CHAPTER III.

TEDDY O’DONNELL AND HIS LOVE ADVENTURE. STARTLING CATASTROPHE.

For the last hour the sky had been rapidly becoming overcast, and a thick fog was gathering over the river, which beyond doubt would enclose our friends in impenetrable gloom. There was not much probability of a storm, but it was certain regarding the obscuration of the moon and the approaching darkness.

Napyank, on the whole, was inclined to regret this. While it gave them a greater chance of being discovered by their vigilant enemies along shore, as they could proceed absolutely without noise, it still was emphatically venturing in the dark. Whether they were drifting in toward shore could not be known, until too late. Beside this the hunter called to mind that there was a large island near the center of the river which could be at no great distance from them, and it was his wish to avoid running upon this. As all were opposed to lying to for the night, the plan was not broached.

The settling gloom around them finally attracted the notice of young Smith who remarked,

“It’s getting dark as sure as we live.”

“I observe too, that a heavy mist is settling over the river,” added McGowan.

“In an hour you won’t be able to see tother end the boat,” replied Napyank. “Smith there will have all he can do to manage to spy out the Injins.”

“Do you think they will trouble us?”

“Not unless we run right into ’em.”

“And how can we do that?”

“We can’t very well unless we get into a powerful big island that is somewhere in these parts.”

“I am certain we ought to be able to steer clear of that.”

“If we can only see it—there’s the trouble.”

“Joe,” said McGowan, after a few minutes silence, “Why not run into the shore and tie up for the night?”

The hunter shook his head.

“’Twouldn’t do; I seen that tried once, on jest such a night as this. Them reds, it seems to me, can smell a flat-boat a mile off. They’d swarm down on us like a lot of flies.”

For some time Teddy had stood silent and thoughtful. His arms were folded, and he was looking out upon the still surface of the river.

“What is it you’re thinking about?” inquired Napyank.

“I feels sorryful, by the same token,” he replied in a sad tone, heaving a tremendous sigh.

“What is the cause?”

“I was jest thinkin of a wee bit of a girril that I had left at me home in ould Ireland—God bless her.”

“An affection of the heart, eh?”

“It bees; and it’s sthrange—there’s a very sthrange sarcumstance connected wid the same girril.”

“What is it?”

“It’s now good ten years since I last saw her, and I’ve niver once brought her to mind till this same minute.”

“You certainly could not have thought much of her.”

“I sartinly did; I’ve just thought of what it was that brought her to mind. It’s this ould coat.”

“And how should that do it?” inquired young Smith, who seemed about the only one who felt any interest in the matter.

“The last time I saw her she had on jist the same article; Ah! but she looked swate in it. She was diggin pataties at the time. It was the same that had the sphlendid fut for yees—none ov yer little cramped up nothin’—but a reg’lar stunner—as flat as a pancake. Ah! she was a girril.”

Another great sigh, showed how deep the Irishman’s feelings were regarding his almost forgotten love.

“And her ringlets—ah! if ye could but have seen them. They war’nt twisted up like a nagur’s, but long and graceful with jist the slightest twist to ’em, and as red as the fire in me own pipe.”

“It is strange you left her Teddy, if you held her in such high estimation.”

“I didn’t hould her, she staid there widout the howlding. Ah! she was the gal for me. I niver called on her but what we had a fight. We both used a shillalah, and it was there I got the scientific touch of that beautiful instrument. We always had black eyes after we left each other. It was that what gave me the high respect for her, that I shall entertain up to the day of my death.”

“But you haven’t told me why it is you left her society?”

“That was alas strange, but when I state the circumstances, you will see how great should be my respect toward the young lady.”

“I’m anxious to hear it, I’m sure.”

“Wal!” proceeded Teddy, with another great sigh. “I called an her one evening in the spring time of the year, when the flowers were in bloom and the petaties were getting ready to be, I proposed that we should have another set to, when we went at it right away. Begorrah but Bridget got the best of me that time. She fetched me a whack over the eye afore I knowed anything about what was comin’ and laid me out shtiff. When I came to she was still lambasting me, and she kept at it, till I had to lave the counthry to get away from her. Ah! me own swate jewil, if I but had you here this minute,” sighed Teddy, after he had concluded the narrative.

“What was the name of your love?” inquired Smith.

“Bridget Moghoghlmeoghan.”

By this time the gloom had become so heavy, that the heads of the two Smiths could scarcely be discovered, as they stood at the prow silent and faithful to their duties. The obscurity became greater and greater until the hunter’s prediction was literally fulfilled. The prow of the boat was a dim, vague, shadowy representation, whose outlines could not have been defined, had not one known its identity. The shores had long since faded from vision, that our friends were drifting helplessly forward—knowing that if danger lay in their path there was no possibility of discovering it, until they were fairly upon it.

Under these circumstances, the hunter considered the propriety of tying to the shore until morning. If they could hit upon some retired spot, where there was little probability of attracting attention, they ran far less risk of being molested, than by continuing onward in this aimless manner.

“What I’m the most afeard of,” said Napyank, “is that they’ll hear the creaking of the oars. The night is very still, and such a racket as they would make, a noise you could hear a half mile.”

“Be the same token don’t let ’em make any noise,” was the brilliant suggestion of Teddy O’Donnell.

“Easier said than done. Then the splashing wo’d make; that would be just as bad.”

“Can’t we work into shore gradually?” inquired or rather suggested McGowan. “We can dip the oars very quietly and work them with great care.”

“I can’t hardly think what to do,” said the hunter in some perplexity. “I think, howsumever, we’ll go ahead for the present.”

“But the island.”

“That is the only thing that troubles me.”

“Most likely the current will drift us by that.”

“I hope it will, but it is powerful onsartin.”

After some further consideration, it was concluded that it would be best to glide onward as they were doing at present, keeping in the meantime, as close a watch as was possible under the circumstances for the island that they all had so much reason to fear.

“The poorest part of this boat is the bottom,” remarked McGowan.

“We couldn’t get the proper timber, I remember we put in or two pieces that I am anxious about.”

“That makes it worse nor I thought,” replied Napyank, betraying his anxiety in his words. “By gr-a-c-io-us! if we should run into the island, it would be sure to punch a hole in the bottom.”

“And what if we did, couldn’t we fill the same hool up agin?” asked Teddy.

“Hardly——”

“Hello! what’s the matter with Smith?” interrupted the hunter.

“Here’s the island!” exclaimed the old man.

“Use your oar!” called Napyank, dipping his own deep in the water and swaying it with all the force at his command.

And here a most unfortunate mistake occurred. The two Smiths worked in one direction, and the hunter, assisted by his friends, in the opposite. Before the error was discovered, the flat-boat swung around, and the next moment went broad-side upon the island.

“By heavens! we have struck!” exclaimed McGowan.

“Yes; and the boat is sinking,” added the hunter. “Git the women out and be powerful quick about it!”