CHAPTER XVII

THE RETURN

“What!”

Dan and Alf and Gerald leaped to their feet and ran to the bank. Then they looked at each other in blank dismay. Below them the wet sand still showed where the canoes had rested, but the canoes themselves had utterly vanished. Tom sauntered up, his hands in his pockets, whistling softly.

“It really is a beautiful view from here,” he murmured. Alf turned on him irritably.

“Tom, don’t be an absolute fool, will you?” he begged.

“That’s right, cut out the humor for a minute,” Dan agreed. “There isn’t anything especially funny about having to walk all the way home!”

“Thought we were going to float,” said Tom with a grin. They turned from him in impatient disgust, Alf muttering things uncomplimentary to his friend’s mental condition.

“I don’t see――” began Dan.

“Oh, it’s plain enough,” Alf cut in. “They weren’t drawn up very far and when Gerald got in them he pushed them off a little and the wind did the rest. They’re probably out in the sound by this time.”

“I’m awfully sorry,” said Gerald humbly.

“Oh, it wasn’t your fault,” answered Alf. “We ought to have drawn them up farther. I never thought about the wind.”

“Nor I,” said Dan.

“If you’d taken my advice and camped on the other side,” observed Tom sweetly, “this wouldn’t have happened.”

“You be blowed! But, see here, Alf; the wind may have blown them ashore on the other bank lower down.”

“Wouldn’t help us much,” replied Alf. “But we might go down a ways and see if we can find them.”

“If we do find them I’ll swim over and get them,” said Dan, as they went along the bank.

“Indeed you won’t! You’d catch cold a day like this. But I would like to be sure that they haven’t gone sailing out to sea.”

They went on silently and dejectedly for nearly a quarter of a mile. There their farther progress was barred by a small stream which flowed into the river from the marsh.

“We might get across this by wading,” said Dan, “but there are any number more of them.”

The canoes were not in sight, although from where they had halted they could see both banks of the river as far as the next turn, an eighth of a mile below.

“Well, what’s to be done?” asked Alf.

“Walk home,” answered Dan. “It’s about six miles, though, the way we’ll have to go, for we’ll have to make a circle around the marsh and hit the Broadwood road somewhere beyond the Cider Mill. Even so, we’re in for wet feet.”

“If we were only on the other side,” mourned Gerald.

“That would be a cinch,” said Dan.

“‘Over on the Jersey side,’” hummed Tom. “Look here, six miles may appeal to you chaps, but it likes me not.”

“Well,” inquired Alf belligerently, “what do you propose, Mr. Fixit?”

“I propose, Mr. Grouch, that we walk _up_ the river instead of down.”

“That’s so,” agreed Dan. “There’s a bridge about a mile and a half up there. That would make it only about four miles and a half to school instead of six.”

“And six is a most optimistic calculation of the other route,” added Tom. “I’ll bet it’s nearer seven.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any place in this old stream where we could ford it, is there?” asked Alf, looking wrathfully at the river.

“Guess not. You know we can go in canoes up as far as the old coal wharf, and that’s a good four miles above here.”

“We might swim it,” said Gerald.

“Yes, and get our clothes wet and have pneumonia,” responded Alf. “I guess not. Come on, then; we’ll foot it to the bridge.”

“Well, let’s do something. I’m getting frozen.” And Dan led the way back along the edge of the river. When they had reached their picnic site they stood for a moment around the dwindling fire and warmed their chilled bodies.

“Let’s leave these things here,” suggested Tom, “and come up for them to-morrow.”

“You can leave your rug if you want to,” replied Alf, “but I prefer to take mine along. I don’t care to lose it; it cost money.”

“That’s different, of course,” answered Tom cheerfully. “They gave me mine with a pair of suspenders. Nevertheless I cherish it deeply and will e’en bear it with me.”

“They may keep us from freezing to death before we get home,” said Dan morosely.

“Oh, you won’t be cold by the time you reach the bridge,” answered Tom. “All ready? Who’s got the pesky glasses? You, Gerald? Give them to me and I’ll stick ’em in my pockets. That’s all right. Now, then, the bridge party will proceed.”

It was a rather silent quartet that tramped along the river bank in the wind. Luckily they were leaving the marshes behind, and, although they did get their feet wet more than once, they encountered no streams. The mile and a half seemed nearer three, but that was no doubt due to the fact that they had to stumble through bushes and briars and force their way through thickets.

“Was that one of the school canoes you had?” asked Alf once.

“Yes,” Dan replied sadly. “How much will they charge me for it, do you think?”

“About twenty-five, I guess. Maybe it will be found, though.”

“Gee, I hope so! You had your own, didn’t you?”

“Yes, mine and Tom’s. I don’t care so much, about that, though; I daresay I wouldn’t have used it much more, anyway.”

“Let it go,” said Tom cheerfully. “It has played us false.”

“You’re a queer dub,” said Dan, turning to him with a smile. “Most of the time you don’t open your mouth. To-day you’re real sort of chatty. Adversity seems to agree with you, Tom.”

“Oh, it isn’t that,” was the reply. “It’s the picnic. Picnics always make me bright and sunny. I’m crazy about them and don’t know when I’ve ever enjoyed one more. You――you get so close to Nature, don’t you?”

“You surely do,” answered Dan, stumbling over a blackberry runner and picking himself up again. “Too close!”

“There’s the bridge!” cried Gerald from the end of the procession.

“Praises be!” said Alf. “I only hope it will hold together long enough for us to get across. It looks as though it might tumble down any moment.”

“Never look a bridge in the mouth till you come to it,” said Tom. “To me it is a most beautiful structure, far, far more beautiful than the Brooklyn Bridge or the Bridge of Sighs or any of the _ponts_ of dear old Paris. Don’t you love the _ponts_ of Paris, Dan?”

“I’m wild about plaster of Paris,” laughed Dan as they reached the narrow road and turned onto the old wagon bridge. Once across it they continued along the road instead of following the river back.

“The railroad’s only a little way over,” said Alf, “and I’m sick of looking at that measly little ditch.”

“Remember the rules, Alf,” cautioned Tom. “No walking on the railroad, you know.”

“Hang the rules! I want to get home!”

“So do I, but not in pieces. I knew a fellow once who was walking on the railroad and a train came up behind him and he didn’t get off and――” Tom paused eloquently.

“And cr-r-rushed him, I suppose,” Dan inquired.

“No, he was on the other track,” answered Tom. “It’s always safer to be on the other track. I shall walk on the other track all the way home.”

“Tom, you’re a perfect idiot to-day,” said Alf disgustedly. “You aren’t nearly as funny as you think you are.”

“And you’re not nearly as grouchy as you think you are,” replied Tom good-naturedly. “Behold, gentlemen and one other, the railroad, passing, as you see, from thither to yon; also back again on the other track. How do we get down there? Jump?”

“No, fall,” said Dan, scrambling down the steep bank. “I want to tell you, though, that I’m going to get out of here before I come in sight of school. Old Toby is daffy about fellows walking on the railroad tracks.”

“Hope we don’t meet him coming the other way,” said Tom. “What would you do if we did, Alf? Just whistle and speed by?”

“No, I’d jump the track and run like the dickens,” answered Alf. “I wonder why they don’t put these fool ties the same distance apart.”

“It’s awfully good exercise,” said Dan. “How are you getting on, Gerald?”

“All right,” Gerald replied a trifle breathlessly. “I thought I heard a whistle then, Dan.”

“Old Toby, I’ll bet a hat!” cried Tom.

“Well, if a train comes,” answered Dan, “don’t try to guess which track it’s on but get off on one side as quick as you know how and give it plenty of room.”

Gerald had a chance to profit by Dan’s advice a few minutes later when a local came screeching down on them from the east. The boys drew off at one side of the track and held onto their caps, for the cut was narrow and the engine and cars went by at not much more than arm’s length.

“That engine bit at me,” gasped Alf when the last car had hurtled by in a blinding cloud of dust and smoke. “Gee, but my eyes are full of cinders!”

“Why didn’t you shut them?” asked Tom. “That was a narrow escape, fellows, I tell you. A yard farther that way and we’d have been ground to atoms.”

“I guess the next time I’ll climb the bank,” observed Gerald with a somewhat sickly smile. “I thought that engine was going to reach out and grab me!”

“There probably won’t be any next time,” said Dan. “Not if we foot it a little faster. What time is it, anyway? By Jupiter, Alf, it’s a quarter past four!”

“I’m automobiling this minute,” sighed Tom. “Say, did we have any luncheon or did I just dream it? I’m certainly terribly lonesome inside.”

“I could eat tacks,” said Alf. “Double-pointed ones, too. Let’s hit up the pace a bit.”

They did, but soon tired, for the ties were never just where they should have been and progress consisted of hops and skips and occasional jumps. Tom voiced the general sentiment when he observed pantingly: “Fellows, this is very tie-some. I shall moderate my transports, if I never get home.”

“You mean transportation,” suggested Dan.

“I mean that I’m going to walk the rest of the way calmly and with dignity. This thing of being a goat and leaping from crag to crag makes me nervous. Anyway, we’re getting pretty near school and I vote that we quit being railroad trains and hit the road.”

“Road nothing! Come up this side and go through the woods,” said Alf. “It’s a heap nearer.”

So they climbed a steep bank, shinned over a high fence and left the railroad cut. Ten minutes of devious progress through woods and across fields brought them to the school. Tom subsided on the steps of Clarke.

“I can go no further,” he declared. “Bring up the auto, Gerald.”

“I’m afraid it’s gone home again,” said Gerald. “But it isn’t too late to take a ride, is it? Just a short one.”

“Ride! What is a ride?” demanded Alf. “I’ve walked so much I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

“I’ll go and telephone home and ask them to send the car back,” said Gerald.

“That’s the ticket. But, look here, what about dressing? Do we get into our party rags now or after the ride?”

“Afterwards,” said Gerald. “We’ll come back at six and dinner isn’t until seven.”

“Good!” said Alf. “I’ll just crawl over and eradicate some of the signs of travel; and incidentally get about a quart of cinders out of my eyes. We’ll come up to the room in about ten minutes, Dan.”

“Right O! I don’t think a little exercise with a whisk broom and soap and water would hurt me any, either. What’s this?”

“This,” answered Tom, “or rather, these, are the glasses, Dan. I appoint you a committee of one to restore them to the kitchen.”

“You run away and play! Take them back yourself, you old lazy chump!”

“But I didn’t borrow them. They might not like――――”

“Neither did I. Give them to Alf.”

But Alf had already departed, and with a groan Tom made his way to Whitson, limping pathetically. On the steps he paused and looked back at Dan, who had watched the performance amusedly. Tom raised the hand holding the tumblers high in air.

“Picnic!” he called across. “Never again!”