Part 11

MR. PRENWOOD’S launch carried Allan and McConnell, with the _Arabella_ astern, swiftly southeast to Hazenfield.

Blickens was very talkative on the journey. It was evident that he wished to atone for that which had happened at Stonyshore; and Allan felt so little resentment for what had happened that he earnestly urged Blickens to come to the Hartel house for dinner. “Then,” said Allan, “I can send back these clothes by you.”

But Blickens could not be persuaded to stay. “I’ll wait here for the clothes, if you want me to,” said Blickens at Detective Dobbs’s landing; “though I don’t believe Mr. Prenwood expects you to bother sending them back.”

Since Blickens did not seem to be willing to accept the invitation, Allan said that he himself would return the clothes later, so that Blickens need not feel compelled to wait. Blickens said he hoped there would be no hard feelings, and shook hands good-by.

The boys were mooring the _Arabella_ when Detective Dobbs came down the path with Sporty.

“Ship ahoy!” he called. “How many whales did you catch?”

“We caught a very unexpected fish,” said Allan. “There’s his skin,” and he tossed ashore the convict’s clothes.

“What do you mean?” demanded Dobbs, picking up the clothes. “This is a Sing Sing suit.”

Allan hurried ashore and as quickly as he could outlined to Dobbs the meeting with the Ghost and what followed.

Dobbs uttered an exclamation of astonishment. “Of course, you don’t know in what direction he went—everybody has been after him for three days.”

“We left him behind in the fog; but he said he wanted to get to New York.”

“But he only had one oar.”

“Your other oar.”

“What color was your jacket—and the sweater?” Allan described the clothes the convict had taken, and Dobbs waited to hear no more. In six minutes Dobbs was at the station talking to police headquarters in New York. In twenty minutes every police station near the Hudson, from the Battery to Sing Sing, had a description of the clothes the Ghost wore, with information as to the skiff and the single oar. The police everywhere already had a full description of the man.

“I almost hope they don’t catch him,” said Allan, as he and McConnell hurried inland from the river.

“I don’t know what I hope,” confessed McConnell. “When I think of his knocking your head against the centre-board, I want to have him caught. When I think of how hungry he looked, and how thin his hands were, I want him to get away.”

“I wonder how Owen will get home?” Allan queried. “It almost seems as if we should have tried to find him; though I’m quite sure he has walked south and will get across the river somehow.”

Both McConnell and Allan found an anxious welcome awaiting them at home. The Doctor had assured Mrs. Hartel and Edith that the boys had prudently anchored when the storm came up, and that they would be home as soon as the fog lifted; yet both mother and cousin had worried greatly, and even little Ellen had made many inquiries as to why Allan did not come home.

It may be supposed that Allan’s recital found highly interested listeners; that a hundred questions were asked; that some of them were answered; that Allan did not eat much dinner.

Allan insisted that he only was worrying about Owen. In the afternoon, at about three o’clock, Owen walked in to say that he had been home for a couple of hours. It appeared that after calling hopelessly into the fog, and waiting in the vicinity of the anchorage for half an hour, Owen made up his mind that the _Arabella_ would have no chance of making the same point again while the fog lasted. He then turned back, and finding his way to Alexander Hamilton made inquiry of him as to the nearest way to the highroad, and was about making his way inland when a freight train on the West Shore road hove in sight. The train halted at a near-by switch, and Owen so successfully made friends with a man in the caboose that he was invited to get aboard. Three miles south he slipped off the train at Boughton, got a boat from a man he knew at the landing, and rowed across to Hazenfield.

“And so you see,” said Owen, “I got out of the scrape easier than you did.”

Despite the Doctor’s questions, Allan continued to insist that he felt all right, that he would be all right in a little while—or the next day anyway. Yet his confidence was not justified. On the following day the Doctor betrayed by his looks that he did not find Allan to be very well. He forbade him to do any developing for a day or two longer, and kept him away from the Academy.

At the end of a week Allan was down with a fever, and the autumn colors, the stately river, the faces of his friends, the walls of the club rooms, all faded away in a troubled sleep; and other weeks passed, and there were anxious faces at his bedside, and his father would sit holding his hand and looking fixedly at him in the dim light of the sick chamber; and his head was very queer and heavy and hot, so that the ice felt like an angel’s hand. And he asked them to be sure that the focus was right and that the shutter had been set, ordered McConnell to pull in on the sheet, and Owen to hand up the camera carefully.

“I tell you, mother,” he said one day to Mrs. Hartel, his eyes glistening, “I’ve thought over the finest way to develop films! They have never thought of it! Why, it’s dead easy! All you have to do is soak the film in—in—there, I’ve—I’ve forgotten just what it was, but—oh, it’s very easy! I’ll have great fun showing them at the club.”

It was difficult to keep him from talking about cameras and expeditions and new developers.

One day he said, “It’s funny that Owen doesn’t get back. But I suppose he’s living with Alexander Hamilton—poor old man! You had better send over and get Owen. If it hadn’t been for the fog—how foggy it is again!”

Owen came every day to ask about his chum’s condition; and McConnell, who was pitifully upset, never could understand why he was forbidden to see Allan, or to help take care of him.

There were many inquirers,—Major Mines, Miss Manston, Mr. Thornton, Mrs. Creigh, and other members of the Camera Club, and Detective Dobbs often called in.

It was one afternoon in late November that Allan, lying very still and quiet, with his eyes fixed on the wall at the foot of his bed, where there was a picture of the monks of St. Bernard with their dogs, said, suddenly, to his mother,—

“Did they catch the Ghost?”

At first, Mrs. Hartel thought the question was but another rambling question incident to the abating fever, and was about to utter one of the evasive replies that are offered to fevered invalids, when something in Allan’s face made her understand that he was coming out of that long dream into which his mind had fallen. Then she answered him quite truthfully:—

“No. They have not found him, Allan.”

“Good! I believe now that I wanted him to get away.”

“But you must not worry about that.”

“How many days’ start has he had?”

“He has had just a month.”

“A month?” Allan turned his eyes to his mother. She did not seem to be joking. “A month?”

His mother came over and stroked his hair. “Yes, a month—a long month. And my boy has had a very long sleep.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Allan asked. “I see,” he said, looking into his mother’s tired but cheerful eyes, “I see, I have been sick. Oh, I know it now! I can remember that the queerest things were going on in my head! One day I think it seemed to be a camera, and the lens was red hot, somehow, and somebody—who was it?—was pulling the bellows out too far. Great Scott! I thought they would break it.”

“But you must not talk any more, now,” urged his mother.

And he lay there for half an hour without speaking.

Then he asked: “Did Owen get back all right?”

“Yes, soon after you did.”

The next day he tried for a long time to remember the wonderful plan he had dreamed of for developing films, but he could not recall the particular formula upon which the superiority of the plan rested. Perhaps, he thought, it would come back to him.

It was early in December that McConnell and Owen were permitted to come in and see him, and McConnell came in every day after that. There had been an early snow, and the boys had proofs of some snow scenes which proved to be immensely entertaining to Allan. Owen’s glimpses of winter trees and snow-silvered bushes suggested many things that he himself had planned to make when winter came.

“I shall soon be out,” he told the boys, “and then I want to begin right away on some winter things.” McConnell came in every day after that.

Detective Dobbs on his first visit to Allan brought a batch of pictures he had made of Sporty. “I don’t have time to develop,” said Dobbs, “so I let them ‘do the rest’ for me now. As soon as you get well,” continued Dobbs, “I think the club is going to have an exhibition; they have been talking about it for some time.”

Allan thought this was a capital idea. A plan for a frame big enough to hold some of his most successful pictures gave him something pleasant to think about for a whole day.

But he grew impatient to get about, and as December dragged along his resentment against the long convalescence grew deeper. It was not until Christmas Day that he came down to dinner. There were several little surprises for him, in addition to the Christmas morning surprises, that had been carried up to his room.

The dinner seemed to be in his honor, for the big cake had a frosted camera on the top, and “Captain Kodak” in fantastic letters. In the middle of the cake was a miniature imitation of a dark-room lamp with a candle burning inside.

Soon after dinner Mr. Thornton and McConnell came in with a large leather portfolio and a fine magnifying glass, which the members of the club had sent to Allan. “We all are very glad you are getting well,” said Mr. Thornton. “The club will be happy to greet its President again.”

“Speech!” cried McConnell.

But Allan could only say, “Thank you, Mr. Thornton,” and sit down again quickly. His head was not very strong yet, he afterward confessed.

They had a great night at the club when Allan did get back, and plans for an exhibition were talked over in earnest. There was so large an attendance of members that there was talk, too, of new club rooms, though Major Mines and Mrs. Creigh said they wouldn’t give up the present quarters for the most sumptuous club outfit that could be devised.

The club exhibition took place in January, and it proved an exceedingly interesting affair. Several of the members had surprises to present—pictures which no one had been permitted to see. Among these were amusing trophies of the Central Park trip, and of the first country walk of the club. There were enlargements, beautiful bits in toned bromide paper, platinum prints, one or two gems in carbon, and to show what could be done with simple materials, Mr. Thornton had a series of “blue prints” daintily mounted.

Allan was not exactly satisfied with the framing of his prints, and wished he had had time to give more attention to that. Owen and McConnell also made a good impression. McConnell’s “Water-melon Party” contained many familiar faces. Then there was Big McConnell’s remarkable picture of his younger brother. Detective Dobbs exhibited his first attempts at printing. Six out of the eight prints he had framed with great pride in a gorgeous gold frame (picked out by Mrs. Dobbs) revealed the countenance of Sporty. Major Mines had some snapshots from St. Augustine and elsewhere. Miss Illwin had sent in a little landscape, which had no sooner been hung than it began to cause her great misery. “For I can see now,” she said, “that I should have sent the other one.”

The pictures, which filled all the available space in the club rooms, were displayed for a week. And almost every night during the week there was an unusually large gathering at the rooms. On Saturday night Major Mines hung a sheet at the head of the front room, and with the aid of a small stereopticon gave an exhibition of lantern slides.

Very few of the members had tried lantern slides, but the Major’s exhibition resulted in many resolutions to make slides from “pet” plates. Another result was that a few months later the club bought a stereopticon, and two nights in every month were given up to the display of lantern pictures. Allan found great enjoyment in his lantern-slide work. A device which he rigged up in the back room was soon in general use by those members who went in for slide making.

Nothing looked more beautiful on the screen than the snow pictures. The silvery tracings in the trees, the sunlight in footprints, the icicles in the summer house, the river ice pushed into pyramids in the coves,—these and a score of other themes shone with peculiar naturalness in the light of a lantern.

Allan did not go back to the Academy until February, and he had not been long at his school work again when news came that the battle ship _Maine_ had been destroyed in the harbor of Havana.

XVIII.

ECHOES OF WAR.

“I SUPPOSE, Captain,” said Dr. Hartel to Allan, “that if we have war—”

“If we have war!” cried Allan; “we _must_ have war. They have blown up one of our battle ships!”

“Well,” said the Doctor, quietly, “we don’t know that yet. And I should hardly say that we must have war. War is a very serious business.”

“I think we ought to make it very serious for the other side,” insisted Allan, heatedly.

“It would be very serious for both sides,” said the Doctor. “I was going to say that I supposed you would want to go to the front with your camera. There seems to be no doubt of that.”

“I should rather go with a gun,” said Allan.

“With your kodak on your shoulder?”

“You are making fun of me, father.”

“I hope you don’t wish me to take you seriously.”

“No,” interposed Edith; “no one shall take him seriously. The idea! If he talks war like this, we’ll lock him up in the dark-room.”

“With nothing to eat but pyro and hypo,” laughed Mrs. Hartel.

“Look out!” pursued the Doctor, with a twinkle in his eye, “or the Captain may indignantly resign his commission.”

“Anyway,” said Allan, “if I was a few years older, I’d join Company K.”

The fate of the _Maine_ and the prospect of war entirely changed the current of photographic enthusiasm at the club. The boys, especially, turned unanimously to war themes. Owen had made some pictures at the Brooklyn Navy Yard when he first had his camera. He had a picture of the _Boston_ taking coal, and another showing the terrible twin guns in the forward turret of the _New York_. At the second lantern show in February, Major Mines displayed the mechanism of some of the rapid-fire guns, and had a capital plate showing the disappearing gun at Sandy Hook. The pictures were all quite warlike at this February meeting.

At the March meetings there came pictures of the forts in the harbor, camera sketches by Mr. Thornton from the State Camp at Peekskill the year before, and Mrs. Creigh’s picture made on the deck of the _Maine_.

Then came the declaration of war, the thrill of Dewey’s victory at Manila, the capture of the first sea prizes, the stir and excitement of recruiting. Big McConnell joined Company K.

Hazenfield broke out with all sorts of flags. Little McConnell boasted that he hoisted the first flag in the town; though this seemed to be a matter of debate, since Allan had swung out the Hartel flag immediately after breakfast on reading of the actual declaration of war.

For the next six months a large proportion of Allan’s pictures had flags in them. Indeed, there was a great deal of flag in everything for a time. When Allan was in New York in July and looked up at the “sky scrapers,” the sky seemed full of flags.

Of course the boys of the club lamented that they could not be at the front. The next best thing was to go to the camps; and this they did, and found the soldiers so accustomed to cameras that being photographed seemed to cause them no uneasiness or resentment whatever.

The chief trouble, Allan found, was that he had to promise a good many prints to different soldiers who stood for him or helped him with groups and camp scenes. He had learned that promising prints is one of the most entertaining features of photography, and that keeping the promises is one of the most troublesome. However, a soldier seemed to deserve a print if he wanted it, and Allan never promised prints with more of genuine willingness than during the exciting weeks of the war.

It was at the Hempstead Camp that Allan, McConnell, and Owen found Big McConnell, who had become a corporal, and who was glad to show the boys around.

“I’m dead tired of this show,” grumbled Big McConnell. “I wish they’d send us somewhere. The rations are spoiling my naturally sweet disposition. You didn’t happen to see the pie-woman, did you, as you came in?”

“No,” said Allan.

“I’m looking for her about now,” went on Big McConnell. “I need pie, I do.”

“Doesn’t the cook give you pie once in a while?”

“Pie?” shouted Big McConnell. “Well, I guess not. I wish you could photograph the slush we had for dinner. You would need an orthochromatic plate and a microscopic lens.”

“Did you finish the box mother sent down?” asked Little McConnell.

“Finish it?” His brother looked down in dramatic disdain. “Young fellow, I was eating the nails in the cover before eleven o’clock the next day.”

“I wonder what makes you so hungry?” said Little McConnell.

The Corporal pointed across the field where the second battalion was drilling. “That, for one thing. Did you ever stop to think how heavy a musket is, and how many times its weight doubles in an hour’s drill?”

Across the company street Corporal Dacey was showing his cousin Cora how to hold a musket, and they all laughed at Cora’s brave attempt to ignore the weight of the weapon.

Over by the Y. M. C. A. tent Big McConnell found the pie-woman, and they all went to work on pie of various denominations.

“What kind is yours?” asked Owen of the Corporal.

“I don’t know,” grunted Big McConnell, his mouth full. “All pie tastes alike to me. What’s the Captain doing?”

This meant Allan, who had slipped off with his camera. McConnell, who went to reconnoitre, reported that Allan was taking a group of soldiers. The Corporal looked out. “The old guard,” he said.

“What is the ‘old guard’?” asked Owen.

“They are changing the guard,” replied the Corporal. “This is the guard that has just come off duty. I shouldn’t think there was light enough left for a picture.”

The day had almost gone, and in half an hour the boys were on the train again on their way back to New York, where the newsboys were shouting about battles, and the papers had stupendous news eight inches high.

“I hear,” said Owen, “that our smoky powder is making it awfully hard for anybody to get good bombardment pictures.” Allan thought it would be hard to report a bombardment from the ship that was doing the bombarding. “But I can’t see,” he said, “why they shouldn’t get good shots from the boats that were looking on.” “I tell you what I’d like to have had,” said McConnell, “and that was a good chance at that Matanzas mule when the shell hit him!”

Both Allan and McConnell were greatly interested in the war-ships, and read news of their doings with particular attention. When the victorious ships of Sampson’s fleet returned northward, the club hired a launch and went down the river to see and picture the inspiriting naval parade. The scenes in the bay and up the river to Grant’s tomb furnished material for one of the most beautiful lantern displays the club ever held.

Allan determined to make a special trip to see and to photograph the _Oregon_, of which he was a great admirer, because “the bull-dog of the navy” seemed to embody so much of what was most American in the United States battle ships. When the _Oregon_ and _Iowa_ afterward came out of dry dock, and were ordered away to Manila, Allan and McConnell started off early one morning for Tompkinsville, Staten Island, off which town the war-ships were to anchor.

It happened, however, that the _Iowa_ had not yet come into the bay, though the _Brooklyn_ was there, and the boys recognized the graceful prow of the _Gloucester_, the plucky little converted yacht that had figured so prominently and creditably at the sinking of Cervera’s fleet.

It was the _Oregon_, however, that the boys most wished to see more of, and to photograph at close quarters.

The boatmen at Tompkinsville had been charging high prices since the fighting ships had anchored off shore, and the boys were a little discouraged in their first inquiries.

In the midst of their discouragement a sailorish-looking man on one of the docks asked them if they wanted a cheap boat. This was precisely what the boys did want, and they indicated the fact to the sailorish-looking man, who thereupon lifted his finger and motioned to the boys to follow him.

The boys followed their guide for some distance and finally reached a low-roofed shop where a man with a pipe was scraping an oar. This man had a dory, but he would not rent it unless he went with it. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said, “I’ll row you around all the ships for a dollar.”

“No,” said Allan, “that’s too much.”

“Too much!” cried the man who had a dory, “why, I have been getting a dollar and a half a trip. What did you expect to pay?”

“I expected to pay about fifty cents an hour,” admitted Allan. “And an hour was all we wanted.”

“Well, I’ll be losin’ money,” said the man; “but call it seventy-five cents.”

The boys finally agreed to these terms and were soon afloat with the dory, the man pulling at the oars and asking questions about the cameras.

“Sakes alive!” he said, “but there’s been camera cranks around here. It must be lots of fun, though.” There was a strong tide and the man had to bend hard at the oars while Allan and McConnell adjusted their cameras and peeped at the war-ships with the aid of their finders.

It was rather a misty morning. There was a peculiar silvery light on the water and the ships looked queerly on the shadow side next the shore. The _Gloucester_ was dainty and trim. To make the glimpse of her more entertaining, a message arrived on a launch, and within five minutes the anchor had been lifted and she steamed away, evidently toward the Brooklyn Yard. The _Brooklyn_, with the shot-hole in her smoke-stack (carefully pointed out by the man of the dory), floated quietly at her moorings. There was bustle on the _Oregon_—and it was washday, evidently.

“I wonder,” said Allan, resentfully, “why they always have their wash out when a fellow wants to make pictures?”

The man of the dory laughed. He couldn’t explain it, he said.

“How near do you want to get?” he asked. “I want a good full-length picture,” said Allan. “I think we are far enough away from her now if you will pull south a little ways.”

When they had pulled south for a short distance Allan found that the three hundred feet of the _Oregon_ required a long range, and the man swung the bow again to the east.

They had made several shots from their seats; but Allan now stood on the forward seat, the man slowing down again as Allan got the range.

“I’ll steady you,” said McConnell, bracing Allan and watching the _Oregon_ as her lines swung into favorable view.

“Click!” sounded the camera, and Allan rolled the film for another shot, this time getting an almost perfect profile of the ship.