Chapter IV: More of Camp De Squatook (1)

On the following morning we breakfasted in a very leisurely fashion, with a delightful sense of having all day before us. We spent the day in casting our flies at the outlet, and our success was a continual repetition of that of the previous night. Only Stranion grew tired. He could not hook as many fish as the rest of us; wherefore he grew disgusted, and chose to sit on the bank deriding us. But as long as the fish were feeding we heeded him not. Our heaviest trout that day just cleared two pounds and a half.

In the evening we took tea early. Before settling down we made a little voyage of exploration to the top of a neighboring hill, and watched the moon rise over the vast and empty wilderness. Returning to the camp, we doffed our scanty garments, ran down the beach, and dashed out into the gleaming lake-waters. It was such a swim as Stranion had told us of. After this we felt royally luxurious. We lolled upon our blankets with a lordly air, and the soughing of the pines was all about us for music. Then, in a peremptory tone, Sam cried, “Stranion!”—“Sir, to you!” was Stranion’s polite response.

“Stranion,” continued Sam, “to you it falls to unfold to this appreciative audience the resources of your experience or your imagination. I would recommend, now, a judicious combination of the two.”

Thus irresistibly adjured, Stranion began:—

“This is the story of—

‘LOU’S CLARIONET,’”

said he. “Judge ye whether I speak from experience or imagination.

“It was a Christmas Eve service in the Second Westcock Church.

“The church at Second Westcock was quaint and old-fashioned, like the village over which it presided. Its shingles were gray with the beating of many winters; its little square tower was surmounted by four spindling posts, like the legs of a table turned heavenward; its staring windows were adorned with curtains of yellow cotton; its uneven and desolate churchyard, strewn with graves and snowdrifts, occupied a bleak hillside looking out across the bay to the lonely height of Shepody Mountain.

“Down the long slope below the church straggled the village, half-lost in the snow, and whistled over by the winds of the Bay of Fundy.

“Second Westcock was an outlying corner of the rector’s expansive parish, and a Christmas Eve service there was an event almost unparalleled. To give Second Westcock this service, the rector had forsaken his prosperous congregations at Westcock, Sackville, and Dorchester, driving some eight or ten miles through the snows and solitude of the deep Dorchester woods.

“And because the choir at Second Westcock was not remarkable even for willingness, much less for strength or skill, he had brought with him his fifteen-year-old niece, Lou Allison, to swell the Christmas praises with the notes of her clarionet.

“The little church was lighted with oil-lamps ranged along the white wall between the windows. The poor, bare chancel—a red cloth-covered kitchen table in a semicircle of paintless railing—was flanked by two towering pulpits of white pine. On either side the narrow, carpetless aisle were rows of unpainted benches.

“On the left were gathered solemnly the men of the congregation, each looking straight ahead. On the right were the women, whispering and scanning each other’s bonnets, till the appearance of the rector from the little vestry-room by the door should bring silence and reverent attention.

“In front of the women’s row stood the melodeon; and the two benches behind it were occupied by the choir, the male members of which sat blushingly self-conscious, proud of their office, but deeply abashed at the necessity of sitting among the women.

“There was no attempt at Christmas decoration, for Second Westcock had never been awakened to the delicious excitements of the church greening.

“At last the rector appeared in his voluminous white surplice. He moved slowly up the aisle, and mounted the winding steps of the right-hand pulpit; and as he did so his five-year-old son, forsaking his place by Lou’s side, marched forward and seated himself resolutely on the pulpit steps. He did not feel quite at home in Second Westcock Church.

“The sweet old carol, ‘While shepherds watched their flocks by night,’ rose rather doubtfully from the little choir, who looked and listened askance at the glittering clarionet, into which Lou was now blowing softly. Lou was afraid to make herself distinctly heard at first, lest she should startle the singers; but in the second verse the pure vibrant notes came out with confidence, and then for two lines the song was little more than a duet between Lou and the rector’s vigorous baritone. In the third verse, however, it all came right. The choir felt and responded to the strong support and thrilling stimulus of the instrument, and at length ceased to dread their own voices. The naked little church was glorified with the sweep of triumphal song pulsating through it.

“Never before had such music been heard there. Men, women, and children sang from their very souls; and when the hymn was ended the whole congregation stood for some seconds as in a dream, with quivering throats, till the rector’s calm voice, repeating the opening words of the liturgy, brought back their self-control in some measure.

“Thereafter every hymn and chant and carol was like an inspiration, and Lou’s eyes sparkled with exultation.

“When the service was over the people gathered round the stove by the door, praising Lou’s clarionet, and petting little Ted, who had by this time come down from the pulpit steps. One old lady gave the child two or three brown sugar-biscuits, which she had brought in her pocket, and a pair of red mittens, which she had knitted for him as a Christmas present.

“Turning to Lou, the old lady said, ‘I never heerd nothing like that trumpet of yourn, Miss. I felt like it jest drawed down the angels from heaven to sing with us to-night. Ther voices was all swimming in a smoke like, right up in the hollow of the ceiling.’

“‘’Tain’t a trumpet!’ interrupted Teddy shyly; ‘it’s a clar’onet. I got a trumpet home!’

“‘_To_ be sure!’ replied the old lady indulgently. ‘But, Miss, as I was a-sayin’, that music of yourn would jest soften the hardest heart as ever was.’

“The rector had just come from the vestry-room, well wrapped up in his furs, and was shaking hands and wishing every one a Merry Christmas, while the sexton brought the horse to the door. He overheard the old lady’s last remark, as she was bundling Teddy up in a huge woollen muffler.

“‘It certainly did,’ said he, ‘make the singing go magnificently to-night, didn’t it, Mrs. Tait? But I wonder, now, what sort of an effect it would produce on a hard-hearted bear if such a creature should come out at us while we are going through Dorchester woods?’

“The mild pleasantry was very delicately adapted to the rector’s audience, and the group about the stove smiled with a reverent air befitting the place they were in; but the old lady exclaimed in haste,—

“‘My land sakes, Parson, a bear’d be jest scared to death!’

“‘I wonder if it _would_ frighten a bear?’ thought Lou to herself, as they were getting snugly bundled into the warm, deep ‘pung,’ as the low box-sleigh with movable seats is called.

“Soon the crest of the hill was passed, and the four-poster on the top of Second Westcock Church sank out of sight. For a mile or more the road led through half-cleared pasture lands, where the black stumps stuck up so strangely through the drifts that Teddy discovered bears on every hand. He was not at all alarmed, however, for he was sure his father was a match for a thousand bears.

“By and by the road entered the curious inverted dark of the Dorchester woods, where all the light seemed to come from the white snow under the trees rather than from the dark sky above them. At this stage of the journey Teddy retired beneath the buffalo-robes, and went to sleep in the bottom of the pung.

“The horse jogged slowly along the somewhat heavy road. The bells jingled drowsily amid the soft, pushing whisper of the runners. Lou and the rector talked in quiet voices, attuned to the solemn hush of the great forest.

“‘_What’s that?_’

“Lou shivered up closer to the rector as she spoke, and glanced nervously into the dark woods whence a sound had come. He did not answer at once, but seized the whip and tightened the reins, as a signal to old Jerry to move on faster.

“The horse needed no signal, but awoke into an eager trot, which would have become a gallop had the rector permitted.

“Again came the sound, this time a little nearer, and still, apparently, just abreast of the pung, but deep in the woods. It was a bitter, long, wailing cry, blended with a harshly grating undertone, like the rasping of a saw.

“‘What is it?’ again asked Lou, her teeth chattering.

“The rector let old Jerry out into a gallop, as he answered, ‘I’m afraid it’s a panther,—what they call around here an “Indian devil.” But I don’t think there is any real danger. It is a ferocious beast, but will probably give _us_ a wide berth.’

“‘Why won’t it attack _us_?” asked Lou.

“‘Oh, it prefers solitary victims,’ replied the rector. ‘It is ordinarily a cautious beast, and does not understand the combination of man and horse and vehicle. Only on rare occasions has it been known to attack people driving, and this one will probably keep well out of our sight. However, it’s just as well to get beyond its neighborhood as quickly as possible. Steady, Jerry, old boy! Steady; don’t use yourself up too fast!’

“The rector kept the horse well in hand; but in a short time it was plain that the panther was not avoiding the party. The cries came nearer and nearer, and Lou’s breath came quicker and quicker, and the rector’s teeth began to set themselves grimly, while his brows gathered in anxious thought.

“If it should come to a struggle, what was there in the sleigh, he was wondering, that could serve as a weapon? Nothing, absolutely nothing, but his heavy pocket-knife.

“‘A poor weapon,’ thought he ruefully, ‘with which to fight a panther.’ But he felt in his pocket with one hand, and opened the knife, and slipped it under the edge of the cushion beside him.

“At this instant he caught sight of the panther bounding along through the low underbrush, keeping parallel with the road, and not forty yards away.

“‘There it is!’ came in a terrified whisper from Lou’s lips; and just then Teddy lifted his head from under the robes. Frightened at the speed, and at the set look on his father’s face, he began to cry. The panther heard him and turned at once toward the sleigh.

“Old Jerry stretched himself out in a burst of extra speed, while the rector grasped his poor knife fiercely; and the panther came with a long leap right into the road, not ten paces behind the flying sleigh.

“Teddy stared in amazement, then cowered down in fresh terror as there came an ear-splitting screech, wild and high and long, from Lou’s clarionet. Lou had turned, and over the back of the seat was blowing this peal of desperate defiance in the brute’s very face. The astonished animal shrank back in his tracks, and sprang again into the underbrush.

“Lou turned to the rector with a flushed face of triumph, and the rector exclaimed in a husky voice, ‘Thank God!’ But Teddy, between his sobs, complained, ‘What did you do that for, Lou?’

“Lou jumped to the conclusion that her victory was complete and final; but the rector kept Jerry at his top speed, and scrutinized the underwood apprehensively.

“The panther appeared again in four or five minutes, returning to the road, and leaping along some forty or fifty feet behind the sleigh. His pace was a very curious, disjointed, india-rubbery spring, which rapidly closed up on the fugitives.

“Then round swung Lou’s long instrument again, and at its piercing cry the animal again shrank back. This time, however, he kept to the road, and the moment Lou paused for breath he resumed the chase.

“‘Save your breath, child,’ exclaimed the rector, as Lou again put the slender tube to her lips. ‘Save your breath, and let him have it ferociously when he begins to get too near.

“The animal came within twenty or thirty feet again, and then Lou greeted him with an ear-splitting blast, and he fell back. Again and again the tactics were repeated. Lou tried a thrilling cadenza; it was too much for the brute’s nerves. He could not comprehend a girl with such a penetrating voice, and he could not screw up his courage to a closer investigation of the marvel.

“At last the animal seemed to resolve on a change of procedure. Plunging into the woods, he made an effort to get ahead of the sleigh. Old Jerry was showing signs of exhaustion; but the rector roused him to an extra spurt—and there, just ahead, was the opening of Fillmore’s settlement.

“‘Blow, Lou, blow!’ shouted the rector; and as the panther made a dash to intercept the sleigh, it found itself in too close proximity to the strange-voiced phenomenon in the pung, and sprang backward with an angry snarl.

“As Lou’s breath failed from her dry lips, the sleigh dashed out into the open. A dog bayed angrily from the nearest farmhouse, and the panther stopped short on the edge of the wood. The rector drove into the farmyard; and old Jerry stopped, shivering as if he would fall between the shafts.

“After the story had been told, and Jerry had been stabled and rubbed down, the rector resumed his journey with a fresh horse, having no fear that the panther would venture across the cleared lands. Three of the settlers started out forthwith, and following the tracks in the new snow, succeeded in shooting the beast after a chase of two or three hours.

“The adventure supplied the country-side all that winter with a theme for conversation; and about Lou’s clarionet there gathered a halo of romance that drew rousing congregations to the parish church, where its music was to be heard every alternate Sunday evening.”

“I should say,” remarked Queerman, “that to experience and imagination you combine a most tenacious memory. Who would have dreamed that the shy Teddy, with his proclivity for the pulpit-steps, would have developed into the Stranion that we see before us!”

To this there was no reply. Then suddenly Magnus said, “Sam!” And Sam began at once.

“This is all about—

‘JAKE DIMBALL’S WOODEN LEG,’”

said Sam.

“One evening in the early summer, I won’t say how many years ago, Jake Dimball was driving the cows home from pasture. At that time Jake, a stout youth of seventeen, had no thought of such an appendage as a wooden leg. Indeed, he had no place to put one had he possessed such a thing; for his own vigorous legs of bone and muscle, with which he had been born and with which he had grown up in entire content, seemed likely to serve him for the rest of his natural life. But that very evening, amid the safe quiet and soft colors of the upland cow-pasture, fate was making ready a lesson for him in the possibilities of the unexpected.

“In Westmoreland county that summer bears were looked upon as a drug in the market. The county, indeed, seemed to be suffering from an epidemic of bears. But, so far, these woody pastures of Second Westcock, surrounded by settlements, had apparently escaped the contagion. When, therefore, Jake was startled by an angry growl, coming from a swampy thicket on his right, the thought of a bear did not immediately occur to him. He saw that the cows were running ahead with a sudden alertness, but he paused and gazed at the thicket, wondering whether it would be wise for him to go and investigate the source of the sound. While he hesitated, the question was decided for him. A large black bear burst forth from the bushes with a crash that carried a nameless terror into Jake’s very soul. The beast looked so cruelly out of place, so horribly out of place, breaking in upon the beauty and security of the familiar scene. Jake had no weapon more formidable than the hazel switch he was carrying and the pocket-knife with which he was trimming off its branches. After one long horrified look at the bear, Jake took to flight along the narrow cow-path.

“Jake was a notable runner in those days, yet the bear gained upon him rapidly. The cow-path was tortuous exceedingly, and away from the path the ground was too rough for fast running—at least Jake found it so. The bear did not seem to mind the irregularities.

“Jake envied the cows their fine head start. He wished he was with them; then, as he heard the bear getting closer, he almost wished he was one of them; and then his foot caught in a root and he fell headlong.

“As he fell a great wave of despair went over him, and a thought flashed through his mind: ‘This is the end of me!’ His sight was darkened for an instant, as he rolled in the moss and twigs between two hillocks. Then, turning upon his back, he saw the bear already hanging over him; and now a desperate courage came to his aid.

“Raising his heels high in the air, he brought them down with violence in the brute’s face. The animal started back, astonished at this novel method of defence. When it advanced again to the attack, Jake met it desperately with his heels; and all the time he kept up a lusty shouting such as he hoped would soon bring some one to the rescue. For a few minutes, strange to say, Jake’s tactics were successful in keeping his foe at bay; but presently the bear, growing more angry, or more hungry, made a fiercer assault, and, succeeded in catching the lad’s foot between his jaws. The brave fellow sickened under the cruel grip of those crunching teeth; but he kept up the fight with his free heel. Just as he was about fainting with pain and exhaustion, some farmers, who had heard the outcry, arrived upon the scene, and the bear hastily withdrew.

“That night there was a bear-hunt at Second Westcock, but it brought no spoils. Bruin had made an effective disappearance. As for Jake, his foot and the lower part of his leg were so dreadfully mangled that the leg had to be cut off just below the knee. When the lad was entirely recovered, being a handy fellow, he made himself a new leg of white oak, around the bottom of which, to prevent wear, he hammered a stout iron ring.

“The years went by in their usual surreptitious fashion, and brought few changes to Second Westcock. One June evening, ten years after that on which my story opened, Jake was driving the cows home as usual, when once more, as he passed the swampy thicket, he heard that menacing growl. Jake looked about him as if in a dream. There was the same dewy smell in the air, mingled with the fragrance of sweet fern, that he remembered so painfully and so well. There was the same long yellow cloud over the black woods to the west. There was the same dappled sky of amber and violet over his head. As before, he saw the cows breaking into a run. In a moment there was the same dreadful crashing in the thicket. Was he dreaming? He looked down in bewilderment, and his eyes fell on the iron-shod end of his wooden leg! That settled it. Evidently he was not dreaming, and it was time for him to hurry home. He broke into a run as rapid as his wooden leg would allow.

“Now, long use and natural dexterity had made Jake almost as active in the handling of this wooden leg as most men are with the limbs which nature gave them. But with his original legs in their pristine vigor he had found himself no match for a bear. What, then, could he expect in the present instance? Jake looked over his shoulder, and beheld the bear hot on his tracks. He could have sworn it was the same bear as of old. He made up his mind to run no more, but to save his breath for what he felt might be his last fight. He gave a series of terrific yells, such as he thought might pierce even to the corner grocery under the hill, and threw himself flat on his back on a gentle hummock that might pass for a post of vantage.

“Jake was not hopeful, but he was firm. He thought it would be too much to expect to come off twice victorious from a scrape like this. He eyed the bear sternly, and it seemed to him as if the brute actually smiled on observing that its intended victim had not forgotten his ancient tactics. Jake concluded that the approaching contest was likely to be fatal to himself, but he calculated on making it at least unpleasant for the bear.

“The animal turned a little to one side, and attacked his prostrate antagonist in the flank; but Jake whirled nimbly just in time, and brought down his iron-shod heel on the brute’s snout. The blow was a heavy one, but that bear was not at all surprised. If it was the bear of the previous encounter, it doubtless argued that years had brought additional weight and strength to its opponent’s understanding. It was not to be daunted, but instantly seized the wooden leg in its angry jaws. Jake’s yells for help continued; but the bear, the moment it discovered that the limb on which it was chewing was of good white oak, fell a prey to astonishment, if not alarm.

“It dropped the leg, backed off a few paces, sat down upon its haunches, and gazed at this strange and inedible species of man. Jake realized at once the creature’s bewilderment; but the crisis was such a painful one that the humor of the situation failed to strike him.

“After a few moments of contemplation, the bear made a fresh attack. It was hungry, and perhaps thought some other portion of Jake’s body might prove more delicate eating than his leg. Jake, however, gave it no chance to try. The next hold the bear got was upon the very end of the oaken member, where the iron ring proved little to its taste. It tried fiercely for another hold; but Jake in his desperate struggles, endowed with the strength of his terror, succeeded in foiling it in every attempt. At length, with the utmost force of his powerful thigh, he drove the end of the leg right into the beast’s open mouth, inflicting a serious wound. Blood flowed freely from the animal’s throat; and presently, after a moment of hesitation, having probably concluded that the morsel was not savory enough to justify any further struggle, the bear moved sullenly away, coughing and whining.

“Jake lay quite still till his vanquished antagonist had disappeared in the covert. Then he rose and wended his way homeward, thinking to himself how much better his wooden leg had served him than an ordinary one could have done. In a few minutes he was met by some of his fellow-townsmen, who were hastening to find out the cause of all the noise. To them Jake related the adventure with great elation, adding, as he concluded, ‘You see, now, how everything turns out for the best. If I hadn’t lost that ere leg of mine this night ten year ago, I’d have mebbe lost my head this very evening!’

“In spite of Jake Dimball’s reputation for truthfulness, his story was not believed in the village of Second Westcock. It was voted altogether too improbable, from whatever side it was looked at. In fact, so profoundly incredulous were his fellow-villagers, that Jake could not even organize a bear-hunt. Some ten days later, however, his veracity received ample confirmation. A man out looking for strayed cattle in the woods not more than a couple of miles from Jake’s pasture, found a large bear lying dead in a cedar swamp. Examining the body curiously to find the cause of death, he was puzzled till he recalled Jake’s story. Then he looked at the dead brute’s throat. The mystery was solved; and the community was once for all convinced of the fighting qualities of the wooden leg.”

“That’s a good story,” said Magnus. “In a vague way it reminds me of one which is as unlike it as anything could well be. Mine is a tropical tale. Let the O. M. enter it as—

‘PERIL AMONG THE PEARLS.’

I got it at first-hand when I was in Halifax last autumn.

“In the tiny office of the ‘Cunarder’ inn the air was thick with smoke. The white, egg-shaped stove contained a fire, though September was yet young; for a raw night fog had rolled in over Halifax, making the display of bright coals no less comforting than cheerful. From the adjacent wharves came the soft washing and whispering of the tide, with an occasional rattle of oars as a boat came to land from one of the many ships.

“The density of the atmosphere in the office was chiefly due to ‘Al’ Johnson, the diver, who, when he was not talking, diving, eating, or sleeping, was sure to be puffing at his pipe. We had talked little, but now I resolved to turn off the smoke flowing from Johnson’s pipe by getting him to tell us a story. He could never tell a story and keep his pipe lit at the same time.

“Johnson was a college-bred man, whom a love of adventure had lured into deep-sea diving. He and his partner were at this time engaged in recovering the cargo of the steamer Oelrich, sunk near the entrance to Halifax harbor.

“I asked Johnson, ‘Do you remember promising me a yarn about an adventure you had in the pearl-fisheries?’

“‘Which adventure? and what pearl-fisheries?’ Johnson asked. ‘I’ve fished at Tinnevelli, and in the Sulu waters off the Borneo coast, and also in the Torres Strait; and wheresoever it was, there seemed to be pretty nearly always some excitement going.’

“‘Oh,’ said I, ‘whichever you like to give us. I think what you spoke of was an adventure in the Torres Strait.’

“‘No,’ said Johnson, ‘I think I’ll give you a little yarn about a tussle I had with a turtle in the Sulu waters. I fancy there isn’t much that grows but you’ll find it somewhere in Borneo; and the water there is just as full of life as the land.’

“‘Sharks?’ I queried.

“‘Oh, worse than sharks!’ replied Johnson. ‘There’s a big squid that will squirt the water black as ink; and just then, perhaps, something comes along and grabs you when you can’t defend yourself. And there’s the devil-fish, own cousin to the squid, and the meanest enemy you’d want to run across anywhere. And there’s a tremendous giant of a shell-fish,—a kind of scalloped clam, that lies with its huge shells wide open, but half hidden in the long weeds and sea-mosses. If you put your foot into _that_ trap—_snap!_ it closes on you, and you’re fast! That clam is a good deal stronger than you are; and if you have not a hatchet or something to smash the shell with, you are likely to stay there. Of course your partner in the boat up aloft would soon know something was wrong, finding that he couldn’t haul you up. Then he would go down after you, and chop you loose perhaps. But meanwhile it would be far from nice, especially if a shark came along—if another clam does not nab him, for one of these big clams has been known to catch even a shark. Many natives thereabouts do a lot of diving on their own account, and, of course, don’t indulge in diving-suits. I can tell you, they are very careful not to fall afoul of those clam-shells; for when they do they’re drowned before they can get clear.’

“‘You can hardly blame the clam, or whatever it is,’ said I. ‘It must be rather a shock to its nerves when it feels a big foot thrust down right upon its stomach!’

“‘No,’ assented Johnson; ‘you can’t blame the clam. But besides the clam, there is a big turtle that is a most officious creature, with a beak that will almost cut railroad iron. It is forever poking that beak into whatever it thinks it doesn’t know all about; and you cannot scare it as you can a shark. You have simply got to kill it before it will acknowledge itself beaten. These same turtles, however, at the top of the water or on dry land would, in most cases, prove as timid as rabbits. And then, as you say, there are the sharks,—all kinds, big and little, forever hungry, but not half so courageous as they get the credit of being.’

“‘I suppose,’ I interrupted, ‘you always carried a weapon of some sort!’

“‘Well, rather!’ said Johnson. ‘For my own part, I took a great fancy to the ironwood stakes that the natives always use. But they didn’t seem to me quite the thing for smashing those big shells with, supposing a fellow should happen to put his foot into one. So I made myself a stake with a steel top, which answered every purpose. More than one big shark have I settled with that handspike of mine; and once I found, to my great advantage, that it was just the thing to break up a shell with.’

“‘Ha, ha!’ laughed Best, who had been listening rather inattentively hitherto. ‘So _you_ put your foot in it, did you?”

“‘Yes, I did,’ said Johnson. ‘And that is just what I’m going to tell you about. I was working that season with a good partner, a likely young fellow hailing from Auckland. He tended the line and the pump to my complete satisfaction. I’ve never had a better tender. Also, I was teaching him to dive, and he took to it like a loon. His name was “Larry” Scott; and if he had lived, he would have made a record. He was killed about a year after the time I’m telling you of, in a row down in New Orleans. But we won’t stop to talk about that now.

“‘As I was saying, Larry and I pulled together pretty well from the start, and we were so lucky with our fishing that the fellows in the other boats began to get jealous and unpleasant. You must know that all kinds go to the pearl-fisheries; and the worst kinds have rather the best of it, in point of numbers. We were ready enough to fight, but we liked best to go our own way peaceably. So, when some of the other lads got quarrelsome, we just smiled, hoisted our sail, and looked up a new ground for ourselves some little distance from the rest of the fleet. Luck being on our side just then, we chanced upon one of the finest beds in the whole neighborhood.

“‘One morning, as I was poking about among the seaweed and stuff, I came across a fine-looking bunch of pearl-shells. I made a grab at them, but they were firmly rooted and refused to come away. I laid down my handspike, took hold of the cluster with both hands, and shifted my foothold so as to get a good chance to pull.

“‘Up came the bunch of shells at the first wrench, much more readily than I had expected. To recover myself I took a step backward; down went my foot into a crevice, “slumped” into something soft, and _snap!_ my leg was fast in a grip that almost made me yell there in the little prison of my helmet.

“‘Well, as you may imagine, just as soon as I recovered from the start this gave me, I reached out for my handspike to knock that clam-shell into flinders. But a cold shiver went over me as I found I could not reach the weapon! As I laid it down, it had slipped a little off to one side; and there it rested about a foot out of my reach, reclining on one of those twisted conch-shells such as the farmers use for dinner-horns.

“‘How I jerked on my leg trying to pull it out of the trap! That, however, only hurt the leg. All the satisfaction I could get was in the thought that my foot, with its big, twenty-pound, rubber-and-lead boot, must be making the clam’s internal affairs rather uncomfortable. After I had pretty well tired myself out, stretching and tugging on my leg, and struggling to reach the handspike, I paused to recover my wind, and consider the situation.

“‘It was not very deep water I was working in, and there was any amount of light. You have no sort of idea, until you have been there yourself, what a queer world it is down where the pearl-oyster grows. The seaweeds were all sorts of colors—or rather, I should say, they were all sorts of reds and yellows and greens. The rest of the colors of the rainbow you might find in the shells which lay around under foot, or went crawling among the weeds; and away overhead darted and flashed the queerest looking fish, like birds in a yellow sky. There were lots of big anemones too, waving, stretching, and curling their many-colored tentacles.

“‘I saw everything with extraordinary vividness about that time, as I know by the clear way I recollect it now; but you may be sure I wasn’t thinking much just then about the beauties of nature. I was trying to think of some way of getting assistance from Larry. At length I concluded I had better give him the signal to haul me up. Finding that I was stuck, he would, I reasoned, hoist the anchor, and then pull the boat along to the place of my captivity. Then he could easily send me down a hatchet wherewith to chop my way to freedom.

“‘Just as I had come to this resolve, a black shadow passed over my head, and I looked up quickly. It was a big turtle. I didn’t like this, I can tell you; but I kept perfectly still, hoping the new-comer would not notice me.

“‘He paddled along very slowly, with his queer little head stuck far out, and presently he noticed my air-tube. It seemed to strike him as decidedly queer. My blood fairly turned to ice in my veins as I saw him paddle up and take hold of it in a gingerly fashion with his beak. Luckily, he didn’t seem to think it would be good to eat; but I knew that if he should bite it I would be a dead man in about a minute, drowned inside my helmet like a rat in a hole. It is in an emergency like this that a man learns to know what real terror is.

“‘In my desperation I stooped down and tore with both hands at the shells and weeds for something I might hurl at the turtle, thinking thus perhaps to distract his attention from my air-tube. But what do you suppose happened? Why, I succeeded in pulling up a great lump of shells and stones all bedded together. The mass was fully two feet long. My heart gave a leap of exultation, for I knew at once just what to do with the instrument thus providentially placed in my hands. Instead of trying to hurl it at the turtle, I reached out with it, and managed to scrape that precious handspike within grasp. As I gathered it once more into my grip, I straightened up and was a man again.

“‘Just at this juncture the turtle decided to take a hand in. I had given the signal to be hauled up at the very moment when I got hold of that lump of stones, and now I could feel Larry tugging energetically on the rope. The turtle left off fooling with the tube, and, paddling down to see what was making such a commotion in the water, he tackled me at once.

“‘As it happened, however, he took hold of the big copper nut on the top of the head-piece; and that was too tough a morsel even for _his_ beak, so that all he could do was to shake me a bit. With him at my head, and the clam on my leg, and Larry jerking on my waistband, you may imagine I could hardly call my soul my own. However, I began jabbing my handspike for all I was worth into the unprotected parts of the turtle’s body, feeling around for some vital spot,—which is a thing mighty hard to find in a turtle! In a moment the water was red with blood; but that made no great difference to me, and for a while it didn’t seem to make much difference to the turtle either. All I could do was to keep on jabbing as close to the neck as I could, and between the front flippers. And the turtle kept on chewing at the copper joint.

“‘I believe it was the clam that helped me most effectually in that struggle. You see, that grip on my leg kept me as steady as a rock. If it hadn’t been for that, the turtle would have had me off my feet and end over end in no time, and would probably have soon got the best of me. As it was, after a few moments of this desperate stabbing with the handspike, I managed to kill my assailant; but even in death that iron beak of his maintained its hold on the copper nut of my helmet. Having no means of cutting the brute’s head off, I turned my attention to the big clam, and with the steel point of my handspike I soon released my foot.

“‘Then Larry hauled me up. He told me afterward he never in all his life got such a start as when that great turtle came to the surface hanging on to the top of my helmet. The creature was so heavy he could not haul it and me together into the boat; so he slashed the head off with a hatchet, and then lifted me aboard. Beyond a black-and-blue leg, I was not much the worse for that adventure; but I was so used up with the excitement of it all that I wouldn’t go down for any more pearls that day. We took a day off,—Larry and I, and indulged in a little run ashore.’

“‘You had earned it,’ said I.”

“Now, Queerman,” said Sam, “as your turn comes round again, give us something less lugubrious than your last. Be light; be cheerful!”

“It seems to me that I remember,” replied Queerman, “a merry little adventure that befell me some years ago. If it is not hilarious enough to suit you, Sam, you can stop me in the middle of it. While you fellows were fishing this afternoon, I was reading Mr. Gummere’s _Handbook of Poetics_. Without by any means indorsing all that he says, I was struck by many imaginative passages. In one place he says, ‘Something dimly personal stood behind the flash of lightning, the roaring of the wind.’ That is suggestive. I’ll tell you a case in point from my own experience in Newfoundland. Let us call the story—

‘THE DOGS OF THE DRIFT.’

“The very home of visions, and strange traditions, and mysteries, is Newfoundland, that great half-explored island in the wild North Atlantic.

“Here the iron coast, harborless for league upon league, opposes a black perpendicular front to the vast green seas, which slowly and unceasingly beneath their veil of fogs roll in, and fall in thunder amidst its pinnacles and caverns.

“At wide intervals the cliffs give way a little, forming narrow coves and havens, so limited that scarce a score of fishing-boats can find safe harborage therein. In almost every such cove may be found a tiny settlement, remote from the world, utterly shut in upon itself save during the brief months of summer, with no ideas but what spring from its people’s daily toil and from the stupendous aspects of surrounding nature.

“Is it strange that to such simple and lonely souls the wild elements become instinct with strange life, and seem to dominate their thoughts and their existence?

“For them the driving mists are filled with apparitions. The gnarled and wind-beaten firs take on strange features in the dusk. Through the ravings of the gale against those towering cliffs comes to their ears a hubbub of articulate voices, mingled with the cries of the baffled sea-birds.

“Men dwelling under such influences are imaginative. If left in ignorance, they grow, of necessity, superstitious. The mouths of these islanders overflow with unearthly tales, nearly all of which may be traced to the workings of some natural force.

“But their faith in these fancies is as unquestioning as our acceptance of the word that the world is round.

“What were variously known to the islanders as ‘The Dogs of the Drift,’ ‘The White Dogs,’ and ‘The Gray Dogs,’ I heard of all over the island.

“As went the tale generally, and ever with bated breath, these beings were a team of gigantic dogs, lean and pale in color, driven furiously by a gaunt woman in flowing garments of white.

“They were said to appear to travellers caught journeying in a storm, and to dash past with shrill howls when the storm was at its highest.

“Never closer did they come than within a stone’s throw; but their coming meant death ere sunset to one or another of those met by the apparition.

“In the winter of 1888 a fire took place in the out-harbor where I was then living, and a large part of the winter’s stores was destroyed. To our secluded settlement this was an overwhelming calamity; and there was nothing for it, if we would escape actual starvation, but to send some one for supplies to Harbor Briton.

“The journey was one of great difficulty and hardship,—some hundred and odd miles to be traversed through an unbroken wilderness, and the only means of conveyance a dog-team and a sledge. Being young and venturesome, and ever on the search for a new experience, I volunteered for the service, taking with me my man, Mike Conley, a keen hunter, and one well skilled in driving dogs.

“Our team was a powerful one, led by a great black-and-white fellow, whom the other dogs devotedly obeyed. With provision for ourselves and team, with blankets and the other necessaries of such a trip, our long sledge was well loaded down; and we took with us money to buy supplies, as well as pay the transportation of them back to the famishing settlement.

“We marched on snow-shoes for the most part, save over those open stretches of plain where the crust had hardened like ice, and where the dogs were able, at a brisk gallop, to draw both ourselves and their load.

“At such times, exhilarated by the swift motion in that keen air and sparkling sunshine, the hardships of our journey were forgotten, and we thrilled under the beauty of the glittering world of white. But far otherwise was it when our course lay, as it generally did, through “juniper” swamps and tangled accumulation of forest-growths.

“Then a whole day’s severest toil advanced us but a few miles on our way. The dogs, floundering in the drifts and gullies, would get their traces into an almost hopeless snarl; and many a beating the poor brutes brought upon themselves by the dangerous temper they displayed under such annoyances. They were a fierce and wolfish pack, and a strong hand we were compelled to keep over them.

“Our nights, when it was fine and calm, were pleasant enough, as we lay, wrapt in many blankets, around our fire. Our custom was to dig a deep hollow in the snow, and floor it with soft boughs, leaving a space at one side for the fire.

“Such a camp, nestled in a thick grove of “var” or spruce, was snug in all ordinary weather. But sometimes the rage of the gale would make a fire impossible. The wind-gusts would fairly shatter it to bits, and, bursting in upon us from every quarter, drive the brands and coals all over the camp. There was then nothing left for us but to smother the remnants with snow, and huddled altogether in a heap—men, dogs, and blankets—to await wretchedly the coming of the stormy dawn.

“Always on such occasions would Mike, who was superstitious to the finger-tips, be looking out in fascinated expectation for the dreadful ‘Gray Dogs.’

“At each yelling blast he strained his eyes through the dark, till from laughing at him I grew angry, and he was constrained to hide his fears. I represented to him that, as long as he kept his eyes beneath his blanket, these dogs of the drift need have no terrors for him, even should they come the whole night long and career about the camp; for the portent only applied to those beholding it.

“This view of the case, however, was but little relief to him, as his fears were no less on my account than on his own.

“Notwithstanding one or two such grim experiences, all went well with us till our journey was two-thirds done, and the hardest of the way lay behind us.

“Then, as we floundered one afternoon through a deadwood swamp, Mike slipped between two fallen trunks, and broke his left arm near the shoulder. This was a most unlooked-for blow, but the poor fellow bore it like a hero.

“With rude splints I set the arm and bandaged it; and after a day’s halt, I fixed him a sort of bed on the sledge, so that we were enabled to continue our journey.

“But now we were forced to make long detours, in order to avoid rough country.

“On the following morning, to our satisfaction, we came out upon a chain of lakes which promised us something like fair going for a while.

“In a sheltered place on the shore we found a rude cabin occupied by two hunters, who had their traps set in the surrounding woods. Neither the faces nor the manner of these men did I find prepossessing; but they received us hospitably, fed us well, and pressed us to stay with them over night.

“Not unnaturally, they were curious as to the motives of our strange journey, and before I could give him a hint of warning, my garrulous and fearless Mike had put them in possession of the whole story.

“The greedy look of intelligence which passed furtively between them upon learning we were on the way to purchase stores aroused all my suspicions, and set me sharply on my guard.

“Their hospitality now became doubly pressing. In fact, when they saw me bent on immediate departure, they grew almost threatening in their earnestness.

“At this, assuming an angry air, I asked them why they should so concern themselves about what was entirely my own business; and I gave them plainly to understand that I wanted no interference.

“Changing their tone at once, and deprecating my warmth, they called to my notice the storm that was gathering overhead.

“They were right; the signs could hardly be mistaken. The little bursts and eddies of drift that rose fitfully from the lake’s white surface; the long, whispering sob of the gusts that woke at intervals behind the forests; the heavy but vague massing of clouds all over the sky, which at a little distance was confused with the earth by a sort of pearly haze—all portended a hurricane of snow before many hours.

“With reason on their side, and the evident desire of my wounded Mike as well, our hosts urged delay till the storm should have spent its fury.

“But silencing Mike with a glance, I rejected politely, but decidedly, their proffered shelter, and made ready the team for a start.

“As soon as I had begun to tackle the dogs, the younger of our hosts suddenly took up his gun and left the cabin, saying he thought he’d better visit a few traps before the storm set in.

“He turned, I noticed, down the shore of the lake, parallel to the direction in which our own course lay.

“The older man speeded our departure with all seeming good-will, announcing that he only waited to see us safely off, and would then follow his partner to examine the traps.

“Once underway I retailed my suspicions to Mike, who, heedless as he was, had been putting this and that together during the last few minutes. Bitterly he bewailed his helplessness; and many and varied were the maledictions which from his couch in the blankets he hurled upon our prospective foes. At his suggestion we shunned the wooded shores, taking our course as nearly as possible down the middle of the lake.

“With my rifle in one hand and my long-lashed whip in the other, I urged the team to such a pace as it strained my running powers to keep up with.

“The snow was soft, and for the dogs, as for myself, the work was too severe to last; but my aim was, if possible, to settle with the first ruffian (who had, it seemed likely, undertaken to head us off) before the second could overtake and join forces with him.

“But suddenly, with a whistle and a biting blast, the storm was upon us. For a moment the dogs cowered down in their tracks, and then we were fain to hug the shore for shelter.

“The shelter was not much, for the storm seemed to rage from all quarters; yet, breathless and blinded though we were, we were able to make some headway. At a momentary lull between the gusts we rounded a sharp headland, and entered a long, narrow passage between the shore and a wooded island.

“‘A likely place enough for the murderin’ thief!’ exclaimed Mike.

“But we plunged ahead.

“The words had scarcely left his mouth when the snow seemed to rise thinly about us in a thousand spirals and swirls. A tremendous wind drove down the channel and smote us in the face, with a long, confused, yelping howl, which made my flesh creep with its resemblance to a cry of dogs. Our team trembled terribly and lay down.

“‘The gray dogs!’ came in a hoarse cry from Mike’s lips.

“And at the same moment there swept past us, in the heart of the whirlwind, a pack of wild, huddling, and leaping drifts, followed by a tall, bent, woman-like figure of snow-cloud, which seemed to stoop over and urge on their furious flight.

“The vision vanished, the shrill clamor died away over the open reaches of the lake, and shaking off my tremor, I cheered our dogs again to the road.

“But as for Mike, he was overwhelmed with horror. He would admit no doubt but that one of us must die before nightfall. And for my own part, I felt that our circumstances lent only too ugly a color to his fancy.

“A succession of fitful though not violent gusts confronted us through our whole course up this defile. The air was white with fine snow, and we made but meagre headway.

“It must have been about half a mile that we had covered since seeing the apparition, when we were startled by a sharp report just ahead of us; and instantly our dogs stopped short and fell into wild confusion.

“Springing to their heads, I found the great black-and-white leader in his death-struggle, bleeding upon the snow.

“‘Cut the traces!’ cried Mike.

“And though not comprehending his purpose, I stooped to do so.

“It was well for me I obeyed. As I stooped, a shot snapped behind us, and the shrill whimper of a bullet sang past my ear.

“At the same moment, the gust subsiding, I saw our first assailant step boldly out of cover just ahead of us, and raise his gun to shoulder for a second shot.

“But I had severed the traces; there was a sort of fierce hiss from Mike’s tongue, and with a yell, the whole team sprang forward to avenge their leader.

“The ruffian, realizing at once his peril, discharged his gun wildly, threw it down, and fled for his life.

“But he was too late! In briefer space, I think, than it takes to tell it, the pack was upon him. He was literally torn to pieces.

“With whip and gun-stock I threw myself upon the mad brutes, who presently, as if satisfied with their dreadful revenge, followed me back in submission to their places.

“As for the second scoundrel, he had taken swift warning, and vanished.

“The dogs themselves seemed cowed by what they had done; and for my own part, I was filled with horror.