CHAPTER XV.

THE LUCK THAT CAME TO BUMPUS.

“Where’s Sebattis?” asked Step Hen, as they sat down to breakfast, there being a rude table in the cabin, around which the boys could gather; though the guides had to hold off, and either wait, or else munch their food elsewhere.

“That’s a fact; I thought there was somebody missing!” exclaimed Bumpus.

Somehow or other they all looked toward Thad, as though he might be able to give an explanation. And sure enough, he did.

“Why, he beckoned to me about the time I came out,” the scoutmaster remarked, “and told me he was going to take a little turn along the trail of that man. He hasn’t come back yet; so I guess he’s been able to follow it some distance.”

“That sounds real woodsy now,” declared Giraffe. “Following the trail for me. I’m struck on everything that seems like Cooper’s _Leatherstocking_. Wonder whether he c’n keep it right up till he drops in on the crowd? P’raps they ain’t so very far away from here, after all.”

“But I just saw Sebattis pass the window; there he is comin’ in right now,” observed Step Hen.

The dusky-skinned guide was indeed entering the door. And no one could tell by looking at his inscrutable face whether Sebattis had met with success or disappointment in his recent labors.

From the fact of his coming back so soon Thad rather imagined that the latter must be the case. He knew the Indian would volunteer no explanation unless asked questions; and so Thad managed to corner him while he was fixing his elkskin moccasins over by the fire. When presently the patrol leader came back to the rest of the scouts, he was greeted by numerous demands that he communicate what he had learned.

“Sebattis followed the tracks for some distance,” Thad went on to say, as he poured himself another cup of coffee; “but after the fellow got a certain distance from the cabin, he began to be more cautious. It was just as if he thought some one might want to follow him, and he did not mean they should succeed. At any rate, he covered his tracks so that even Sebattis was unable to find the trail again.”

“Then it’s sure a fact that the hobo must be some woodsman himself,” Giraffe declared. “I thought an Indian could follow the trail of a fox, if he wanted.”

“Well, Sebattis said he was willing to go back again, and try further, and that he believed he _could_ find the trail again; but he wanted to make sure first that we cared enough about it. From certain remarks he had heard some of us make, he thought we didn’t care to make the acquaintance of the rascals. We even said, you may remember, fellows, that we hadn’t lost any hoboes that we knew of, and didn’t mean to go out of our way to find any. And so Sebattis came back to report.”

“What did you tell him, Thad?” asked Step Hen.

“Why,” replied the other, “that so long as they didn’t interfere with us, we had no reason to bother our heads about these men. We had plenty of things on hand, as it was, without trying burglar catching. If they only let us alone, and didn’t run across our path, we’d forget there were any such chaps in the Maine woods.”

“Just think of the lost chance to lay in a big wad of the long green, enough to carry us all the way across the continent, and see something of the Far West, like we’ve often talked about,” whined Bumpus.

Thad was indeed surprised to hear the fat boy talk like this, for Bumpus was, as a rule, a very peaceful boy, never willingly seeking trouble. Really, this anxiety in connection with that valuable letter, which he could not place, try as he would, seemed to have upset him entirely, so that he was no longer the same jolly Bumpus of old.

“Which would you rather do to-day, Bumpus,” the scoutmaster asked; “try and find these desperate men, and like as not get the whole of us into trouble; or hunt for a bee tree with Allan; while Davy and myself go with Eli for a hunt?”

There was no hesitation now, for with a wide grin Bumpus shouted:

“Bee tree, first, last and all time for mine!”

“Ditto here!” Giraffe followed by saying, as he laid a hand on the pit of his stomach, and bowed.

“Can you make the try, Allan?” queried the stout scout, turning appealingly in the direction of the second in command of the patrol.

“Do for goodness’ sake oblige the little fellow,” urged Giraffe. “Because we’ll sure hear of nothing else every hour of the day. When that feller gets a thing on his mind he makes me think of the woman in the sleeping car, who kept saying out loud in the night, again and again; ‘Oh! I am _so_ thirsty; I am _so_ thirsty!’ till a traveler, who couldn’t sleep, got up, and went and gave her a cup of water. He was just tryin’ to drop off again when she started in, and this time she kept sayin’, ‘Oh! I _was_ so thirsty! I _was_ so thirsty!’ Then he gave up tryin’ to get a snooze till she tired out. And that’s the way with Bumpus, boys.”

“But can we make the try this morning, Allan?” persisted the stout boy, when the laugh at his expense had died away.

“Better say yes, and save yourself a heap of trouble,” suggested Step Hen, who was himself a little anxious to see how the search might be conducted.

“Well,” remarked Allan, “nothing can be done until about noon. If the sun seems fairly warm then, we might have a chance to see bees flying, or catch the drone of the swarm of young ones trying their wings just outside the opening of the tree hive. I’ll set you all to work watching and listening; and we’ll see who the lucky one will be.”

“Seems to me a lot of fellows make a living, picking up things in these Maine woods, from honey and bees wax, to lumbermen and pulp stuff choppers?” Thad remarked, with an inquiring glance toward Allan.

“They do,” replied the other, promptly. “I could tell you a heap about these people, some of whom I’ve even met in my trips around.”

“Then go on and tell us,” urged Davy.

“Yes, we always like to know what’s doing,” added Giraffe, as he helped himself to another flapjack, which Jim, the younger guide, seemed to know how to make in a way calculated to appeal to a hungry camper’s appetite.

“Well, first of all there’s the spruce gum hunter,” Allan started to say. “You can follow the snowshoe trail of these busy chaps through pathless stretches, and find their camp-fires glowing in many a lonely glen. They get about between a dollar and a dollar and a half a pound, for the stuff, and it’s worth all of that. They usually travel in pairs, and collect many pounds in a season.”

“But how do they manage to climb some of these tall spruce trees we’ve seen on our trip?” asked Thad.

“Oh! that’s easy enough,” laughed the other. “Every spruce gum hunter has a pair of climbers with him. You’ve seen the telephone and telegraph wire men use these, fastened to their legs with straps. He has to have warm clothing; a curved chisel, in the handle of which a pole is set; a fine jack knife; and a gun. In the night he sits by the fire, smoking, while he cleans his day’s pick.”

“But he has to eat; tell us then how he totes his grub along; and where does he put up at in the woods? We haven’t run across any hotels up here, it strikes me?” asked Giraffe.

“As for his food,” Allan continued, “he drags on a moose sled, and it’s either a deserted camp, or the lee side of a tree every night, as he happens to find things. And he is satisfied with mighty little in the way of food, trusting to his gun to eke things out. With plenty of work, a few bushels of beans, some flour and molasses, and perhaps some coffee, a gum picker thinks himself well off for a winter’s campaign.”

“He must have a good eye for gum trees?” suggested Thad.

“Just what he has,” replied the accommodating Allan. “A near-sighted gum hunter, or even a careless one, would miss many a chance to fill up his pack. The keen picker runs his eye along every trunk. Here and there he sees a tall spruce marked by a seam, through which the sap has oozed, perhaps for years. The bubbles have crept out, and been clarified day by day by contact with sun and rain. There they are, nuggets of amber and garnet, ready for the picker’s chisel. Sometimes he climbs up, and taps away like a giant woodpecker. Then again, when it pays to do it, the tree is felled; for of course he has his axe along; no man would ever go into the Maine woods without that, you know.”

“If I was in that business,” spoke up Bumpus, “tell you what I’d do.”

“Go on, then,” said Giraffe, taking advantage of the fat boy’s abstraction to pick the pancake off his plate, there being no more in the main dish.

“Why, I’d just have a few acres of extra fine trees, and I’d scar ’em good and hard, so they’d bleed. Then, in a year or two, I’d just gather the gum, like they do in the turpentine regions down South.”

“Good idea, Bumpus,” declared Allan. “But another great man has thought of that same idea, which isn’t copyrighted either. Every year this man, who is called the spruce gum king, takes a certain circuit, and wounds the trees. Then, a couple of years afterwards he wanders that way, and reaps his harvest. There’s another industry that gives employment to lots of men up here. That’s gathering hoop poles.”

“Oh! tell us something about that,” demanded Step Hen.

“Well,” Allan went on, “he follows in the wake of the logger, you might say, for he just wants the second growth that springs up around the stumps left after the tree is cut down. He takes what no one else seems to want, the young birch and ash sprouts that are too plentiful anyway.

“He takes a horse with him on his tours, for he has lots to tote. He hauls his day’s cutting to camp, and spends the evening fixing the poles. It’s pretty hard work, I’m told, all around; but then the evenings are pleasant, what with the crackle of the fire; the swish of the shaves at work taking the bark off the poles; the pipe-smoking; and the story-telling.”

“What do they get for the poles after they’ve been skinned?” asked Step Hen.

“About two or three cents apiece, but that pays well for their work, and they bring in a heap of stuff through a winter. Of course, you know that these poles are split later, and used for barrels, the smaller ones for nail kegs, and to put around boxes. Down South all the orange boxes have such bindings.”

“Is that all the ways of earning a living up here in this wonderful country?” Thad asked, deeply interested.

“I should say decidedly not,” replied the other. “Why, I couldn’t begin to tell you the different things men do up here, besides acting as guides; fire wardens, to protect the woods; and logging. There’s the professional honey hunter who spends most of his time summers in locating bee trees. Then there’s the axe-handle man. He needs ash of a larger growth than the hoop-pole fellow. The trees are chopped in the fall, and then by means of a ‘froe’ and an axe, each handle is shaped out in a rough state. Then they are buried, that they may season without cracking.”

“How funny that is,” said Bumpus, who was listening to all this with eager ears.

“For fear that the wood may split,” continued Allan, “each end is daubed with a paint which is part grease; because ash goes to pieces mighty easy, if the sun gets at it. The rough handles are sent away to a factory to be nicely finished. Then there’s the fellow who hunts for ship knees; and I tell you he has no picnic. I tried it once, and I give you my word I don’t want to go out again.”

“Ship knees!” echoed Giraffe.

“Yes, and there are heaps of these picked up, but only after tough work. The prospector goes out with his axe, hunting for hack or back juniper, or tamarack. He must examine every one he finds to make sure it has just the right kind of a bend or crook; and then comes the job of digging it out, which is a muscle racking business, believe me.”

“Any more?” demanded Bumpus, when Allen paused to finish his coffee.

“Oh! yes, lots. I remember the fellow who goes after hemlock bark for the tanneries. Then there are the Indians who make baskets: or who prefer to have the old style birch bark canoe, to one of these elegant up-to-date canvas ones, that are built on exactly the same model as those used hundreds of years ago. Big birches are few and far between up in Maine now, and sometimes, as Sebattis here has told me, one of the Penobscots will travel nearly fifty miles before he can strike a tree large enough to make a canoe, yielding a piece of bark without a crack, or a knot-hole, where a branch has been lopped off.”

“That winds up the list, then, does it?” asked Step Hen, getting up.

“Far from it,” laughed Allen. “I could sit here for half an hour more, and tell you about other queer occupations that these wonderful Maine woods open up to the men who have a leaning that way. Why, I understand that some smart fellows have even been dredging some of the streams after the mussels or fresh water clams; and not only selling the shells to the factories where pearl buttons are manufactured, but finding pearls every little while.”

“Pearls, and up here of all places!” exclaimed Bumpus, as though amazed.

“Certainly,” replied Allen. “They’ve been taking a great many out in the streams of Indiana, Missouri and other states in the middle West these years back, and one man in the Moosehead region in Maine found a pearl not long ago that brought two hundred dollars, and was worth many times that when polished, I guess. And then, last but not least, are the trappers who are scattered all over the state. Each winter they take a tremendous amount of valuable fur; and as Maine is so far north, the pelts being several times as much as those in warmer countries. A muskrat hide from a swamp up here, is worth three times as much as one taken in Florida or Louisiana. But some other time I may tell you more about the resources of these great woods. It’s time we got busy doing things; and here are Thad and Davy just waiting to be moving on their little hunt.”

“Well, I declare,” remarked Bumpus, “I never had any idea the woods up here had such a lot of living in ’em for an army of men,” and he looked around at the encircling trees with renewed respect.

The little hunting party was soon ready to launch forth.

“Be back before night, I suppose?” bawled out Giraffe after them.

“We expect to,” replied Thad; “but if we hold off, make your minds up we’re all right, and don’t let Bumpus worry.”

“Huh! just as if Bumpus didn’t have enough to worry about as it is,” grumbled the fat boy. “I dreamed last night that when I got back to Cranford I found all my folks lined up at the station, and every blessed one apointin’ an accusin’ finger right at me, an’ lookin’ real sad. Say, I woke up all of a tremble, and was mighty glad to find that it was only a silly dream. Course I must a delivered that note to the bank; chances they’re ten to one I did; _but I wish I knew; I just wish I could be dead sure_!”

He was a bit gloomy all through the morning, and sat there staring into the red heart of the fire until Giraffe demanded to know whether he was sick; and if he meant to go out with them after lunch to hunt for that bee tree, or keep camp.

That seemed to excite Bumpus, and he again forgot all his troubles. But evidently his pondering had not brought any happy result; and he was just as far as ever from knowing whether he had carried out his father’s instructions with regard to that precious letter, or not.

The sun had indeed warmed things up toward noon. It often does during the fall season in Maine, and before the first heavy snow, making ideal weather; the early morning being crisp and delightful, with the middle of the day quite warm.

Allan had admitted that if ever they had a chance to find a bee tree that day ought to tell the tale. He believed that the young bees would surely be tempted to take some exercise before they were hived up for the long winter. And when there is a swarm buzzing around busily in a clump, they make quite some noise, that a keen ear can easily detect, if on guard.

So, after they had partaken of a light lunch, they started out, leaving Sebattis to look after the camp while they were gone.

Besides an axe, the boys carried a few things in which a supply of honey could be brought back, in case success followed their efforts, and a genuine bee tree was located.

Allan told them the comforting truth, that since this region had apparently not been hunted over for some years, there ought to be a very good chance of running across a hive. Of course they carried their guns, because no one could tell when these useful articles would be needed. And as Jim said, “when a man wants his gun, he gen’rally needs it in a big hurry.”

As they went along Allan took occasion to point out numerous things that bore some relation to the facts which he had so recently been telling them.

“That’s a birch almost big enough to make a canoe,” he remarked, pointing to a splendid specimen of the shapely tree that stood close by. “And over yonder is a tamarack on the border of that swale. You generally find them in swampy sections. And around this tree blown down by a storm, you can see growing a lot of young shoots, which, as like as not, the hoop pole man would cut for his use.”

Presently, however, he began to explain how they must stretch out, forming a line through the woods, and covering the ground. At one end Allen himself took up his station, with Jim the guide forming the other guard. This was a precaution, lest one of the others showed an inclination to stray. They were to keep in touch with one another by occasional shouts, which were to serve as signals. Each one had his particular and distinguishing call, and when Allen shouted, first Bumpus, next in line, then Step Hen, and after him Giraffe and Jim were to answer in order; that the one in charge could be sure that they were keeping in something of a straight line.

And in case a hum was heard that sounded like a hive, a certain cry, twice repeated, was to summon all the others to the spot.

The boys tramped for half an hour, with eyes and ears on the alert. Many times no doubt they imagined they caught the welcome buzzing sound, but upon coming to a halt in order to listen and make certain, before bringing their companions hurrying to the spot, it always devolved into something else, much to the chagrin and disappointment of the hunter.

Bumpus was fully awake to the great possibilities of the occasion. Somehow this honey hunting had become a sort of mania with him. It was not that he loved the sweet nectar of the hive any better than Giraffe for instance; but his nature was such that he liked to find things that were lost. And somehow the idea of locating a genuine bee tree appealed immensely to the fat boy.

So he tramped sturdily along, looking upward with a great effort, on account of his stout build, and frequently wishing Nature had endowed him with that “rubber neck” which Giraffe boasted, and which must be an ideal one for a wild honey hunter, Bumpus imagined. It was perhaps the first and only time he had ever envied his comrade in the possession of such a long neck.

But Bumpus really believed that fortune was going to be extra kind to him. He kept telling himself that if any one discovered the wonderful bee tree, it must be himself, because he had dreamed of it so very often.

Now and then he answered the calls which Allen sent out. He did this because he had a horror of getting lost. These woods seemed everlastingly big to him; and he could just imagine the terrible condition that must face any tenderfoot scout who managed to stray away from contact with his camp mates.

About three quarters of an hour had gone now, and as yet no cry announcing the successful find had come pealing along the line. Bumpus was beginning to feel tired, without any question. He admitted it to himself, but grudgingly, for he did not want to halt the proceedings, now that they were actually engaged in the bee hunt.

He refreshed himself at every water hole he came to, whether it were a running brook, or just a tiny pond with a thin skim of ice along the shore.

They were passing through a rather thick patch of woods when Bumpus felt another thrill. He felt certain that he had caught something that sounded like the buzzing of a swarm of insects; and as he had more than once meddled with the hive his people had at home, Bumpus was well qualified to know what the droning might be like.

Eagerly did he look upward, all around him. Then he began to locate the quarter from which it seemed to come, and in so doing brought to bear what little woods’ lore he had managed to pick up; for he actually noted the direction of the slight breeze, and how the noise came to him more clearly as he moved to a certain point.

Finally he believed it must come from one tree in particular. He made several tests, and each time his conviction grew more and more positive. And still the droning kept up. But the tree was a very tall one, and Bumpus had never trained his eyes to detecting small objects at a distance. In fact, some of his friends had even declared that he must be near-sighted, though he stoutly denied this.

Then suddenly, he saw a confused blur between himself and the blue sky above the tops of the trees. It actually moved back and forth in a singular swaying way.

Bumpus thrilled now with new pride. He fully believed that in this tall tree of the Maine woods he had actually located a bee hive that would assure them all the clarified sweetness they could carry away.

And when he had made as sure of this as he could, Bumpus put his trembling hands to his mouth, and sent out in his loudest tones the call agreed upon to tell the others that he, Bumpus, had after all been the one to succeed.