. “Now don’t talk any more, that’s a good girl. Get a rag before I bleed to death.”
“Oh, Bart, I’m so sorry! Of course I’ll fix you up. Wait until I get my book,” and Alice, whose ambition was to be a nurse and wear a blue and white striped uniform, hurried to her room and came back with a little book. On the cover was a red cross, and the inscription, “First Aid to the Injured.”
“What kind of a wound is it, Bart?” Alice asked, rapidly turning the leaves of the volume.
“How should I know? It’s a painful wound, if that’s what you mean.”
“Oh, no! Is it incised or lacerated or a contused one? Because you see I have to give it different kind of treatment if it’s an incised wound than I would if it’s a lacerated one.”
“Oh, give me any kind of treatment!” and Bart began to dance around again. “The shot grazed my fingers, that’s all I know!”
“I guess that’s a lacerated wound,” Alice replied a little doubtfully, as she took a look at her brother’s bleeding hand. Then she turned to the page of the book that treated of lacerated hurts and read:
“‘These wounds have ragged edges and the skin is torn and bruised.’”
“That’s me all right,” interrupted Bart.
“‘They result from force so applied as to tear rather than cut the tissues cleanly,’” the girl read on.
“Oh, I’m cut all right,” put in Bart. “Hurry up Alice, stick some court plaster on and let it go at that.”
“Why, Bart Keene! I’m ashamed of you! The idea of me putting such a common remedy as court plaster on a wound! Why, you’d get bloodpoison and other dreadful things! I must treat this just as I expect to treat other wounds when I get to be a trained nurse.”
“You’ll never get to be one at this rate,” Bart cut in.
“‘They are caused by railway and machinery accidents,’” Alice read on, “‘by falling timbers, stones and brick. Such wounds are frequently followed by shock.’”
“Well, this wasn’t a railroad accident, nor one caused by falling bricks or timber,” Bart retorted. “I guess it will come under the head of machinery. A gun’s machinery, I s’pose. But I can testify to the shock. Wow!” and, as a sudden spasm of pain seized him, he snatched his hand from the grasp of his sister and again began dancing around on one leg.
“Hold still! How can I treat the wound if you jerk around that way?” demanded Alice.
“Treat the wound! You aren’t treating any wound!” retorted Bart. “I could treat ten wounds in that time! All you’re doing is talk! If Fenn Masterson or Ned Wilding was here they’d have a rag around this long ago.”
“Yes, and it would probably be full of germs and other things and you’d be dead of lock-jaw,” said Alice calmly. “Now Bart, come here. I know what kind of a wound it is, and I must see how to fix it,” and once more securing her brother’s hand for examination, she began to leaf over the book.
“‘Treatment,’” she read. “‘Cleanse the wound thoroughly with warm water, lay a wet cloth over it and bandage lightly. If symptoms of shock are present they must receive careful attention. See page twenty-two.’”
“Never mind the shock, just get a rag on these fingers before I lose all the blood I’ve got and we’ll talk shock afterward,” interrupted Bart.
Then Alice, laying aside her book, brought some warm water in a basin, and some soft cloths, and soon had Bart’s hand tied up in a sling.
“You’ve got enough rags on here to make my hand look as big as my head,” objected the boy, as he gazed at the bandage his sister had adjusted.
“You don’t want to catch cold in it,” she replied. “It is very chilly to-day. I think we’re going to have more snow.”
“Ought to have some, with Thanksgiving here in about a week,” replied Bart.
“How did you get hurt?” asked his sister again.
“I was examining my new shotgun. It just came – Hark! Who’s that calling?”
“Oh, some of the boys I s’pose,” and Alice went to the window and looked down to the street, whence came a series of shrill whistles.
“Raise the window and I’ll yell to ’em to come up,” said Bart.
“Don’t you come near this window,” commanded Alice. “You forget you’re under treatment. If you should catch cold in that hand it might be terrible! I’ll call the boys. You go back in that corner.”
Then, as Bart meekly obeyed, Alice raised the sash and called:
“Come up, boys! Bart is hurt and can’t come down!”
“They’ll think I’m in bed,” her brother objected.
A few seconds later there sounded the noise of several feet on the stairs. A moment afterward three lads hurried into the room. They had just come from school, but Bart had not attended the afternoon session.
“Hello Frank!” cried Bart. “Howdy, Stumpy? How are you, Ned?”
“What’s the matter?” asked Ned, noticing the bandage on Bart’s hand.
“Oh, hurt myself with the gun. Went off before I was ready.”
“The gun!” exclaimed Frank.
“Got a new gun?” asked Fenn.
“Let’s see it,” demanded Ned.
“Here she is,” exclaimed Bart, and then, forgetting his sore hand, he took from the corner a fine shotgun. “It’s a beauty,” he went on. “It’s got patent – ”
“Oh! Oh!” screamed Alice. “Your hand!”
CHAPTER II
PREPARING FOR A HUNT
“What’s the matter with my hand?” asked Bart holding the gun in the one that had been injured.
“Why you’ve taken it from the sling. The blood will rush to it and – and – ”
“Oh, I guess it’s all right,” spoke Bart carelessly, as he held up the gun. “You see fellows, this is the patent ejector, and the barrels – ”
“Well of all things!” exclaimed Alice. “I spend a lot of time fixing up your injury and you go and undo all my work in a minute. I never saw such a boy!”
“How did you hurt yourself?” asked Ned.
“I had just loaded both barrels and put the gun on the table. It fell off and something hit one of the triggers or the hammers and it banged out like a cannon. My hand was in the way, that’s all.”
“Hurt much?” inquired Fenn.
“Not much,” was Bart’s careless answer.
But an exclamation of pain escaped him as he hit his bruised fingers against the gun stock.
“There!” exclaimed Alice. “I knew you’d do something wrong. Now I suppose it will start bleeding again,” and she turned back as if to undo the bandage.
“Never mind!” spoke Bart quickly. “I’ll stick some court plaster on if it does. Say Alice get us some cake and lemonade, please.”
Alice agreed and while she prepared the beverage and got some cakes from the pantry, in which interval the four boys talked nothing but gun, there is an opportunity of making you better acquainted with them. It’s hard to be introduced to a person when he has sustained a smashed thumb, so it is, perhaps, just as well that the formal presentation was postponed until now.
Bart Keene, Ned Wilding, Frank Roscoe and Fenn Masterson, (who was called Stumpy, for short, because of his rather limited height and breadth of beam), were four boys who lived in the town of Darewell. This was located not far from Lake Erie, on the Still River, a stream in which the boys fished, swam and upon which they spent many hours in their big rowboat.
With the exception of Frank Roscoe, the boys lived in the heart of the town. Their parents were fairly well off, and the boys had been chums since they attended primary school together. In fact, when their companionship continued on through the grammar school and into the high school, they became such a town fixture, in a way, that they were known as “The Darewell Chums.”
Those of you who have read the first volume of this series, entitled “The Heroes of the School,” know what sort of lads the four were. Those of you who are meeting them for the first time may be glad of a little sketch of their characters.
Frank lived with his uncle, Abner Dent, about a mile out of town. Mr. Dent was a rich farmer, and Frank had resided with him as long as he could remember. He could not recall his father or mother, and his uncle seldom mentioned them. Frank was rather a strange sort of boy. His chums were very fond of him, but they could not quite make out the curious air of mystery about him. Frank seemed to have some secret, but his chums never asked him what it was, though of late years his odd ways, at times, had attracted their attention.
Ned Wilding was an impulsive, lively chap, full of fun, and given to playing tricks, which sometimes got him into mischief. He was rather thoughtless, but never mean, and when his actions did result in trouble for others Ned was always ready and anxious to make reparation. Ned’s mother was dead and he lived with his father who was cashier of the Darewell bank.
As for Bart, he was so fond of sports, from baseball and swimming to snowballing and skating, that he was seldom still long enough to study his lessons.
Fenn, or Stumpy Masterson, had only one failing as far as his chums were concerned. He was “sweet” on the girls, as they called it. Fenn would go to considerable trouble to walk home with a girl. His chums made all sorts of fun of him, but he did not seem to mind much. His especial favorite was Jennie Smith, who was quite fond of poetry and who liked to recite and act.
As told in the first volume, the boys, during the summer preceding the winter in which this story opens, had taken part in some strange adventures. They discovered that some men in the neighborhood of the town were acting very queerly, and they resolved to find what it meant. One day they went up in a captive balloon at a fair, and the restraining cable broke. The four chums were carried off in the airship high above the clouds.
The boys were detained as prisoners aboard a barge on the river, because it was learned they knew something of the mystery the strangely acting men were trying to keep hidden. By dint of much pluck and hard work the boys managed to solve the affair, and, in order to avoid a law-suit, the men involved offered the boys one thousand dollars each, in valuable oil stock. This they accepted and their parents and relatives did not prosecute the men, as they originally intended, for detaining the boys on the barge.
“Here’s the lemonade!” cried Ned, as Alice came in with a big pitcherful while the chums were examining Bart’s gun. He took it from the girl, as it was quite heavy.
“Now I’ll get the cakes and glasses,” Alice said.
“Let me help you,” begged Fenn.
“Here, you quit that!” called Ned.
“Quit what?”
“Walking downstairs with Alice. I’ll tell Jennie on you, Stumpy!”
“Oh, you dry up!” cried Fenn, and, despite the boys’ laughter Fenn accompanied Bart’s sister to the next floor, where he got the cake and glasses.
“Stumpy’s as bad as ever,” commented Frank. “He reminds me of – ” Frank did not finish his sentence.
“Reminds you of what?” asked Ned. “There you go again, beginning a thing and not finishing it.”
“I guess I’ll not say it. Doesn’t make any difference,” and Frank turned aside and gazed out of the window.
Bart and Ned looked at each other. It was a peculiarity of Frank’s to begin to say something, and then seem to recollect a matter that made him change his mind. But his chums were now used to his strangeness.
“Where’d you get that gun, Bart?” asked Fenn as he came in with the cake.
“Saw it advertised in a catalog, and sent to New York for it.”
“How much?”
“Eighteen dollars. It was the first money I used of the thousand I got from the ‘King of Paprica’” – for such was the assumed name of the principal man in the mystery the boys had cleared up.
