Part 7

“That feller’s got the third degree all right,” remarked Saunders, as he carefully put the ghost back into its place. “’Tain’t often anybody comes, but w’en they do they gotta be foiled off. Them dinnymite signs helps in the daytime, but fer night we gotta have sump’n else.

“This dress’n’ on the ghost mast come from Elvirey Smetters. We made up with ’er after ’er wedd’n with Cal busted up an’ Cal skipped. She was wearin’ most o’ this tackle fer the wedd’n, an’ she said she didn’t never want to see it ag’in. There’s a big thin veil fer the top o’ the pole, an’ some o’ the other stuff she said was long-cherry, er sump’n like that. We keep that hatch battened down w’en it rains, but she’s loose most o’ the time. W’en I shove the ghost out it pushes it open.”

Saunders extracted some rye bread, salt pork, and cheese from a cupboard. We fried the pork in a skillet over some embers in the big brick fire-place, and toasted the cheese. After our simple meal the old man piled more wood on the fire, and we smoked and talked until quite late.

The mechanism, on which Saunders was spending his days of seclusion, reposed under some tattered canvas near the wall. He was reticent concerning it, but Sipes volunteered the information that “they was some little wood’n balls wot went up an’ down in some tubes that was filled with oil, an’ then they rolled ’round inside of a wheel an’ come back.”

“Now you shut up!” commanded Saunders. “You leave this thing to me ’til I git it done, an’ then you c’n talk ’til yer hat’s wore out. They ain’t no use talkin’ ’til we git somew’eres, an’ then we won’t ’ave to talk. Wait ’til I git some little springs that’ll spread out quick an’ come back slow, an’ we’ll be through.”

Saunders’s mind was struggling with the eternal and alluring problem of perpetual motion. He was groping blindly for the priceless jewel that would revolutionize the world of mechanics.

It was after midnight when we bade him good-by, and departed through the moonlit woods for the beach.

We left the old man in the company of his fire, and is there greater companionship? It is in our fires that we find the realm of reverie. The fecund world of fancy reveals its fair fields and rose-tinted clouds in the vistas of shimmering light. Memory brings forth pages that the years have blurred. Fleeting filaments of faces wondrous fair, that long ago faded into the mists, smile wistfully, in halos of tremulous hues, and vanish. Slow-moving figures, crowned with wreaths of gray, sometimes linger, turn with looks of tender mother love, and dissolve in the curling smoke. The years that have slumbered in the old logs come forth at the touch of a familiar wand, and a soft light illumines chambers that time has sealed. The grim realities are lost in the glow of our hearth. In the dreamland of the fire we may ride noble steeds and soar on tireless pinions. We see heroes fight and fall. Cities with gilded walls and bright towers, broad landscapes, enthralling beauty, leaves of laurel on triumphant brows, majestic pageants, and acclaiming multitudes, are pictured in the flickering flames.

On the little stage under the arch of the fireplace the puppets come and go,--the comedies and the tragedies, the laughter and the sorrow. The dramas of hopes and fears are enacted in shifting pantomimes that melt away into the gloom.

Our hearth-stones are the symbols of home. We go forth to battle when their sanctity is imperilled. It would be a desolate world without our fires. Winding highways lead through them on which he who travels must mark the light and not the ruin. He must feel the glow and not the burning, and be far beyond the ashes when they come.

In the twilight, when our lives become gray, and only the embers lie before us, we can still dream, if our souls are strong. If we have learned to live with the ideals we have created, instead of charred hopes, golden visions may linger in the mellow light. Happy hours, as transient as the fitful flames, may dance again, and shine among the smouldering coals.

The grizzled old sailor, who had been fortune’s toy, and had been cast aside, may have found his solace in the visions before his fire. The pictures in it may have been of millions of wheels turned with the new force, myriads of aëroplanes soaring through the skies, dynamos of inexhaustible power giving heat and light, and countless looms spinning the fabrics of the world.

He may have seen himself worshipped, not for his achievement, but for his wealth, in the domain of Vulgaria, where Avarice is king--where worth is measured by dollars--where utter selfishness rules, and the cave man still dwells, veneered with a gilded tinsel of what, in his foolish pride, he thinks is civilization--where vanity parades in the guise of charity--where cruelty and greed hide under fine raiment--where human hyenas rend the weak and grovel before the strong--where the bestiality of the Hun darkens the world--where the only god is Gold, and where the idealist must fight or perish.

One night during the following spring I passed the cabin. The little structure, from which a great light might have radiated over the scientific world, was deserted. A pale, ghostly gleam was visible through the empty window frame. It might have been a phosphorescent glow from one of the decaying wall-logs, or a faint spark from the dream-fire that ever burns in the hearts of men.

IX

THE WINDING RIVER’S TREASURE

IX

THE WINDING RIVER’S TREASURE

There was much bustle and preparation around the fish shanty one August morning. Hoarded on a shelf of the bluff were a lot of water-worn boards, which had drifted in along the beach at various times, or been thrown up by the storms, and gradually gathered.

The old shipmates had selected suitable pieces from the pile, and were busily engaged, with hammer and saw, in building a cabin on the big boat. It was a cumbrous and unwieldy craft, about twenty feet long, with high sides and a broad beam. For years it had been used in the work of installing the pound- and gill-nets in the lake, and for the necessary visits to them when the surf was too high for the small row-boat, which was kept for ordinary use.

The long oars, with which Sipes and Saunders had so often fought the big waves, were not exactly mated, but when the detachable motor on the wide stern failed to run, navigation was still possible. A bowsprit had been added to the boat, and a mast protruded through the partially completed cabin. Many rusty nails and odd pieces entered into the building of the superstructure. A large square of soiled canvas and some miscellaneous cordage lay scattered about on the sand. Some scrawled lettering in red paint across the stern indicated that the boat was henceforth to be the _Crawfish_.

“We’r’ goin’ on a v’yage,” explained Sipes. “We’r’ goin’ ’way off up the lake, an’ we’ll touch at diff’nt ports fer some stores we gotta have, an’ then we’r’ comin’ back, an’ we’r’ goin’ to a cert’n river you know ’bout, an’ we’r’ goin’ up it. If you want to make pitchers, you c’n come ’long. We’ll stop an’ take you aboard w’en we come by with the stuff we gotta git.”

I had learned from experience that Sipes usually became reticent when questioned too closely. It was better to let him volunteer whatever he wanted to say about his own affairs. I was careful not to evince any curiosity as to the object of the river trip, and gladly accepted the invitation, as I had intended visiting the river during the fall.

The shanty was stripped of most of its small movable contents, which were put on board when the additions were completed. The nets were taken into the house and piled up. The small boat was laid on top of them along the wall, and the door fastened with a rusty padlock.

Sipes remarked, as he put the key in his pocket, that “they was always some bulgarious feller rubber’n round fer sump’n light an’ easy, that ’ud clean out that shanty if it wasn’t batt’n’d up an’ locked.”

The reincarnated craft was floated, and it sailed slowly away, with the doughty mariners giving boisterous orders to each other.

A week later I heard a loud halloo, and cries of “Wot Oh!” down on the beach opposite to my camp in the dunes. I looked over the edge of the bluff and saw the _Crawfish_ riding proudly on the low swells. The broad sail flapped idly in the breeze, and Saunders was ensconced on top of the cabin, smoking his pipe. Sipes had waded ashore and was waiting to help get my belongings on board.

A small tent, a supply of canned goods, sketching materials, a camera, and other items were carefully stowed. My row-boat was connected with a line, and we were ready to start. We had only about fifteen miles to go, and expected to reach the mouth of the river about noon.

The cabin was characteristic of its builders. It was intended for use and not as an ornament. Ordinarily two could sleep in it comfortably, but the present cargo taxed its capacity. There was little ventilation when the door was closed. What fresh air there was entered through a pair of auger holes, which had evidently been bored for observation purposes. I suggested that the air inside would be better if the holes were larger, or if there were more of them, but Sipes claimed that they were large enough.

“Air c’n come in now faster’n you c’n breath it. Jest notice how much bigger them holes is than them in yer nose.” Such logic was uncombatable and the subject was changed.

The motor worked spasmodically and we sailed most of the way. The breeze died down when we were about half a mile from where the Winding River came out of the dunes. After much cranking the motor started, but would only run backwards. We turned the stern toward the river’s mouth and made fair progress.

“That’s w’y we named ’er the _Crawfish_,” explained Sipes. “We know’d we’d ’ave to do a lot o’ that kind o’ navigat’n’.”

We ran on to a small sand-bar, which delayed us for some time, but got off with the oars. After a hard row against the current, we entered the mouth of the river, which was not over fifty yards wide. We heard the sound of music from among the decayed ruins of a pier that extended into the lake. Seated on some chunks of broken limestone, between the rotting piles, we saw a gray-haired colored man of about sixty. He was playing “Money Musk” on a mouth organ. Near him a cane fish-pole was stuck in among the rocks, and extended out over the water. He was whiling away the time between bites with his music.

“I bet that feller ain’t no nigro,” remarked Sipes. “He looks like a white man wot’s been smoked.”

The solitary fisherman regarded us with an expectant look, as we tied up to one of the piles.

“Good mawnin’, gen’lemen! Does you-all happ’n to have sump’n to drink in yo’ boat?”

“We ain’t got nothin’ wet but wot’s leaked in. You c’n ’ave some o’ that if you want it,” Sipes replied with some asperity. “Wot’s the matter with the lake if you’r’ thirsty?”

“Ah beg yo’ pa’don, but you-all looked like gen’lemen that might have sump’n with you. This ain’t thirst. Ah got a misery, an’ it ’curred to me you might like to save ma life. Ah ain’t had no breakfus’, an Ah feels weak.”

“Listen at that smoke,” said Sipes, in an undertone. “Wonder if ’e thinks we’r’ a float’n’ s’loon?”

Evidently discouraged over his prospects with Sipes, the old darky turned to me.

“Say, Boss, will you gimme a qua’tah, so Ah c’n go an’ git some breakfus’?”

We thought it better to give him some “breakfus’” from the boat, and, as it was lunch time, we passed part of our eatables over to him.

“Ah nevah had the pleas’ah of meet’n you gen’lemen befo’. Ma name’s Na’cissus Jackson, an’ Ah’m up heah f’om the south. Ah ce’t’nly am ’bliged to you fo’ this li’l breakfus’.”

We talked with Narcissus for some time. Evidently he was a victim of strong drink. He had drifted into prohibition territory, the extent of which he did not know, and out of which he had no financial means of escape.

“Ah’m on a dry island, Boss, an’ Ah don’t know how Ah’m goin’ to git off it. Ah was cook at the place wheah Ah wo’ked, an’ Ah got fiahed just ’cause Ah didn’t show up one mawnin’. They was goin’ to have me ’rested fo’ sump’n Ah didn’t have nuff’n to do with, an’ Ah come heah fo’ a li’l vacation.”

Sipes suggested that we ought to have a pilot to take us up the river, on account of its many sand-bars, that must have shifted since he was on it after ducks years ago.

“We oughta have somebody sett’n on top o’ the cab’n to yell out, an’ keep us from butt’n into sump’n w’en we’r’ tear’n up stream. This ain’t no canoe, an’ we got import’nt business an’ we don’t want to git stuck,” declared the old man.

“Theah’s a man ovah in the village named Cap’n Peppehs, that knows all about this rivah,” replied Narcissus. “S’pos’n you-all gimme a qua’tah, an’ Ah’ll go up an’ git Cap’n Peppehs fo’ you.”

I agreed to furnish the coveted coin if “Cap’n Peppehs” was produced, and our new-found friend took in his pole, climbed out over the rough stone filling, and departed for the village, which was only a short distance off. He soon reappeared, accompanied by a pompous, deep-voiced old man, with a red nose and scraggly whiskers, who looked us over with curiosity.

“My name’s Peppers. What can I do for you?” he asked in a friendly tone.

“We’r’ goin’ up the river an’ we don’t want to git messed up on no sand-bars,” replied Saunders. “If you been navigat’n’ these waters, we’d like to git you to go ’long ’til we git where we want to go.”

“If you’ll drop me off back o’ the third bend, I’ll git aboard,” said the old man. “You won’t need no pilot after that. You c’n go on up an’ not hit anythin’ but float’n snags beyond that fer three miles in that craft.”

He got into the boat. I handed Narcissus his “qua’tah,” and he picked his way back over the rocks to his fish-pole, where, like his fabled namesake, he may have found solace in the contemplation of his image in the placid water.

“Cap’n Peppehs” examined the motor with interest. “Are you goin’ to run ’er up with that?” he asked.

“Yes, if she’ll go,” replied Saunders, “but I bet she won’t. A friend of ours that peddles fish got it some’r’s ’round ’ere, an’ turned it over to us. If we ever cetch the feller that shifted that cusséd thing onto John, we’r’ goin’ to kill ’im. We got a gun in the cab’n wot’s wait’n’ fer ’im.”

“I know sump’n ’bout them things,” said the Captain, “an’ mebbe I c’n start ’er.” He fussed over the machine for some time, and finally got it going. With the help of the oars we made fair progress against the slow current.

“You c’n go on up now an’ camp in that bunch o’ timber beyond the marsh, an’ you’ll be all right,” said the old man, when we reached the point where he was to leave us. “You’ll find a mighty fine spring up there.”

We thanked him warmly for his services. Sipes proffered the hospitality of a two-gallon jug, which he extracted from the pile of stuff in the cabin. It was eagerly accepted. He wished us good luck, and disappeared.

“That’ll make ’is nose bloom some more,” remarked Sipes. “He’s a nice ol’ feller, but wot’s springs to him? It wasn’t no green peppers ’e was named after.”

The river made many turns in its sinuous course through the marsh, and it was nearly dark when we reached a hard bank at the edge of the woods.

The _Crawfish_ was made fast to a venerable elm, and we went ashore.

“I’ll put a couple o’ extra hitches on ’er so she can’t back off in the night, if the gas bug takes a notion to git busy,” said Saunders, as he took another line ashore from the stern.

It was warm and pleasant, and we decided that no shelter would be necessary that night. We built a small fire against the side of a log, fried some bacon in a skillet, made coffee, and fared well, if not sumptuously, with supplies from the boat.

We sat around and talked until quite late. The object of the expedition was revealed by Saunders.

“They was a feller that come to the bogie-house one night w’en they was a big storm that ’ad come up sudd’n. He’d come from the lake, an’ it was blowin’ so hard that it ’ud take hair off a frog. He’d started on a long trip with a little boat. He had one o’ them cusséd motors like wot we got, an’ it went punk, an’ ’e had an awful time git’n’ in alive. He seen my light an’ come up. I didn’t ’ear ’im til ’e knocked, so I didn’t ’ave no chance to spring the ghost on ’im. W’en I seen the mess ’e was in, I took ’im in an’ fed ’im an’ dried ’im out ’fore the fire.

“He seemed to be a scientific feller, an’ ’e told me a lot about the rivers all over the country. He said that durin’ the fall ’is business was to go ’round an’ buy pearls wot fishers got out o’ them fresh-water clams that’s all over the bottoms o’ the rivers. He’d pay ’em good prices. He said the pearls ’ad thin layers on ’em, like onions, an’ sometimes one would look like it was no good. Then ’e’d take a steel thing an’ peel off the outside skin, an’ sometimes ’e’d git one that way that was wuth five hundred dollars. Then ’e said they was button companies that ’ud buy all the shells o’ the clams, so they was a lot o’ money in it, even if they wasn’t no pearls found. He had a little pearl in ’is pocket that ’e’d peeled. It wasn’t a very good one--prob’ly wuth three er four dollars. He gave it to me fer bein’ good to ’im, an’ ’ere it is.”

The old sailor carefully unrolled a small piece of paper, which he took out of his tobacco pouch, and produced the pearl.

“This feller gimme a little book that didn’t ’ave no cover on, that’s sent out by the gov’ment, an’ it tells all about clam fish’n’, an’ how to make drag-hooks, an’ how to rig ’em, an’ drag ’em, an’ all about it.”

He brought out the interesting pamphlet, with the address of the giver written in pencil on one of the margins.

“The next mornin’ I helped the feller put wot was left o’ his boat an’ motor up in the bogie-house, an’ ’e went off through the woods. He said ’e’d come back some day an’ git ’em.

“Invent’n’s no good. We gotta git sump’n we c’n git a big bunch o’ money out of. Fish’n’s git’n’ to be too hard work fer us. They’s slews o’ wealth in this water, an’ we’r’ goin’ to git it out an’ we won’t ’ave to work no more. We didn’t say nothin’ to nobody. John come ’round an’ we told ’im, but ’e’s all right. This whole thing’s a dark secret. It’s all right fer you to know, but we gotta keep still, er the place’ll be full o’ flatboats an’ the pearls’ll be gone. Sipes an’ me’s seen where the mushrats ’as been pilin’ the shells ’round them little places where they got holes in the banks, an’ out’n the marsh where their houses are, w’en we was down ’ere duck-shoot’n’. If them little beasties c’n git ’em, we c’n mop out the whole river with all that tackle that the book tells about.”

“The fust thing we gotta do, after we git a flatboat built, is to git some heavy wire fer them clam drags,” said Sipes. “We c’n go back to the railroad an’ git some out between them telegraph poles. The wire don’t cost them fellers nothin’, an’ it’s better we should ’ave it. Tomorrer we’ll rig up a reg’lar camp, an’ then we’ll go to work on all the things we gotta git ready so we c’n begin devastat’n them clamsies.”

The old man then went over to the boat for the jug. He set it down and began working the cork out with his knife.

“I don’t do much drink’n’, but me an’ Bill’s git’n’ old, an’ we’r’ in a my-larious country, an’ we gotta have grog once an’ aw’ile.”

Just as the cork came out, we heard a rustle of dead leaves on the ground back of us.

“Good evenin’, gen’lemen!” greeted Narcissus Jackson, as he appeared out of the darkness, and walked deferentially up to the fire. “Fine evenin’, ain’t it?”

“You _bet_ it’s a fine evenin’!” exclaimed Sipes, with freezing politeness. “How fur off did you smell this jug from?”

“Ah just thought Ah’d drop ’round an’ see how you gen’lemen was get’n’ ’long. Ah come up in a li’l boat I got offen Cap’n Peppehs. Ah saw yo’ fiah, an’ Ah just come to pay ma respec’s. Is you-all well an’ puffec’ly comfo’ble up heah? How’s you feel’n’, Mr. Sipes? Seem’s like you had a li’l cold this mawnin’.”

“I’m better, but ‘Ah feels weak,’” quoted Sipes, with biting sarcasm.

“Ah ce’t’nly am glad to heah yo’ voice again,” continued Narcissus. “It’s a long tia’some row up heah, an Ah ce’t’nly am glad to find you gen’lemen all sit’n’ so comfo’ble ’round yo’ li’l fiah.”

The veiled appeal was irresistible. Sipes handed over the jug and cup, after he and Saunders had been “refreshed,” and he had pitied my teetotalism with a patronizing glance.

“That’s a _nice_ li’l tin cup, an’ that’s an awful pretty shaped jug,” observed our unexpected visitor, as he affectionately watched the red liquid trickle out. “Pa’don me, but Ah always closes ma eyes when Ah take ma li’l drink, ’cause if Ah don’t, ma mouth watahs so it weak’ns ma whiskey.” The contents of the cup instantly vanished.

We were about ready to make our arrangements for the night when Narcissus appeared. Fortunately my own supplies included a lot of mosquito netting. I got it out and he promptly offered to help. He deftly improvised an effective covering with the netting and some sticks that excited the admiration of all of us.

“If you’d git toughed up, an’ raise a face o’ whiskers, them skeets wouldn’t chase after you,” observed Sipes.

Narcissus sat on a log and did not seem inclined to go away.

“Say, Boss, will you lemme have a qua’tah to get ma breakfus’ with in the mawnin’?” he asked humbly.

The request was cheerfully complied with. I really liked Narcissus. His interesting face, winning personality, and happy-go-lucky ways appealed to my sense of the picturesque. It occurred to me that if the jug could be eliminated from the situation, he would be a valuable addition to the camp. I invited him to stay all night and have breakfast with us in the morning.

When Sipes heard the invitation accepted, he went down to the boat to satisfy himself that Saunders had locked the door when he had returned the jug to the cabin.

In the morning Narcissus volunteered to prepare our simple breakfast. He did it with such skill that we realized that our own cooking was crude and amateurish.

During the forenoon I had a long talk with him. He was stranded and would like to stay with us if we were willing. For a moderate stipend he agreed to do the cooking and make himself generally useful.

I did not wish to intrude too much on the old shipmates, and, as I wanted to be alone much of the time, and do some sketching along the river, I established my camp about a hundred yards further up on the same side of the stream. This I judged to be near enough for sociability, and far enough for privacy. Narcissus helped erect my tent, and made many ingenious arrangements for my work and comfort.

The old sailors became so enthusiastic over his cooking that they were glad to have him down with them most of the time. The sail had been taken off the boat, and a “lean-to” tent rigged between two trees, where they all slept.

“You jest watch that cookie coin pancakes!” exclaimed Sipes. “He jest whisks up the dope in the pan, an’ gives ’em a couple o’ flops, an’ they all come to pieces in yer mouth ’fore ye begin chewin’.”

He seemed to anticipate all our wants. He had evidently overheard what Sipes had said about telegraph wire, and the second morning afterward there was about a hundred feet of it in camp, with a pair of heavy wire-nippers, and other tools used by repair men on the lines, which he said he had found. The next night he came in with a half-grown turkey, which he claimed he had found dead in a fence, where it had caught its neck on the barbed wire. The unfortunate bird was roasted to a beautiful brown, and I noticed that the feathers were carefully burned.