Part 2 (1/2)
”I hope so,” responded Henry Burns, with a twinkle in his eye, ”I like it--but I wish I could feel just one dry spot on my back.”
They ate their dinner of fried bacon and pickerel and coffee beside a fire that blazed cheerily, despite an occasional sputtering caused by the rain dripping through; and when they had got half dry and had started forth once more into the rain, they were in good spirits. But the first ten minutes of paddling found them drenched to the skin again.
They ran some small rapids after a time, and later carried around a little dam. The afternoon waned, and the windings of the stream seemed endless. It was three o'clock when, at a sudden turn to the right, which was to the eastward, they came upon another stream flowing in and mingling with the one they were following. Thenceforth the two ran as one stream, the banks widening perceptibly, the stream flowing far more broadly, and with increased depth and strength. The way from now on was to the eastward some three or four miles, and then almost due south to Benton, a distance of ten of eleven miles more.
They were soon running swiftly with the current, shooting rapids, at times, of an eighth of a mile in length, going very carefully not to sc.r.a.pe on submerged rocks. And still the rain fell. There were two dams to carry around, and they did this somewhat drearily, trudging along the muddy sh.o.r.es, climbing the slippery banks with difficulty, and with some danger of falling and smas.h.i.+ng their canoe.
Five, six and seven o'clock came; darkness was shutting in, and they were three miles from Benton. To make matters worse, with the falling of night the rain increased, pouring in such torrents that they had frequently to pause and empty out their canoe.
A few minutes after seven, and a light gleamed from a window a little distance back from the stream, less than a quarter of a mile.
”There's our lodgings for the night, Jack,” said Henry Burns, pointing up through the rain. ”I don't mind saying I've had enough. It's three miles yet to Benton, or nearly that, there are three more dams, and as for walking, the road must be a bog-hole.”
”I'm with you,” responded Harvey. ”If it's a lodging house, I've the money to pay--three dollars in the oiled silk wallet. If it's a farmhouse, we'll stay, if we have to sleep in the barn.”
Presently they perceived a landing, with several rowboats tied up. They ran in alongside this, drew their canoe clear up on to the float, turned it over, and walked rapidly up toward the house from which the light shone.
”We're in luck for once,” said Harvey. ”There's a sign over the door.”
The sign, indeed, seemed to offer them some sort of welcome. It bore an enormous hand pointing inward, and the inscription, ”Half Way House.”
”I wonder what it's half way between,” said Henry Burns, as they paused a moment on the threshold of the door. ”Half way between the sky and China, I guess. But I don't care, if the roof doesn't leak.”
The picture, as they entered, was, in truth, one to cheer the most wretched. Directly in front of them, in line with the door, a fire of hickory logs roared in an old-fas.h.i.+oned brick fireplace, lighting up the hotel office almost as much as did the two kerosene lamps, disposed at either end. An old woman, dozing comfortably in a big rocking chair before the blaze, jumped up at their appearance.
”Land sakes!” she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, querulously. ”What a night to be comin' in upon us! Dear! Dear! Want to stay over night, you say? Well, if that ain't like boys--canooering, you call it, in this mess of a rain.
Gracious me, but you're wet to the skin, both er yer. Well, take them wooden chairs, as won't be spoiled with water, and sit up by the fire till I make a new pot of coffee and warm up a bit of stew and fry a bit of bacon. Canooering in this weather! Well, that beats me.”
”The proprietor, you say? Well, he's up the road, but he'll be in, soon. You can pay me for the supper, and fix 'bout the stay in' over night with him. I jes' tend to the cookin'. That's all I do.”
She called them to supper in the course of a quarter of an hour, and had clearly done her best for them. There was coffee, steaming hot, and biscuit, warmed up to a crisp; bacon, freshly fried, with eggs; a dish of home-made preserves, and a sheet of gingerbread.
”Eat all yer can hold,” she chuckled, as they fell to, hungry as panthers. ”Canooering's good fer the appert.i.te, ain't it? It's plain vittles, but I reckon the cookin's good as the most of 'em, if I say it, who shouldn't.”
She rambled on, somewhat garrulously, as the boys ate. They did full justice to the cooking, stuffed themselves till Henry Burns said he could feel his skin stretch; paid the old woman her price for the meal--”twenty-five cents apiece, an' it couldn't be done for less”--and went and seated themselves comfortably once more by the fire in the office. They settled themselves back comfortably.
”Arms ache?” inquired Harvey of his comrade.
”No,” replied Henry Burns, ”but I don't mind saying I'm tired. I wouldn't stir out of this place again to-night for sixteen billion dol--”
The door opened, and a bulky, red-faced man entered, stamping, shaking the rain from his clothing like a big Newfoundland dog, and railing ill-naturedly at the weather.
”It's a vile night, gran',” he exclaimed; then espying his two newly-arrived guests, he a.s.sumed a more cordial tone.
”Good evening. Good evening, young gentlemen,” he said. ”Glad you got in out of the storm--h.e.l.lo! what's this? Well, if it don't beat me!”
At the sound of the man's voice, Henry Burns and Jack Harvey had sprung up in amazement. They stood beside their chairs, eying the proprietor of the Half Way House, curiously. He, in turn, glared at them in astonishment, fully equal to theirs, while his red face went from its normal fiery hue to deep purple, and his hands clenched.
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”AT THE SOUND OF THE MAN'S VOICE, HENRY BURNS AND JACK HARVEY HAD SPRUNG UP IN AMAZEMENT.”]