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Canoe Boys and Campfires - Graydon

CHAPTER I INTRODUCING THE BOYS

CHAPTER II PLANNING THE TRIP

CHAPTER III THE CRUISE BEGINS

CHAPTER IV ADRIFT IN THE DARKNESS

CHAPTER V DISAPPEARANCE OF NUGGET

CHAPTER VI THE LOST FOUND

CHAPTER VII BATTERS AND JOE

CHAPTER VIII HOW THE DAY DAWNED

CHAPTER IX A SAFE SHELTER

CHAPTER X A TRAMP ACROSS COUNTRY

CHAPTER XI SEARCHING FOR THE CAMP

CHAPTER XIII OVER THE CLIFF

CHAPTER XIII WHAT CLAY SHOT

CHAPTER XIV CAUGHT IN THE WHIRLPOOL

CHAPTER XV RANDY'S PROPOSITION

CHAPTER XVI A SHATTERED DELUSION

CHAPTER XVII THE STORM BREAKS

CHAPTER XVIII AT THE MERCY OF THE TEMPEST

CHAPTER XIX ADRIFT ON A LOG

CHAPTER XX MR. DUDE MOXLEY

CHAPTER XXI A MYSTERIOUS WARNING

CHAPTER XXII AN INSOLENT DEMAND

CHAPTER XXIII A DARING ATTEMPT

CHAPTER XXIV AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER

CHAPTER XXV THE SIEGE BEGINS

CHAPTER XXVI BUG'S PROPOSITION

CHAPTER XXVII THE BURNING OF THE MILL

CHAPTER XXVIII A GOOD DEED

CHAPTER XXIX RANDY GOES SAILING

CHAPTER XXX A NIGHT ALARM

CHAPTER XXXI STORMY WEATHER

CHAPTER XXXII THE BROKEN DAM

CHAPTER XXXIII UNDERGROUND CRUISE

CHAPTER XXXIV DESPAIR

CHAPTER XXXV NUGGET DISCOVERS A LIGHT

CHAPTER XXXVI HOME AGAIN

* * *

CANOE BOYS AND

CAMPFIRES

Or,

Adventures on Winding Waters

BY

WILLIAM MURRAY GRAYDON

Author of "From Lake to Wilderness," "With Puritan and

Pequod," "The Camp in the Snow," etc.

ILLUSTRATED

THE WORLD SYNDICATE PUBLISHING CO.

CLEVELAND NEW YORK

Made in U. S. A.

CANOE BOYS AND CAMPFIRES

* * *

CHAPTER I

INTRODUCING THE BOYS

"I say, Ned, this is beginning to grow wearisome," drawled Randy Moore as he tipped his chair against the wall, and crossed his feet on the low railing in front of him. "Clay promised to be here half an hour ago," he went on in an injured tone, "and if he doesn't come in a few minutes I'm going to have a spin on the river. It's aggravating to sit here and do nothing. I can count a dozen boats between the railroad bridge and Bushy Island."

"I wouldn't mind being out myself," said Ned Chapman, "but we have important business to transact to-night, Randy, and I think it would be wiser to let boating go for once. I have everything planned out in ship shape fashion, and it only wants the seal of approval from you and Clayton."

"Oh! you have, have you?" exclaimed Randy with a sudden show of interest. "That's good news, Ned. If Clay knew the momentous question was to be settled at last, he would stir himself to get here, wherever he is. I'll give him ten minutes' grace."

"You'll give him as many minutes as he needs," rejoined Ned. "There must be some reason for his delay. It's new for him to be late. He's always the first to keep an engagement."

"We'll know when he comes," said Randy wisely. "Stop talking now. I want to count the boats. I never saw so many on the river before."

The two boys were sitting on a narrow balcony that projected from the second floor of a neat but unpretentious boathouse. The rear end of the edifice was built against the sloping base of the river bank.

From the park above a flight of steps, with a single hand rail, led down to the main entrance, which was on the second floor. The other end of the apartment opened on the balcony and faced the Susquehanna river.

From the lower floor, which held a number of boats and canoes, a plank walk sloped to the water's edge, ten or fifteen yards away.

Randy Moore was the fortunate owner of this snug little piece of property. The Harrisburg boys envied him his gun, his dog and his pony, but they would have fairly bowed down before him if by so doing they could have been put on the list of those favored ones who made free and daily use of the boathouse.

A "luck fellow" was the general verdict concerning Randy, and it was a true one. His father was wealthy and never refused to gratify any reasonable desire of his only son. In consequence Randy was somewhat spoiled and self willed, but in other ways he was really a sensible lad.

The fact of his own superior position in life never occurred to him in relation to his companions. He gave himself no airs, and expected no homage or adulation.

His chief fault was a strong and uncurbed will, and he unfortunately had a quick temper. He was just sixteen years old, and was strong and hardy. He had dark eyes and hair, and a pleasing, attractive face.

Randy's most intimate friend, Ned Chapman, differed from him in every respect, and made an admirable foil for the other's impetuous temperament. Ned's father was a merchant in moderate circumstances, and he had just reason to be proud of his son's bringing up.

Ned was a steady, sensible lad, with very rigid ideas of right and wrong. Not that there was anything "priggish" about him. On the contrary, he was always the foremost in any undertaking that provided a little sport.

He was intensely fond of outdoor life, and was an acknowledged authority on everything relating to fishing, hunting, canoeing, and boating. But he did not allow recreation to interfere with his studies.

He and Randy were pupils at the academy, and both stood high in their classes.

Ned was a year older than Randy and half a head taller. He had brown hair, grayish brown eyes, and a deeply bronzed complexion, the result of living much in the open air and under the burning glow of the summer sun.

His face wore an expression of habitual good humor, and he had a rare command of his temper.

His grave displeasure was more dreaded than a passionate outburst would have been.

And now that two of the characters have been introduced to the reader, we must resume the thread of the story.

Randy's stipulated ten minutes had gone by, and five additional ones, when a shrill whistle was heard in the rear of the boathouse.

Both doors were open, and when the boys turned in their chairs and looked through they saw their tardy companion descending the steps that led from the top of the bank.

"It's Clay at last," exclaimed Randy.

"And some one with him," added Ned, as a second figure came into view.

At that instant the lad in the rear slipped, plunged head foremost down the remaining half dozen steps, knocking Clay to one side, and sprawled out in the doorway like a flattened frog.

Ned and Randy sprang up and hurried through the room.

"Why, it's Nugget," they exclaimed in great surprise. "Where did you come from, old fellow? We're awfully glad to see you."

Nugget, otherwise known as Nugent Blundell, rose painfully to his feet and glared at the boys.

"Why don't you ask me if I'm hurt?" he demanded wrathfully. "I believe you fellows greased those steps on purpose."

"See here, Nugget, you don't believe anything of the sort," said Ned. "I'm sorry you fell, and I'm glad you're not hurt. Come, old fellow, shake hands."

Nugget's face assumed a mollified expression, and he accepted a hearty handclasp from Ned and Randy. Then he began to brush the dust from his neat gray suit and patent leather shoes.

Meanwhile Clayton Halsey had been fairly choking with stifled mirth in a dark corner of the room. He now came forward, trying hard to assume an expression of gravity.

He was a short, thickset lad, with a beaming countenance, red cheeks, blue eyes, and light curly hair. He was in the same class at the academy with Ned and Randy, and their constant companion on all occasions. His father was a prominent lawyer.

"What kept you so long?" asked Randy in a slightly aggrieved tone.

"That," replied Clay, pointing at Nugget. "He arrived in town this afternoon, and came to the house after supper. I knew you fellows would be glad to see him, so I brought him along. But what do you think?" added Clay, winking slyly at Ned and Randy, "Nugget says he's going canoeing with us."

This piece of information produced a startling effect. Ned puckered his lips and gave a low whistle. Randy stared at Clay for an instant and then burst into a laugh.

Why this avowal on Nugget's part was received in such a peculiar way will be more clearly understood if a few words be said about that young gentleman himself.

Nugget was a New York boy, greatly addicted to cream colored clothes, white vests, patent leather shoes, high collars, gorgeous neckties, kid gloves, and canes.

He was about seventeen years old, and was tall and slender.

He had gray eyes, a sandy complexion and straight flaxen hair, which he wore banged over his forehead. A vacuous stare usually rested on his face, and he spoke in a slow, aggravating drawl.

Nugget had made the acquaintance cf the boys during the previous summer, which he spent with his uncle in Harrisburg. He was a good enough fellow in some ways, but the several occasions on which he had been induced to go on fishing and boating excursions, had resulted in disaster and ridicule at poor Nugget's expense.

"What Nugget doesn't know about swell parties, and dancing, and operas isn't worth knowing," Clay Halsey had said at that time; "but when it comes to matters of sport he doesn't know any more than a two days' old kitten."

The truth of this terse remark was readily appreciated by Clay's companions, and their present amazement and consternation on learning that Nugget wanted to go canoeing with them, can be easily conceived.

"Are you in dead earnest, Nugget?" asked Randy after a pause.

"Of course I am," was the aggressive reply. "I don't see anything funny about it though. I haven't been very well lately, and father let me stop school a month ahead of time, and come over here. I know he'll let me go canoeing if I write and ask him."

"But canoeing is vastly different from the kind of trips you made with us last summer," said Ned. "There is a good deal of hardship about it. You remember what a fuss you used to make over the merest trifles."

"You'll have to wear rough flannels and old clothes," added Randy. "You can't take kid gloves and patent leathers with you."

"And you'll have to sleep on the ground," put in Clay, "and eat coarse food. No chocolate cake and ice cream about canoeing."

"Oh, stop your chaffing," drawled Nugget sullenly. "I understand all that. I'm not as green as you think. If you fellows can stand it I can. Besides I've been practicing on the Harlem River this spring. I paddled a canoe from the Malta boathouse clear to High Bridge and back. And I didn't raise a single blister."

"I'll bet you wore gloves," said Clay mockingly.

Nugget flushed with anger and confusion, but said nothing.

"It's time to stop that now, Clay," said Ned authoratively. "If Nugget wants to go along I don't see any serious objections. No doubt the trip will do him lots of good. But that question can be settled later. Give us some light, Randy, and I'll show you what I've got here."

* * *

* * *

CHAPTER II

PLANNING THE TRIP

It was not yet dark outside but Randy lit the handsome brass lamp that stood on the square oaken table, and the yellow glow shone into every corner of the room.

The apartment was furnished in the manner most dear to the hearts of boys. The polished floor was strewn with soft rugs, and the walls were hung with pictures and amateur photographs. In the corners and over the mantels were fencing foils and masks, fishing rods, baseball bats, creels, and several pairs of crossed canoe paddles which showed traces of hard usage.

When the boys had dragged chairs to the table and seated themselves, Ned drew a little bunch of papers from his pocket, and opened them with a flourish.

"When the question of a canoe trip came up a month ago," he began, "I told you it would be better fun to cruise on some small stream than on the Susquehanna. I knew what I was talking about, because I paddled the whole distance last year, from Lake Otsego to the bay.

"I suggested the Conodoguinet Creek as the best cruising ground we could find around here, and promised to get all the information about it I could. I have kept my promise.

"Here is a map of the Cumberland Valley on a large scale, showing the entire course of the creek, and all its windings. You can examine that at your leisure. First I want to tell you what I have learned.

"Of course you knew that the Conodoguinet was about the most crooked stream in existence. We have evidence enough of that near home. You remember the big bend above Oyster's Dam—three miles around, and one field's length across. Well, there are bigger bends than that further up the valley.

"From the mouth of the creek to Carlile is just eighteen miles in a straight line. By the windings of the creek it is ninety miles. The distance was accurately measured and surveyed a number of years ago.

"Oakville is twenty miles beyond Carlile, and from there I propose that we should start. The upper part of the creek is not quite so crooked, but we are sure of a cruise of not less than one hundred and fifty miles. The creek is navigable all the way from Oakville, and there are not more than twelve or fifteen dams in the whole distance.

"The water is deep, and the current is swift in some places, sluggish in others. The channel winds through heavy timber lands and between high, rocky cliffs. The mountains are not far away. The fishing is splendid, and woodcock and snipe are plentiful."

Here Ned laid down the bundle of notes from which he had been reading.

"It will be a delightful trip," he added eagerly. "The Susquehanna can't compare with it. Instead of having to paddle our twenty or thirty miles a day in the broiling sun, and camp on gravel bars or grass flats, we can drift leisurely in the cool shade of the overhanging trees, stop when we please and as long as we please, and take our pick of a hundred beautiful camping places. In fact it will be a camping trip and canoe trip combined.

"And what's more we will be the first to navigate the creek. No canoe, or boat either, has ever made the winding journey from the head waters to the mouth. It is unexplored territory, except to the farmers and a few stray fishermen. You can take your choice now. Which is it to be? The Susquehanna or the Conodoguinet?"