Kitabı oku: «The Wilderness Castaways», sayfa 10

CHAPTER XVIII
STALKED BY WOLVES

AMESBURY filled his pipe, lighted it from the stove with one of the shavings he had whittled, and sat silently contemplating the streak of light which flashed through the stove vent. He seemed to Paul to have suddenly grown very old. His normally open, genial countenance was drawn and haggard, and Paul noted the streaks of gray in his brown hair and beard.

“It may do you good to hear the story,” Amesbury presently said. “I’ve never told it to any one, but it’s a pretty good warning to young fellows like you. I like you, and I hope you’ll not make the mistakes that I did.” He lapsed into silence again for a few moments, and then began:

“As I told you, my father was a minister—the gentlest, most affectionate, sympathetic man I ever knew. If there ever was a true servant of God he was one. There was never a sweeter or more devoted woman ever lived than my mother. I believe her spirit comes now of nights to kiss my forehead as I fall asleep, just as she did in those long ago days when I was a boy at home.

“She was tireless. Nothing seemed ever too great a task for her. The women of my father’s church looked upon her in a way as their counselor, and they used to come to her with their troubles, as the men came to my father; and men and women were always certain of both sympathetic and practical assistance.

“I had one sister, three years my senior, and we were chums and constant companions. We were both born with a passionate love of music, and when she was twelve and I nine years of age my father, with much stinting and scraping, purchased her a piano and me a violin.

“My violin instructor was an old German, who was to come to the Manse once a week to give me a lesson. He was a very impatient old fellow, but a good teacher, and with my interest in music I made good progress. The pleasantest memories of my life are of evenings when my mother sat sewing, and my father relaxed in his easy chair, while Helen played the piano and I accompanied her on the violin.

“My father designed me, I believe, from my birth, for the ministry. I was a good student, and at sixteen entered college. Here a new world opened to me. I had always lived in an atmosphere of religion. Perhaps I had become satiated with it. At any rate I took only too kindly to the wild life of the crowd I fell in with at college.

“For the most part the students were industrious, but there were a few, as there always are, who indulged themselves in dissipation because they thought it smart, and it was my misfortune to be drawn among these at the beginning. Perhaps the novelty, in strong contrast with my home life, attracted me. I do not know.

“At first our dissipations were of a rather mild sort, and I did pretty well during the freshman year. But during my sophomore year I got in with a still wilder crowd, and took part in several discreditable escapades. Some of my companions drank, and early in the year I for the first time in my life tasted spirituous liquors. Before college closed for the summer vacation I had twice been mildly intoxicated. Of course my parents knew nothing of this, but they did know that I had neglected my studies and was conditioned in Greek, barely passing the test in other subjects.

“The escapades of the sophomore year became orgies in the junior. I drank hard at these times, and the liquor made me wild. I’ll not tell you of the carousings I took part in, nor the reprimands I received for class and other delinquencies. It came to a climax in early spring when I entered a class one day in an intoxicated condition, insulted the professor, and did some damage to the furniture.

“This ended in my dismissal from college. A full report of what had occurred preceded me home, and for the first time my parents learned of my debauchery. It was a terrible shock to them. I shall never forget their grief. If they had scolded or meted punishment it would have been different, but they did not. My mother threw her arms around my neck and cried as though her heart would break. My father, tears streaming down his cheeks, placed his hand upon my shoulder and called me his poor erring son. I promised them that I would reform. Helen talked with me and cried with me in private.

“My father’s life hope that I should follow his footsteps in the ministry was crushed, and he had forever lost his former habitual cheerfulness. The change in him—I always felt it when in his presence—hurt me terribly. I resolved to atone, so far as possible, for the past.

“I took up my old home life again. I attended meetings regularly, as my father wished, and devoted myself to my violin. My old German instructor was re-engaged, and I made such good progress that in the summer when I was twenty years of age he suggested that I go to Germany for a year, to continue my musical studies there.

“The prospect of a trip abroad filled me with enthusiasm. At first my parents objected, and particularly my mother, who was now in ill health, the result, I shall always believe, of the shock she received at the time of my expulsion from college. I plead so strongly, however, to be permitted to go, that at length both Father and Mother consented, and late in the summer I sailed.

“It was a mistake. There is much drinking among German students, and almost immediately I was drawn among the wildest drinkers and roysterers.

“During the winter my sister married a prosperous and wealthy young business man. They decided upon a brief wedding trip abroad, and planning a pleasant surprise for me said nothing of it in their letters beyond the particulars of the wedding, for during my absence it was the custom of Father and Helen to write me twice a week minute details of the home life.

“I shall never forget the morning they came. I had been out all the previous night with a party of drinking students and had returned to my apartment in a state of such beastly intoxication that I had thrown myself upon a couch, unable to undress and retire to my bed. Here I was sleeping when a loud knocking aroused me. Blear-eyed, unkempt, and smelling foul with liquor, I opened the door. There stood Helen and her husband.

“Their wedding trip was spoiled, of course. They decided to return home at once and take me with them. Helen made the excuse to our parents that I was in no physical condition to remain abroad longer. I think my father suspected something of the true cause, but he gave no hint of it, and I resumed my old life, but not with the same chastened feeling that I had experienced on the former occasion. I was becoming hardened.

“My father’s church and the manse where we lived were in upper New York, and to satisfy my desire for excitement I used frequently to take a run down town. It was on one of these occasions, a month after my return from abroad, that I met one of my former college companions. He asked me to drink with him and I accepted. One drink led to another, and when the liquor went to our heads we became hilarious and decided to make a night of it.

“In the small hours of morning we were sitting at a table in a low cafe and dance hall. Some others were at the table—people I had never met—and one of them made a remark at which I took offense. What it was I do not know. I only know that before my companion or the others at the table knew what I was about, I was on my feet and smashing a chair over the offender’s head.

“I was arrested and locked up, and the following day committed to the Tombs without bail to await the result of the injuries upon the man whom I had attacked. Then came remorse—awful, sincere remorse—for the life I had led and the hearts I had broken.

“My father, ever loving, ever sympathetic, came to console me. Again he called me his poor, erring boy, as he placed his arm around my shoulders, and tears, in spite of his effort to conceal them, wet his cheeks.

“I’ll not go into detail, or describe the agonizing weeks that followed. The man recovered. I was tried for my offense, and in view of the fact that I had never before been called before a court of justice, was sentenced to but one year in the penitentiary.

“On the day sentence was pronounced my mother died; killed, of course, by her boy’s disgrace. When my father returned from the funeral he resigned his pastorate. He could no longer stand before his congregation, and the congregation did not wish to retain the services of a minister whose son was a jail bird. Six months later he followed my mother. All that he had loved and lived for had been taken from him.

“Well, I served my sentence, and when I was released I came here. I had but one thought—to hide myself from the world. I could not stay in New York and disgrace my sister and her husband with my presence. I was truly penitent, but I realized that the world would not believe that. My presence would ever bring up the past.

“Here in the open I have been drawn closer and closer to the God my father and mother loved and worshiped. Since that awful night I have never tasted liquor. I have tried to live in rectitude, and so far as I can to atone for the past.

“I have never written my sister, for I wished her to forget the disgrace. She never knew what became of me when I left prison. She probably thinks me dead, and I have had no means of hearing from her.

“My violin has been my constant companion. Every evening when I am here I play to Father and Mother and Helen. I always see them when I play. I always see the dear old living room at home, Father in his easy chair, Mother sewing, and Helen at her piano playing a soft accompaniment.”

No one spoke for a long time. Then Ahmik rose and refilled the stove. Amesbury drew his ungainly frame together, strode to the door and stepped out. Presently he returned singing:

 
“‘Come, let’s to bed,
Says Sleepy-head.’
 

“It’s bedtime, fellows, and I know you’re tired. I’d take one of you in with me, but my bed is pretty narrow, and I’m afraid you wouldn’t be comfortable. Sleeping bags are pretty good, though. Paul, you have one already. Here’s one for you, Dan,” and Amesbury drew a warm sleeping bag from a chest. He was his whimsical, good-natured, normal self again.

The following day was Sunday. Amesbury held religious services directly after breakfast. Then he played the violin for an hour, and they all sang some hymns, after which they chatted, cozily gathered around the stove, Paul and Dan luxuriating in the homelike atmosphere that was a part of the cabin.

“Tomorrow,” said Amesbury after dinner, “Ahmik takes to his trapping trail, and we won’t see him again in a month. He goes westward. I’ll be going, too, for awhile. My trail takes me south, along one side of a chain of lakes, and swings back along the other side. I’ll be back in a week if the weather holds good. Takes me that long to make the rounds. You chaps make yourselves at home.”

“Can’t we go along and help you?” asked Paul. “It must be mighty tedious all alone.”

“No, not this trip. Perhaps I’ll take one of you at a time on later trips. I’ll tell you what! You and Dan do a little trapping on your own account. There are a lot of traps out here in the woodroom. Dan knows how to set them. Put them anywhere it looks good to you. I expect you to earn your board and something more, you know. I told you that before you came. I’ll give you a chance to work on shares. You can use my traps and I’ll board you for half your hunt. How does that suit you?”

“O, aye, ’twill be fine,” said Dan. “I were thinkin’, now, I’d like t’ do a bit o’ trappin’.”

“You might get a silver fox, and go home rich. Now think of that!” and Amesbury’s eyes twinkled.

“An’ is they silvers here?” asked Dan.

“Sometimes. Silvers, reds, cross, whites and blues. You’ll find martens in the timber. There are plenty of wolves, too—the big gray kind. You’ll hear them howling nights.”

“An’ is they wolves, now? I’d like wonderful well t’ kill some wolves.” Dan’s eyes sparkled.

“Not afraid of ’em, eh?” Amesbury laughed.

“They mostly keeps too far away. They’s cowards, wolves is.”

“Sometimes, but look out for packs.”

“Are there any bears?” asked Paul.

“Bears? Yes, there are bears, but you won’t see any. They’re all in their dens and won’t come out till spring.”

Long before dawn on Monday morning the boys were awakened from sound slumber by Amesbury singing, in full, melodious tones:

 
“‘Awake, arise, pull out your eyes,
And hear what time of day;
And when you have done,
Pull out your tongue,
And see what you can say.’”
 

Amesbury was cooking breakfast by candlelight, and the room was filled with the odor of coffee and frying venison steak. Ahmik was getting his things ready, preparatory to leaving. The boys crawled drowsily from their sleeping bags.

“Good morning, fellows,” called Amesbury cheerily. “Too bad to get you out so early, but Ahmik and I’ll have to be going. Wash up; breakfast’s ready.”

“We’ll miss you terribly,” said Paul. “It’s going to be pretty lonely when you’re gone.”

“It’ll be good to know I’m missed,” Amesbury laughed. Then more soberly: “I tell you it’s good to have you chaps here. I’ll look forward every day I’m gone to getting back. When I’m alone I never care much whether I’m here or somewhere else. But now I’ve the pleasant anticipation before me of coming home to a jolly good day or two each week with you fellows. Your coming here means a lot to me.”

“You’re mighty good to say so. It was so splendid of you to bring us from the post!” declared Paul.

“You’ve got to earn your way, you know, and if you work hard you’ll earn a little money besides.”

With the first hint of gray dawn Amesbury and Ahmik donned their snowshoes, said adieu, and, each hauling his flat-sled, were quickly swallowed by the black shadows of the forest.

It was a marvelously beautiful day. The rising sun set the frost-clad trees and snow sparkling and scintillating, the atmosphere was clear and transparent, and it was altogether too entrancing out of doors for the lads to forego an excursion. They had become well inured to the severe cold, growing more intense with the lengthening January days, and shrank from it not at all.

“Let’s begin our trapping today,” Paul suggested. “It’s just too great to stick inside.”

“Now I were thinkin’ that,” said Dan. “We might be settin’ some traps, an’ get our trails begun.”

“All right; that’s bully!” Paul exclaimed enthusiastically. “I never did any trapping, and I’d like to learn how.”

They selected a dozen traps each, and cut some bits of venison to bait them with. Dan carried one of Amesbury’s axes and Paul’s shotgun, explaining: “We might be seein’ some birds, now,” but Paul, with his own light axe and his share of traps, decided his rifle would be too heavy to carry.

Half a mile from the cabin, in a creek valley, Dan stopped, and pointing to tracks in the snow, explained:

“Them’s marten tracks, an’ I’m thinkin’ we’ll set a trap here.”

He accordingly selected a spruce tree about four inches in diameter, cut it off four feet above the snow, and in the top of the stump made a V-shaped notch. He then trimmed all the branches, except the brush at the top, from the tree, and with the brush end lying in the snow, laid the butt end firmly in the notch cut in the top of the stump, with the butt projecting, probably, four feet beyond the stump. With his axe he now split the butt of the tree, and prying it open inserted a piece of the venison they had brought for bait. Just back of the bait, and on top of the tree trunk, he fastened and set a trap.

“There,” remarked Dan, “I finds that a rare easy way t’ set marten traps, an’ a good un, too. Th’ marten walks up th’ tree t’ get th’ bait, an’ right in th’ trap.”

“I can do that all right,” said Paul.

“Oh, yes, you can do un. ’Tis easy, now you knows how. I’m thinkin’ you might be workin’ up this brook, an’ set th’ traps you has, an’ I cuts over t’ th’ west’ard an’ finds another place t’ set mine.”

“All right,” assented Paul, “and then we’ll each have our own traps to look after. It’s going to be great sport, Dan.”

“’T will be fine t’ blaze trees high up where you sets traps, t’ mark th’ traps,” cautioned Dan. “When you gets through now, don’t be waitin’ for me. I’ll make back t’ th’ cabin.”

Accordingly they parted. Dan, turning to the right, disappeared, and Paul, passing up the valley, was presently deeply engrossed in his work. Once he fancied he heard something behind him, but there was nothing to be seen when he turned to look, and concluding he had imagined it he dismissed it from his mind and continued his work.

His last trap was set late in the afternoon, and, very hungry, he turned toward the cabin. A little way down the trail he again had the sensation that some creature was stealthily following him, but still there was nothing visible. This feeling clung to him now, and presently made him so nervous that he increased his pace to a trot.

He was still a full mile from the cabin when, again glancing behind, he discovered two great, skulking animals a hundred yards in his rear. “Husky dogs!” he said aloud, and felt momentary relief from his anxiety. Then like a flash he realized that they were not dogs at all, but big, savage gray wolves. A cold chill ran up Paul’s back. He had no arms save his axe. The wolves had stopped. They were sitting upon their haunches, eyeing him hungrily.

CHAPTER XIX
ON THE FUR TRAILS

PAUL and the wolves watched each other for a full minute. When Paul’s first terror left him somewhat, and when he remembered what Dan had so often said: “They ain’t no beast to be skeered of in this country,” and again: “Wolves is big cowards unless they’s in packs,” he regained his self composure somewhat. Here were two, to be sure, but two could hardly be designated as a pack.

He also remembered that he had heard that a loud scream would sometimes frighten savage animals, and gathering his energies for it, he took a step toward the wolves, at the same instant opening his lungs in one wild, vociferous yell. The wolves, however, were not to be frightened so easily. They sat with their tongues lolling, and if an animal’s countenance can display amused wonder, theirs certainly did.

Paul, with a renewal of his fear, resumed his trail home. He wished to run, but Amesbury had told a story of having been followed by three or four once, when he was unarmed, and had stated that the fact that he had not increased his pace, and had given the animals no evidence of fear, had prevented them from attacking him. “An animal knows when you’re frightened,” explained Amesbury. “Let him feel that you’re in fear of him, and he’ll attack. If you’re ever followed, keep an even, unhurried gait, and they’ll be shy of you. But start to run and the beast will do the same, and overtake you every time.”

So Paul kept as even a pace as he could maintain under the circumstances. Now and again he glanced back. The wolves were following. For a little way they seemed not to be lessening the distance between him and them. At length, however, he discovered that they were coming closer and closer—very gradually, but still gaining upon him. Once or twice he stopped and they stopped, but when he started forward so did they.

When Paul made the second halt he noted with alarm that the wolves had shortened the distance between him and them, since he had first discovered them, by half. He knew then without a doubt that they had marked him for their prey.

He had not yet reached the point where Dan had parted from him in the morning. It was all he could do to restrain himself from breaking into a run, but this he was satisfied would prove immediately fatal.

At length the wolves were less than a hundred feet from his heels, and when he reached the branching of his own and Dan’s trails they were less than fifty feet away. He realized now that they were preparing for the attack. He could not hope to reach the cabin.

He halted before a clump of thick willow brush that grew along the stream, and faced about. The wolves stopped, sat on their haunches as before, their red tongues hanging from their mouths. He could see the fierce gleam of their eyes now.

He resolved to try again to frighten them, and again he gave a wild yell, stepping a pace toward them. They drew in their tongues and snarled, showing their wicked fangs. He who has seen the snarl of a wolf will understand Paul’s sensations. There was no doubt now of their intentions.

Paul was afraid to turn his back upon them. He felt the moment he did so they would spring. The cabin was still a half mile away. He waited, his axe grasped in both hands, prepared to strike.

This position was held for ten minutes, though it seemed an hour to Paul. Presently the animals took to their feet, and gradually edged in, snarling now in savage malevolence. One at last made a spring. Paul saw the preparatory move, swung his axe with all his strength, caught the beast square on the head, and it fell lifeless at his feet. At the same instant a rifle shot rang out, and the other wolf rolled over, also dead.

With the severe nervous strain and excitement ended, Paul nearly collapsed, but a shout from Dan brought him to his senses.

“Is you hurt, Paul? Is you hurt?” Dan asked as he came up, intense anxiety in his voice.

“No,” answered Paul, putting, on a bold face, “but they did give me a run for it.”

“’T was a wonderful close call!” exclaimed Dan. “I were comin’ t’ meet you when I hears you holler. I were leavin’ th’ gun in th’ cabin, an’ I has none, so I runs back an’ gets your rifle. ’T weren’t no common holler you gives, an’ I knows when I hears un things is amiss somehow, so I gets th’ rifle, an’ ’t were well I got un.”

“I thought for a minute it was all up with me, Dan. I’ll never go out without a gun again.”

“No, ’t ain’t safe. They’s wonderful bold, when just two of un comes at you,” and Dan turned over with his foot the carcass of the wolf Paul had killed. “I never heard of un doin’ that before. Paul, I were sayin’ t’ you once you was wonderful brave. You got a rare lot more grit than most folks.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Paul, exceedingly proud of Dan’s praise, but modestly inclined to deprecate his own prowess. “I just had to do what I did, or they’d have got me.”

“Were un follerin’ far?”

Paul explained in detail, as they returned to the cabin to get their toboggans upon which to haul in the carcasses, his afternoon’s adventure. When he had finished Dan said quietly and decisively:

“’Twere only th’ wonderful grit you has, Paul, as saved your life. If you’d run, now, or showed you was scared, they’d ha’ pulled you down quick.”

“Won’t my father be proud of that skin!” exclaimed Paul when they had the skins stretched for drying. “I’ll have it mounted for a rug, and won’t it be a beaut!”

“Both o’ un,” suggested Dan. “They’ll make a fine pair together.”

“But the other one is yours, Dan.”

“No, ’t ain’t.”

“Yes it is. You killed it and you’ve got to have it.”

Dan objected still, but in the end Paul persuaded him it was his.

“Dad’ll be wonderful proud t’see un,” admitted Dan.

For two days a snowstorm, with high wind, swept the country, and Amesbury did not appear on Saturday, but while the lads were eating a late breakfast on Sunday morning they heard him singing outside:

 
“‘Yeow mustn’t sing a’ Sunday,
Becaze it is a sin;
But yeow may sing a’ Monday,
Till Sunday cums agin.’”
 

A moment later he came stamping in.

“Home again!” he exclaimed breezily, “and just in time for breakfast. How’ve you made it, fellows? Heigho! What’s this I see? Two wolf skins as sure as can be.”

He examined them as he listened to the story of the adventure, and his face became grave.

“What would I have done now if I’d come home to find one of you chaps missing? If you want to save me remorse and heartaches, always carry a gun when you go hunting.”

The weeks that followed passed pleasantly for Paul and Dan, though there was much hard work and exposure connected with their work. They gradually extended their trails, putting out more traps each day until they had, between them, four hundred and fifty set, leading out in several short trails from the cabin. All of them were visited twice a week.

Amesbury’s weekly visit was looked forward to with keen anticipation, and he enjoyed it even more than the boys. Twice Ahmik surprised them. He came, laughing and good-natured, and on each occasion remained three days, a mark of his attachment to the lads.

Each of the boys was once taken by Amesbury over his trail, but as he plainly preferred that they remain to work their trails and to keep each other company, they refrained from suggesting a second trip with him.

“I’m always afraid that the one of you at home may go wolf-baiting again, or something,” said he, “and I feel better to know you’re both here taking care of each other.”

On a day late in March Amesbury came in from his trail with the announcement that he had struck up his traps for the season, and they would presently start for Winnipeg. This meant that at last they were to turn homeward, and as much as they had enjoyed their winter they were overjoyed at the prospect.

By prearrangement, Ahmik arrived simultaneously with Amesbury, and all were together in the cabin during the following week while pelts were made ready to carry to market, and the cabin made snug for Amesbury’s extended absence.

Dan had succeeded in capturing thirty-two fine martens and Paul twenty-six. Utilizing the wolf and other carcasses for bait, they had also trapped five red, two cross, three blue and fourteen white foxes, setting the traps for the foxes in common. Dan declared he had caught twice as much fur during these few weeks as his father had ever had in a whole winter. “And Dad’s a wonderful fine hunter, too,” said he, “but they ain’t no such furrin’ where we lives as they is here.”

One cold, clear morning they said good-by to the little cabin on Indian Lake, and, each hauling his toboggan, turned southward. Day after day they traveled, through forests, over frozen lakes, across wide barren expanses of snow.

All wore amber-colored glasses, which Amesbury provided, to protect their eyes from the glitter, for, he explained, were they to travel with naked eyes they would quickly be attacked by painful snowblindness.

Now and again they were held prisoners in camp for a day or two, when severe storms visited the country. Occasionally they killed ptarmigans, spruce grouse, porcupines, or other small game, sufficient to keep them well supplied with provisions.

They did not hurry, and April was well spent when they reached Moose Lake, where Amesbury had a small hunting cabin, and, under a cover built of logs, two Peterboro canoes and one birch canoe. The cabin itself was small and naked of furniture, save camp cooking utensils, a tent stove and a couple of three-legged stools. Bunks were built around two sides of the room, which also served as seats.

“This was my first camp,” explained Amesbury. “I built it twenty years ago. There’s a Hudson Bay post down the lake, and in those days I didn’t want to wander too far from a base of supplies. I come in here and do a little bear trapping after I leave Indian Lake, and every two or three years take a run down to Winnipeg in a canoe. I take some of my provisions in from here, and get some from your old friend Davy MacTavish.”

Here they went into camp, and before the ice in the lake broke up made a snowshoe trip to the post, where flour, sugar, pork and other necessities were purchased and hauled back on toboggans.

This period of waiting was very tedious to the lads. The snow was becoming soft and wet, the woods were sloppy, and had less of attraction than in the crisp cold weather of midwinter.

One night in May a heavy rain set in, and for a week it fell in a steady downpour. The snow became slush, and when the sun came out again, now warm and balmy, much of the ground was bare, and Moose Lake was nearly clear of ice.

“Now for the canoe and the homestretch,” announced Amesbury, upon looking out upon the water and clear sky. “Tomorrow we’ll start. What do you fellows say to that?”

“Bully!” exclaimed Paul. “I can hardly wait for the time when I’ll get home.”

“’T will be fine t’ be afloat ag’in,” said Dan, “an’ I’m wantin’ wonderful bad t’ see Mother an’ Dad, an’ tell ’em about my cruise.”

“I thought you’d be ready to go. Big tales you chaps will have to tell of your adventures. I almost wish I were going with you,” and Amesbury looked wistfully down over the lake.

“Why you are, aren’t you?” asked Paul.

“Yes, as far as Winnipeg, to be sure. I want to see you chaps safe aboard the train. Couldn’t take chances on your getting mixed up in any more trouble,” he laughed.

“Can’t you come on to New York with us?” asked Paul eagerly. “Oh, I wish you could.”

“New York is a long way off, and a rough old trapper like me wouldn’t know what to do in a big city like that.”

“Yes, you would! I do wish you’d go home with me!”

Amesbury shook his head.

“No, I’m better off here, and I wouldn’t do New York any good.”

“Now I’m wonderin’ how I’ll be gettin’ home,” suggested Dan. “I’ve been wonderin’ an’ wonderin’. I’m all out o’ my reckonin’, goin’ different from th’ way I comes, an’ cruisin’ around.”

“Why,” explained Amesbury, “you’ll travel with Paul until he gets off and leaves you, and then you’ll keep going on the train until the conductor puts you off, and you take another train. I’ll tag you so you can’t go astray,” he added, laughing.

“No,” protested Paul, “Dan’s going right through to New York with me, and my father’ll see that he gets home all right.”

“That’s a good plan,” assented Amesbury. “Then I won’t have to tag you, and you won’t get lost.”

“But I’m thinkin’,” said Dan, “I’ll be stoppin’ off t’ St. Johns, an’ not be goin’ on t’ New York. I’m wantin’ wonderful bad t’ get home.”

“You’re going home with me first,” Paul insisted. “My father and mother have just got to see you. I want to tell them how you saved my life.”

“Yes,” Amesbury laughed, “I’m inclined to agree with Paul, and New York won’t take you so much out of your way. St. Johns is farther off than New York, and you can go on from New York by steamer, and perhaps get there just as soon.”