CHAPTER XXIX.

AFTER THE TRAGEDY.

The mischievous lad had been one of those who had been regaling themselves during the performance with peanuts, and the mark which Ethan presented was more than his youthful spirit could resist. Leaning forward, he quickly dropped into the wide-open mouth of the slumbering boatman one of his choicest bits, and before Jock could touch the man, the explosion came.

Ethan was instantly awake, and coughing, almost strangling, stared wildly about him. For a moment even the somewhat pessimistic views to which Hamlick was giving utterance on the stage were ignored by the audience, and the noisy boatman was the observed of all observers.

His efforts were so violent that either strangulation or relief was bound to result, and as the latter came, Ethan turned sharply and looked behind him. The demure face of the lad who had been the means of his somewhat sudden awakening did not even glance at him, and after a brief pause Ethan solemnly resumed his seat, and Hamlick proceeded with his misty surmisings.

Perhaps the play by this time had gained full headway, and nothing could interfere with its progress. At all events, no further interruptions occurred, save those of a minor character, and after a time the end came. The audience then solemnly filed out from the room, and soon few were left besides our party and those who had taken part in the play.

In spite of the ludicrous events which had interfered somewhat with the solemnity of the occasion, the boys were impressed with the amount of study which Tom and some of his companions had bestowed upon the parts assigned them. As Hamlick himself came forth from behind the scenes he was warmly greeted by Jock, and complimented upon the success he had attained.

"And do you really think we did it all right?" inquired Tom, eagerly.

"We have had a most enjoyable evening," replied Bob, soberly. "I can't understand yet why it was that you selected such a play for a popular audience."

"That was the schoolmaster's doings," said Tom. "I thought myself it was almost too difficult a piece; but he told us to get something good while we were at it, and something it would pay us to remember, so we chose 'Hamlet.' We give something almost every year, you see. Last year we gave the trial scene from 'Pickwick Papers,' but the folks here didn't seem to see the fun in it. They took it all in sober earnest, and never laughed from the beginning to the end. So this year we thought we'd try something in the tragedy line."

"Where do you get all the books you read, Tom?" inquired Bob.

"Some of them are in our school library and some the minister lends to us. We don't have very much besides history. I'm grateful to you," he added, turning to Bert as he spoke, "for hearing me speak my part up in the camp. It did me a sight of good."

"Don't mention it," said Bert, hurriedly.

Tom's reading had become a serious matter with our boys. His attainments had been so unlooked for, and, as far as the solid work was concerned, he had done so much more than they, that no one was inclined to belittle him now, no matter how much the young boatman's lack of familiarity with the manners and customs of "city folks" had impressed them upon their arrival at the camp.

"Heow was it? Pooty fair, I judge," said Ethan, who now approached the group, asking and answering his own question at the same time.

"The young people are to be congratulated upon the serious study they have given Shakespeare's masterpiece," said Mr. Clarke, before any of the boys could reply.

"Glad to hear ye say it," responded Ethan, who, in spite of his apparent contempt for Tom's studies, was nevertheless interested far more deeply than he cared to show. "I don' know much abeout sech things myself," he continued. "I never read one o' Dickens's plays, nor Shakespeare's neither, for that matter. I had to work fur a livin' in my young days; but Tom here, he has lots o' time, and he jist keeps his nose in a book pretty much all winter. What d'ye think o' it? Will it do him any harm?" he inquired of Mr. Clarke, somewhat anxiously.

"Not a bit, not a bit," replied Mr. Clarke, cordially. "In fact, I think I know of some young people who might profit by his example."

"I never did think there was sech a sight o' difference between city folks and country folks. Neow ye've seen this same performance in the place where you live, I take it?"

"Yes," replied Mr. Clarke.

"An' ye really think the young folks here hev done it abeout as well as the folks down to New York, do ye?"

"There were differences, of course. You must expect that."

"Of course; of course," said Ethan, delightedly. "Mebbe ye'd like to go over to Mis' Brown's. The young folks have gone there. They're to have some ice cream, I b'lieve. 'Twon't cost ye much, fur it's only eight cents a dish, two fur fifteen."

As it was not late, the invitation was eagerly accepted, an added zest being given when it was learned that the profits from the sale of the cream were to be added to those of the play, and that all were to be expended for the improvement of the walks in the little hamlet. The party accordingly made their way down the rough stairway and along the street, Tom having previously left them, and soon arrived at "Mis' Brown's," or the "Widow Brown's," as she was familiarly called by her neighbors.

Her establishment was found to be a unique one. A small "store" was in the front of the building, and on the few shelves were seen jars containing some toothsome, though apparently venerable, sticks of candy. Slate pencils, a few forlorn articles of "fancy work," spools of thread and such like necessities were the other parts of her stock in trade, but the sounds of revelry which came from an inner room left no doubt in the minds of the visitors as to the place where the ice cream was to be had, or as to the occupation which was then going on at the time.

Ethan boldly led the way, and as the door was opened, two long tables were seen, upon which were dishes of the famous article for which our party had come, and upon which the "young folks" already there were feasting. The unexpected entrance brought a solemn hush upon the room, and one young fellow who was standing near the head of one of the tables suddenly sank into his seat again.

"That's Tim Wynn," whispered Ethan. "He's been cuttin' up for the young folks, I s'pose. He's awfully funny, an' they all like to have him 'round."

"There doesn't seem to be any place for us," suggested Mr. Clarke. "Perhaps we'd better not stop to-night."

"I'll fix ye out in a minit," said Ethan, hastily. "Here's the widow, now. Mis' Brown, can't ye find a place for these folks? They want some o' yer ice cream, an' every one counts neow. Mebbe they'll buy enough to get another plank or two for the walks."

The hint was not to be lost, and speedily another table was prepared by placing two planks across some "horses," and as soon as chairs had been brought, the party all seated themselves and were speedily served, Ethan himself taking one of the chairs upon Mr. Clarke's invitation.

Miss Bessie whispered to Ben, who was seated beside her, that "it wasn't ice cream at all, it was only frozen corn starch;" but whatever the name may have been, the dishes were speedily cleared, Ethan's disappearing the most rapidly of all, as with heaping spoonfuls he swallowed the treat, apparently unmindful of its chilling temperature.

"I guess ye don't get nothin' better'n that deown to New York," he remarked with satisfaction, as he glanced up at Mr. Clarke.

"We never have anything just like this," replied Mr. Clarke, kindly. "Have some more, Ethan?"

"Thank ye, sir. I don' mind if I do, if it's all the same to you. Here!" he suddenly added, as if he had been struck with a sudden thought, "there's some lemingade, too. It's only three cents a cup, and I'll stand treat for the crowd."

"Permit me," said Mr. Clarke, quickly; and "lemingade" was at once added to the replenished dishes.

"Your young people are to be congratulated, Ethan," said Mr. Clarke, when all at last arose from the table. "You have quite a good-sized fund for your village improvements. Have you any idea how much they have made?"

"I don't s'pose they can tell jest yet. Prob'ly fifteen or twenty dollars."

"You can add this to the sum, with my compliments, then," said Mr. Clarke, as he slipped a ten dollar bill into the astonished boatman's hand.

Almost too surprised by the gift to express his thanks, Ethan responded to their "good night," and the party at once departed for their yacht.

It was a glorious summer evening they discovered when the boat moved out from the dock and began to speed over the silent river. In the moonlight the rushing waters glimmered like silver, and the low-lying shores cast shadows which were reflected almost as in the light of day. The silent stars twinkled in the clear heavens, and the air of eternal peace seemed to rest over all.

The young people were enjoying themselves too keenly to be silent long even amidst such surroundings, and as the experiences of the evening were recounted, in every way so novel and different from anything they had ever seen before, their laughter rang out over the great river, and seemed to be caught up and sent flying by the very rocks and shores which they passed.

At last Miss Bessie started a song: "And every little wave has his night-cap on," and for a time all other things were forgotten; while Mr. and Mrs. Clarke joined in the spirit of the frolic as if they, too, were as young as their young companions.

Altogether the evening had been such an enjoyable one that it was almost with a feeling of disappointment that the boys at last perceived in the distance the white tents on Pine Tree Island. The songs had ceased now, and Bob said:--

"Mr. Clarke, I meant to have asked you to tell us the rest of that story about the pirate of the St. Lawrence."

"Who? Bill Johnston?" asked Mr. Clarke.

"Yes, I believe that was his name."

"Oh, well, that story will keep until next time."

"Yes, but the summer is almost gone now, and there won't be many 'next times.' We'll be going home soon."

"Not for some weeks yet, I trust. September is the most glorious of all the months on the river. When the leaves begin to turn, and the nights are so cool that you need a fire on the hearth in your cottage, and the air is so bracing that it is a delight just to breathe it, and the ducks begin to come, and you can vary your fishing with gunning, why, that's the best time of all the year. My nearest neighbors have even stayed here all winter, once or twice."

"It must be a wild sight here then," suggested Jock. "When the ice is so thick you can drive over it with a horse and sleigh, and the wind sweeps down the river at the rate of sixty miles an hour, it must be great fun to be here, and feel that you've got a good warm snug place, and can still see it all."

"Better to see it than feel it, I fancy," laughed Mr. Clarke. "I enjoy the river as much as any one, but I know where to draw the line. Still, if I could bottle up some of the September air and take it back to town with me, to use when occasion demanded, I should not object."

Miss Bessie and Ben had been taking no part in the general conversation, apparently being much more interested in one of their own.

"I want to ask you a question," she had said to Ben, who was seated next to her.

"Say on," responded Ben. "I'm all ears."

"Not quite all," replied the girl, glancing at Ben's long form as she spoke. "But what I want to know is whether you are really going to enter the canoe races next week?"

"Why?"

"Because."

"Oh, well, I'll have to tell you, you have such good reasons for asking. No one in the world, or at least in the camp, knows it; but I am going in."

"Aren't you afraid?"

"Afraid of what?"

"Oh, of falling into the water, or being beaten, or I don't know what."

"That remains to be seen," said Ben, sitting suddenly erect. "Now one good turn is said to deserve another, so as you've had a turn at me, I'll take mine now."

"What do you mean?"

"Are _you_ going into the races?"

"Yes," replied Miss Bessie, after a brief hesitation. "That is, if my father is willing; but I don't want you to tell any one about it, either."

"Madam, I shall be silent. Do you recall the words of the immortal 'Hamlick' to-night on that subject?"

"No. What were they?"

"'Let us go in together; And still your fingers on your lips, I pray.'"

"Agreed," responded Miss Bessie. "I'll not tell about you, and you're not to tell about me."

"Oh you'll not tell," retorted Ben. "I never saw a girl yet who would do that."

The conversation was suddenly interrupted, for the yacht was now approaching the dock. To the surprise of the boys, they discovered that some one was in the camp, and hastily bidding their friends good night, they all turned and ran swiftly toward the tents.