The Rival Campers: or, The Adventures of Henry Burns

George Warren, as the eldest of the brothers, demurred at first. “We’ve been up to enough pranks this summer,” he said, “and we don’t want to get into any more trouble.”

“But we’re not going to do any harm,” persisted Henry Burns. “We’ll only play one game, just for the lark of playing at this time of night, and to get ahead of old Witham; and then we’ll put everything away shipshape and put out the lights, and no harm done.”

It did not take much argument to influence them; and in a moment they were all inside, each equipped with a cue, and engaged in the forbidden game. The time passed faster than they knew, and one o’clock found them there still.

But, late as it was, a most unusual hour for any Southport dweller to be astir and abroad, there were at least three individuals who were not abed and asleep; and with these three we shall have to do in turn.

It so happened on this morning that Squire Brackett had important business that took him across to Cape Revere, on the mainland; and, as no steamer was due to run across till afternoon, and he must be there in the morning, he had arranged to sail over, taking advantage of the ebb-tide, which served strongest shortly after midnight. He was sleepy and surly as he came down the road, but paused a moment in his haste as he caught the gleam of light and heard the sound of subdued voices from the half-opened basement window.

Squire Brackett stole up softly and peered inside.

“Aha!” he exclaimed, under his breath. “So that’s the way the young rascals treat Colonel Witham, is it? I’ll just see about that in the morning. I fancy Colonel Witham will have something to say about this breaking and entering. I’d call him down now and trap them at their game, if it wasn’t that I’d lose a tide and a twenty-dollar bargain by it.”

And the squire tiptoed craftily away, chuckling maliciously to himself at the thought of how he would aid in punishing the boys on the morrow.

The second man of the three who were to figure in the night’s adventure had set out some two hours ago from afar down the island on the obscure western side. If any of the boys had seen him rowing in from a yacht anchored just off shore, had seen him land on the beach and drag his boat well up on it with supreme strength, and had seen him set off through the fields and along the strips of beaches of the coves, if any of the boys had seen all this and had looked carefully into his forbidding face, with its malign, evil expression, it is probable that that boy might and would have seen a striking resemblance to that same individual whom he had seen in flight on a certain evening, and have wondered and feared what business could bring him back to the scene of former danger at this hour.

Not being seen by them, nor by anybody else, the man slunk along, now running, as a clear stretch of field opened up before him, now thrusting his way through clumps of alders, now skirting the shore of some little inlet.

At length he struck fairly across the island, directly toward the very town from which, a few weeks ago, he had made so hurried an exit. Coming finally in view of the hotel, he squatted down in the grass and surveyed the prospect long and carefully before approaching nearer.

Squire Brackett, going on down to the hotel, would not have been so much at ease had he felt the presence of this evil figure, crouching within a few feet of him as he went by, and following stealthily in his footsteps, pausing as he paused, and watching him wonderingly as he peered into the window at the boys.

Now, as the squire went on his way, the man, himself, crawled up to the window and cast a quick glance within.

What he saw clearly startled him, for he had expected to find the hotel in utter darkness. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then quickly drew away from the window.

“So much the better,” he muttered. “They won’t stop me, and if only some one has seen them there they’ll get the blame.”

Stealing around to the second window distant from where the light came, the man took a short piece of iron from a coat pocket and proceeded to pry the window open. Its flimsy lock broke easily under the pressure, and he sprang inside. He may have known where he should find himself, for in the darkness he appeared at home. It was the hotel’s storeroom, and was crowded with a litter of boxes and barrels; loose straw lay in profusion, and a barrel or two of oil stood in one corner.

It was scarce a moment from the time the man had entered till he sprang out again. But now his manner was altered. No longer proceeding with caution, he started on a run for the fields whence he had come, holding his arms hard to his sides as he ran.

Up the long slope of the hill he dashed, breathing hard, rather, it would seem, from some deep excitement than from the exertion. So he went on without interruption for nearly a mile. Had he seemed less beset by some fear that drove him recklessly on, and been more mindful of his road, he might have avoided the third person who was abroad this night, and who now suddenly loomed large in it.

Plunging desperately along through the rough pasture, following an uncertain path as it wound in and among clumps of cedars and alders, the man all at once ran full tilt into another man, or, rather, a large, heavy-set youth, and, clutching at each other, they both fell sprawling upon the ground.

“Hulloa!” exclaimed Jack Harvey, for he it was, “you seem in a confounded hurry, my friend, and that’s something new on this island, I’ll be bound. Why don’t you – ” but, as they scrambled up together, Jack Harvey grumbling, but inclined to treat the incident as a rough joke, the man lunged out heavily at him with his fist and struck him full in the face.

Jack Harvey was no coward. He clinched with the man, and they reeled for a moment in a fierce embrace. But the man had muscles of iron, and, nerved to desperation, more than matched Harvey. Presently he threw the youth to the ground, and as Harvey struggled to his feet again he dealt him a blow between the eyes that stretched him flat, and for a moment stunned him.

Before Harvey had regained his feet and collected his senses, the man was off, running harder now than ever.

When Harvey finally stood upright, his first impulse was to set out in pursuit of his mysterious adversary. On second thought he paused a moment to consider the matter.

Who could the stranger be, and where could he be going? There was one thing Jack Harvey did know. He knew every living soul on all the island, man and boy, and this man was not of them. There was not a fisherman along this part of the coast with whom Harvey had not cast a line or raced with his yacht, the Surprise. He had looked the man fair in the face twice in their struggle, and thought for the moment that he had never seen him before.

He had come from some other island, or the mainland, then, and, as was evident, he was in desperate haste to return. He must, then, have a boat, presumably a sailboat, waiting for him, and that boat must be moored somewhere along the western shore of the island. The man’s haste and fear of being delayed argued that he had been up to some bad business, “Thieving at the hotel, perhaps,” said Harvey.

And then Harvey, knowing every bush and tree and nook and corner, and every rock and cove on all the shores of the island, ran over quickly in his mind the inlets along the coast, to pick out the most likely spot he knew of where a man might choose to moor his yacht and steal ashore; and the proof of his accurate knowledge was that the mental picture he drew of the place was that very cove toward which the stranger was now travelling, and where there lay snugly at anchor the strange yacht.

With this clearly in mind, Jack Harvey resolved to follow in pursuit, although the man had now some ten minutes the start. Harvey had the advantage, however, that, whereas the man knew only the general direction he must take, to Harvey every inch of the way was as familiar as the ground around his own camp. For instance, he knew, when the way led through Captain Coombs’s grove of woods, that through the centre, the most direct way, it was boggy and hard travelling, and that one could save from one to three minutes by skirting along the end nearest the town, and going through there in a smoothly travelled path.

Again, and most profitable of all, there was full five minutes to be gained by swimming the narrow opening of Gull Cove, instead of following the line of the shore in the way it spread out in the shape of a huge pear. At the point which the stem of the pear would represent, the passage from the bay into the cove, it was only a matter of two rods wide.

Jack Harvey did not even stop to remove his trousers, blue blouse, and tennis shoes, but plunged in and swam across.

What he had gained by this was soon apparent, for, as he ascended the top of a low bank on the farther shore, he saw running along the beach, not many rods distant, the man whom he was pursuing.

Now the chase had become simplified and was easy for the rest of the way. There could be no doubt of the man’s destination. Jack Harvey, covering himself with rock and tree, made no effort to come up with him, but took his time in following, knowing where he should ultimately find him.

Presently Harvey left the shore, ascended the bank to a roadway which led down the island, followed it for a few rods, cut across a narrow strip of field, seated himself deliberately upon a gnarled tree-trunk, and looked out upon a tiny inlet that was just discernible through the bushes.

There, of a certainty, lay a pretty sloop at anchor, and presently there came to Harvey’s ears the creaking of the halyards and of the ropes in the blocks as the mainsail fluttered up.

“He’s in a tearing rush to get away, sure enough,” muttered Harvey. “Now he is getting up the anchor, and slatting it up in lively style, too. But he is a stronger man than I am, there’s no mistake about that,” and Harvey felt of two lumps on his head that bore witness to the man’s violence.

“If I only had Joe Hinman and Allan Harding here now he wouldn’t sail away so easily. But that’s neither here nor there. I’ll know that elegant hull, however, and I’ll know that slick-setting suit of sails anywhere in all this bay, and I’ll get even with him yet. The Surprise couldn’t catch that boat in a race in a hundred years, but I’ll catch him napping somewhere between here and Portland, or I have sailed this bay for nothing.”

The yacht, its sails filling to the light morning airs, sailed slowly out from its place of hiding and faded away into the darkness.

Jack Harvey, waiting a moment longer to rest, started off on an easy jog-trot back to camp. “For,” said he to himself, “the Surprise must up anchor and after that fellow before daylight. We’ll catch him first, and then find out what he has been up to. Perhaps he is another —

“Why, by Jove!” exclaimed Harvey, suddenly, “what a fool I am! How could I ever have forgotten for a moment where I saw that face once before? The man in the rowboat! Whoop! And that yacht is the Eagle, as sure as my name is Harvey. And that man is Chambers. And to think I came across the bay with him, alone at night!”

The cold drops of perspiration stood out on Harvey’s forehead at the very thought of it.

Over hills and through woods ran Harvey, his arms pressed close to his sides and his head down. He had gone about a mile in this way when, upon emerging from a dense clump of bushes and ascending at the same time a little hill, he paused to survey the prospect ahead.

The sight that met his eyes astounded him. Up against the black morning sky there streamed a broad flaring of red, irregular and uncertain. Now it streamed up in a widely diffused glare. Again it darted up in a series of sharp streaks of red.

“Heavens!” cried Harvey. “It’s the hotel and it’s all on fire! Now I know it’s Chambers, for certain. Now I know why he struck me down. Now I know what we’ll hunt him for and what we’ll catch him for.”

Harvey, redoubling his speed, raced for his camp.

While this strange chase of Harvey after the man had been going on, even more exciting things had been happening at the hotel.

Shortly before the time the man had run into Harvey in the pasture and knocked him down, the boys had finished an absorbing game of billiards, had put cues and balls carefully away, extinguished the lights, and left the hotel.

They were in high spirits at their harmless adventure, as they walked a short distance together, and then separated.

“I think I’ll go along with you,” said Henry Burns to Tom and Bob, “if you’ll give me that spare blanket to put down on the floor.” And the boys locked arms with him in answer, as they said good night to the Warrens. They were soon inside the tent, and, too weary to undress, threw themselves down with their clothes on to sleep.

But scarcely had they closed their eyes when the sound of persons running hard roused them, and they recognized the voices of the Warren boys, calling to them in excited tones.

The next moment the tent was burst open, and George and Joe Warren thrust their heads inside.

“Get up! Get up, boys, quick!” they cried, and Arthur, appearing the next instant, added his voice to the others. “Hurry!” they screamed. “The hotel’s afire and the flames are pouring out of the basement windows. We’ve got to give the alarm, and there’s no time to be lost.”

Tom and Bob and Henry Burns groaned in anguish; but the three sprang up and darted out of the door.

“Could we have done it? Oh, how could it have happened?” moaned Bob, as his teeth fairly chattered with excitement.

“I don’t see how,” answered Arthur Warren. “I put the lights out myself, and we didn’t light a match in all the time we were there.”

“Never mind,” said Henry Burns. “We’ve got to give the alarm. We’ve got to see that everybody gets out, and let the rest take care of itself.”

And they started on the run for the hotel. The fire was already plain to be seen, for the flames were gaining the most rapid headway, and a dense cloud of smoke mixed with flame poured out of the basement windows.

They rushed madly up the hotel steps, found the doors locked, smashed in one of the big front windows opening into the parlour, and one and all crawled inside, screaming “Fire!” at the top of their lungs.

Almost the first person they encountered was Colonel Witham, rushing down the front stairs to the office, his red face looking apoplectic with excitement.

“What’s this?” he yelled, as he came down-stairs two steps at a time. “Some more of your practical joking, I’ll be bound.” But then, as he breathed a choking cloud of smoke that by this time had begun to pour in from the direction of the parlour, he changed his tone.

“Good for you, boys!” he cried. “I guess you’ve saved us this time. Scatter through the halls now, quick. You can do it quicker than I can. We mustn’t let any one burn to death.”

The colonel was, indeed, out of breath and nearly helpless, and could be of little assistance.

The boys needed no urging. They ran from one end of the long halls to the other, up-stairs and down, pounding on every door and startling the inmates of the rooms from sleep.

The guests, rushing out on each floor into darkened halls, and smelling the all-pervading smoke, were ready to jump from windows in panic; but the boys ran quickly among them, explained just where the fire was, just what the particular danger was, and guided them all to escape.

Thanks to them, not a life was lost, although there were several narrow escapes. Once when the guests had assembled and a count was taken to see that no one was missing, some one exclaimed: “Well, where’s Mrs. Newcome? Has any one seen her?”

Then there was a rush and a scurrying for the second floor, but the guests were met on the stairs by Joe Warren and Tom Harris, carrying the little old lady in their arms. They had knocked at her door and had received no response, and so, hurling themselves at the flimsy door, had burst it in, and found her on the floor in a dead faint.

“Perhaps this will kind of square accounts with the poor old lady,” said Joe Warren, as they laid her gently down at a safe distance from the fire. “She used to complain that we made more noise than a band of wild Indians, and were always disturbing her afternoon naps, but I guess she won’t complain of our disturbing this nap.” Then the boys left her in the care of the guests, and hurried back to the fire.

The fire had gained rapid headway, and there was no hope of saving the new part of the hotel, at least. The old-fashioned town fire-engine came rattling up in charge of Captain Sam, but, though the guests and villagers and the boys all took turns at the pumps, the machine could do little more than throw a feeble stream up as high as the base of the second-story windows. The water-supply of the hotel, which was pumped by a windmill at a distance, was of more avail, but it was helpless against the headway that the flames had gained.

Soon the whole front end of the hotel collapsed, sending up a fierce cloud of smoke, ashes, and sparks.

“Lucky we’re not in there now,” exclaimed one of the guests. “By the way, has anybody stopped to think that we should all probably have been burned to death if it hadn’t been for these boys that we’ve been complaining of all summer? Guess we’ll owe them a vote of thanks, at least, when this is over.”

“We can’t be too thankful that everybody’s saved,” said another.

“That all may be,” growled Colonel Witham, “but I can’t see so much to be thankful for in watching a twenty-five thousand dollar hotel burn to pieces, and I’ve got the lease of it – ” But his sentence was interrupted by a piercing wail that came from the scene of the fire, and, following the sound of the noise, one and all looked up in time to see a large, handsome tiger cat leap from a window from which smoke was pouring to a narrow ledge which was as yet untouched by the flames. There it crouched, crying with fear.

“Oh, it’s poor Jerry! It’s my poor Jerry!” cried a thin, piping voice, and old Mrs. Newcome, roused from her faint, came forward, trembling and waving her hands helplessly. “Oh, can’t somebody save him?” she cried. “He knows more than lots of these boys. Why don’t somebody do something?”

“Can’t erzactly see as anybody’s goin’ ter risk his life for a fool cat,” muttered one of the villagers. “There ain’t no ladder’ll reach up there. Guess Jerry’s a goner, and lucky it ain’t a baby.”

Waving her hands wildly and moaning, Jerry’s old mistress was a pathetic sight, as Henry Burns went up and spoke to her.

“I’m afraid I can’t do much,” he said, “but I’ll try. You just wait here, and don’t take on so. I know some things about climbing around this hotel that the others don’t.” And he gave a quiet smile. Then he suddenly darted across to the old hotel, and, before any one could stop him, disappeared up the stairs. Wholly unmindful of the fact that a human being was risking his life for that of a dumb animal, old Mrs. Newcome took fresh hope and screamed shrilly, in words intended to encourage the terrified Jerry.

All at once the crowd of guests and villagers saw a boy’s slight figure at the edge of the hotel roof in relief against the sky.

“Who’s that?” they screamed. “I thought every one was safely out,” cried one to another.

“It’s that Burns boy, and he’s going to save Jerry,” piped old Mrs. Newcome. “He’s – ”

A howl of indignation drowned her voice, and a chorus of voices rose up to Henry Burns, demanding that he return.

But, helpless now to prevent, they saw him coolly divest himself of his coat, seize hold of a lightning-rod, and go hand over hand quickly to the top. Then he stood for a moment on the only remaining wall of the hotel, for the rest of the roof, though not yet aflame, had caved in and broken partly away from the end wall.

Along this narrow strip of wall crept Henry Burns; but when he had come to the end of it there was a sheer drop of ten feet down to the ledge where the cat crouched, wailing and lashing its tail.

“Go back! Go back!” screamed those below. “You can’t do anything.”

But Henry Burns, paying not the least attention, reached one hand into his pocket, drew from it a piece of rope, which he proceeded to lower till it dangled within reach of the unfortunate Jerry.

“Grab it, Jerry! Grab it!” piped old Mrs. Newcome; and, whether in answer to the familiar voice or from an appreciation of the situation, Jerry fastened his claws into the rope, clawed at it furiously till all four feet were fast, and so, miaowing shrilly, was drawn up to safety by Henry Burns.

Back along the wall he crawled, and, sliding down the lightning-rod, was once more on the roof of the old hotel. Then, with Mrs. Newcome’s cat perched on his shoulder, he shortly reappeared below, amid the cheering of the crowd.

“I’ll never say you boys are bad again and ought to be horsewhipped,” sobbed old Mrs. Newcome, as she fondled her pet.

But she got no farther, for a moment later the end wall, on which Henry Burns had stood shortly before, was seen to sway violently. Then, with a wrenching and tearing, as of beams split apart, and with grinding of timbers, it collapsed upon the roof of the old hotel, and a few minutes later that, too, was all ablaze, and there was nought to be done by any one but to stand helplessly and see the flames devour everything.

When morning lighted up the spot where on the previous day the hotel had stood, the pride of the village and the boast of Colonel Witham, the sun shone only on a charred and blackened heap of ruins.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE FLIGHT

Southport, rudely awakened from sleep as it had been, and awake all the rest of the night by so unusual and stirring an event as a fire, was too much excited to go back to its slumbers, but stayed awake through the morning hours to discuss it. A group of villagers hung around the grocery-store all day long, adjourning only now and then to journey to the spot where the hotel had been, where they stood solemnly contemplating the ruins, with all-absorbing interest in the twisted and distorted fragments that still bore some resemblance to whatever part they had constituted in the structure of the building.

There were dozens of theories advanced as to how the fire had started. The oil had exploded from spontaneous combustion; rats had set the blaze by gnawing at matches, and so on through the list of ordinary causes of fires; but as for Colonel Witham, with his customary suspicion of all human nature, he was sure of one theory, because it was his own, and that was, that the hotel had been set on fire. This he doggedly asserted and as stubbornly maintained. The hotel could not have set itself afire; therefore, some one must have done it. This was as plain as daylight to the colonel.

He fiercely questioned John Carr as to whether any lights had been left burning, but John Carr was loud and persistent in his assurances that the hotel had been as dark as Egypt when he had retired for the night.

But throughout all the discussion, that ranged through cottages, along the streets, and that spread throughout the length and breadth of the island, there were six boys who were silent, who took no part in it, but who kept away from wherever a group was gathered.

They were a serious-looking lot of boys as they assembled on the shore in front of the tent; so much of anxiety and apprehension showing unconcealed in their faces that one happening upon their council might have read therein a key to the mystery. It would have been a mistaken clue, of course, but it would have sufficed for the village and for Colonel Witham.

For a few moments not one of them spoke, though each boyish brain was turning the one awful subject over and over, vainly seeking the answer for a problem that defied all attempts at solution.

Finally Bob broke the awful silence.

“How could it have happened?” he exclaimed. At which there was a universal whistle and a shaking of heads.

“You see,” continued Bob, “it’s absolutely necessary for us to decide in our own minds, the first thing, whether it was our fault or not. Because, if it was, I suppose we’ve got to own up to it sometime or other, and we may as well do it first as last.”

“Better now, if at all, than later,” said Tom. “They might have some mercy on us now, being grateful that they didn’t burn up.”