Chapter VII: The Camp on the Toledi (1)

In the morning we set out at a reasonable hour, planning to camp that night at the foot of Toledi Lake. The last few miles of the Squatook River were easy paddling, save that here and there a fallen tree was in the way. In passing these obstructions Stranion proved unlucky. His canoe led the procession, with himself standing erect, alert, pole in hand, in the stern, while Queerman sat lazily in the bow. At length we saw ahead of us a tree-trunk stretching across the channel. By ducking our heads down to the gunwales there was room to pass under it. But Stranion tried a piece of gymnastics, like a circus-rider jumping through a hoop. He attempted to step over the trunk while the canoe was passing under it. In this he partly succeeded. He got one foot over, according to calculation, and landed it safely in the canoe. But as for the other—well, a malicious little projecting branch took hold of it by the moccasin, and held on with the innate pertinacity of inanimate things. The canoe wouldn’t wait, so Stranion remained behind with his captive foot. He dropped head-first into the water, whence we rescued him.

The next time we came to an obstruction of this kind Stranion didn’t try to step over it. He stooped to go under it. But another malicious branch now came to the front. The branch was long, strong, and sharp. It reached down, seized the back of Stranion’s shirt, and almost dragged him out of the canoe. Failing in this,—for Stranion’s blood was up,—it ripped the shirt open, and ploughed a long red furrow down his back. It took an ocean of glycerine and arnica to assuage that wound.

On the upper Toledi we found a brisk wind blowing. Hoisting improvised sails, we sped down the lake without labor. On the lower lake (the two sheets of water are separated only by a short “thoroughfare”) the wind failed us, and we had to resume our paddling. It was late in a golden, hazy afternoon when we drew near the outlet.

Here we overhauled an ancient Indian who had been visiting his traps up the lake. We recognized him as one “Old Martin,” a well-known hunter and trapper. He was plying his paddle with philosophic deliberation in the stern of the most dilapidated old canoe I have ever seen afloat. His salutation to us was a grunt; but when we invited him to camp near us and have a bit of supper with us he, quickly became more civil.

Round the camp-fire that night, with a good supper comforting his stomach, Old Martin forgot the red man’s taciturnity. Sam was busy frying tobacco, while the rest of us lounged about in the glow, testing the results of these culinary experiments. It will be remembered that when the upset took place at Squatook Falls, our tobacco was almost all shut up in a certain tin box which we fondly fancied to be water-proof. When the little store in the other canoes was exhausted, we turned to this tin box. Alas, that box was just so far water-proof as to let in the water and keep it from running out! We found a truly delectable mess inside. Sam had undertaken to dry this mess, out of which all the benign quality was pretty well steeped. He pressed it therefore, and rolled it tenderly, and spread it out in the frying-pan over a gentle fire, until it was quite dry. But oh, it was not good to smoke! Keeping a little to trifle with, we bestowed all the rest of it upon the poor Indian, whose untutored mind led him to accept it gratefully. Perchance he threw it away when our backs were turned.

Suddenly Sam’s task was interrupted by a wailing, desolate, and terrible cry, coming apparently from the shores of the upper lake. We gazed at each other with wide eyes, and instinctively drew nearer the fire; while Sam cried, “Ugh, what’s that? it must be Cerberus himself got loose!” Old Martin grunted, “Gluskâp’s hunting-dog! Big storm bime-by, mebbe!” He looked awed, but not afraid. He said it would not come near us. It was heard sometimes in the night and far off, as now, but no man of the present days had ever seen the dog. It ranged up and down throughout these regions, howling for its master, whom now it would never find. For Gluskâp had been struck down in a deep valley north of the St. Lawrence, and a mountain placed upon him, so that neither could he stir nor anybody find him. So Martin explained that grim sound.

We learned afterwards that the cry was one of the rarer utterances of the loon; but had any one told us so that night we would not have believed him. We preferred to accept the weird notion of the faithful phantom hound seeking forever his vanished master, the beneficent Indian demigod.

About the time supper was done the weather had changed. While Sam was frying his tobacco, the soft summery sweetness fled from the air, and a cold wind set in, blowing down out of the north. It was a strange and unseasonable wind, and pierced our bones. We heaped the camp-fire to a threefold height, and huddled in our blankets between the blaze and the lee of the tent. Then Stranion was called on for a story.

TRACKED BY A PANTHER.

“Boys,” said he, “the air bites shrewdly. It is a nipping and an eager air. In fact, it puts me forcibly in mind of one of my best adventures, which befell me that winter when I was trapping on the Little Sou’west Miramichi.”

“Oh, come! Tell us a good _summer_ story, old man,” interrupted Queerman. “I’m half-frozen as it is, to-night. Tell us about some place down in the tropics where they have to cool their porridge with boiling water.”

“Nay,” replied Stranion; “my thoughts are wintry, and even so must my story be.”

He traced in the air a few meditative circles with his pipe (which he rarely smoked, using it rather for oratorical effect), and then resumed:—

“That was a hard winter of mine on the Little Sou’west. I enjoyed it at the time, and it did me good; but, looking back upon it now, I wonder what induced me to undertake it. I got the experience, and I indulged my hobby to the full; but by spring I felt like a barbarian. It is a fine thing, boys, as we all agree, to be an amateur woodsman, and it brings a fellow very close to nature; but it is much more sport in summer than in winter, and it’s better when one has good company than when he’s no one to talk to but a preternaturally gloomy Melicite.

“I had Noël with me that winter,—a good hunter and true, but about as companionable as a mud-turtle. Our traps were set in two great circuits, one on the south side of the stream, the other on the north. The range to the north was in my own charge, and a very big charge it was. When I had any sort of luck, it used to take me a day and a half to make the round; for I had seventeen traps to tend, spread out over a range of about twenty miles. But when the traps were not well filled, I used to do it without sleeping away from camp. It’s not much like play, I can tell you, tramping all day on snow-shoes through those woods, carrying an axe, a fowling-piece, food, ammunition, and sometimes a pack of furs. Whenever I had to sleep out, I would dig a big oblong hole in the snow, build a roaring fire at one end of the hole, bury myself in hemlock boughs at the other end, and snooze like a dormouse till morning. I relied implicitly on the fire to keep off any bears or Indian devils that might be feeling inquisitive as to whether I would be good eating.

“The snow must have been fully six feet deep that year. One morning near the last of February I had set out on my round, and had made some three miles from our shanty, when I caught sight of a covey of partridges in the distance, and turned out of my way to get a shot at them. It had occurred to me that perchance a brace of them might make savory morsels for my supper. After a considerable _détour_, I bagged my birds, and recovered my trail near the last trap I had visited. My tracks, as I had left them, had been solitary enough; but now I found they were accompanied by the footprints of a large Indian devil.

“I didn’t really expect to get a shot at the beast, but I loaded both barrels with ball-cartridges. As I went on, however, it began to strike me as strange that the brute should happen to be going so far in my direction. Step for step his footprints clung to mine. When I reached the place where I had branched off in search of the partridges, I found that the panther had branched off with me. So polite a conformity of his ways to mine could have but one significance. I was being tracked!

“The idea, when it first struck me, struck me with too much force to be agreeable. It was a very unusual proceeding on the part of an Indian devil, displaying a most imperfect conception of the fitness of things. That I should hunt him was proper and customary, but that he should think of hunting me was presumptuous and most unpleasant. I resolved that he should be made to repent it before night.

“The traps were unusually successful that trip, and at last I had to stop and make a _cache_ of my spoils. This unusual delay seemed to mislead my wily pursuer, who suddenly came out of a thicket while I was hidden behind a tree-trunk. As he crept stealthily along on my tracks, not fifty yards away, I was disgusted at his sleuth-hound persistence and crafty malignity. I raised my gun to my shoulder, and in another moment would have rid myself of his undesired attentions, but the animal must have caught a gleam from the shining barrels, for he turned like a flash, and buried himself in the nearest thicket.

“It was evident that he did not wish the matter forced to an immediate issue. As a consequence, I decided that it ought to be settled at once. I ran toward the thicket; but at the same time the panther stole out on the other side, and disappeared in the woods.

“Upon this I concluded that he had become scared, and given up his unhallowed purpose. For some hours I dismissed him from my mind, and tended my traps without further apprehension. But about the middle of the afternoon, or a little later, when I had reached the farthest point on my circuit, I once more became impressed with a sense that I was being followed. The impression grew so strong that it weighed upon me, and I determined to bring it to a test. Taking some luncheon from my pocket, I sat down behind a tree to nibble and wait. I suppose I must have sat there ten minutes, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, so that I was about to give it up, and continue my tramp, when—along came the panther! My gun was levelled instantly, but at that same instant the brute had disappeared. His eyes were sharper than mine. ‘Ah!’ said I to myself, ‘I shall have to keep a big fire going to-night, or this fellow will pay me a call when I am snoring!’”

“Oh, surely not!” murmured Queerman pensively. The rest of us laughed; but Stranion only waved his pipe with a gesture that commanded silence, and went on:—

“About sundown I met with an unlucky accident, which dampened both my spirits and my powder. In crossing a swift brook, at a place where the ice was hardly thick enough to hold up its covering of snow, I broke through and was soaked. After fishing myself out with some difficulty, I found my gun was full of water which had frozen as it entered. Here was a pretty fix! The weapon was for the present utterly useless. I feared that most of my cartridges were in like condition. The prospect for the night, when the Indian devil should arrive upon the scene, was not a cheerful one. I pushed on miserably for another mile or so, and then prepared to camp.

“First of all, I built such a fire as I thought would impress upon the Indian devil a due sense of my importance and my mysterious powers. At a safe distance from the fire I spread out my cartridges to dry, in the fervent hope that the water had not penetrated far enough to render them useless. My gun I put where it would thaw as quickly as possible.

“Then I cut enough firewood to blaze all night. With my snow-shoes I dug a deep hollow at one side of the fire. The fire soon melted the snow beneath it, and brought it down to the level whereon I was to place my couch. I may say that the ground I had selected was a gentle slope, and the fire was below my bed, so that the melting snow could run off freely. Over my head I fixed a good, firm ‘lean-to’ of spruce saplings, thickly thatched with boughs. Thus I secured myself in such a way that the Indian devil could come at me only from the side on which the fire was burning. Such approach, I congratulated myself, would be little to his Catship’s taste.

“By the time my shelter was completed, it was full night in the woods. My fire made a ruddy circle about the camp, and presently I discerned the panther gliding in and out among the tree-trunks on the outer edges of the circle. He stared at me with his round green eyes, and I returned the gaze with cold indifference. I was busy putting my gun in order. I would not encourage him, lest he might grow too familiar before I was ready for his reception.

“Between my gleaming walls of snow I had worked up a temperature that was fairly tropical. Away up overhead, among the pine-tops, a few large stars glimmered lonesomely. How far away seemed the world of my friends on whom these same stars were looking down! I wondered how those at home would feel if they could see me there by my solitary camp-fire, watched relentlessly by that prowling and vindictive beast.

“Presently, finding that I made no attack upon him, the brute slipped noiselessly up to within a dozen paces of the fire. There he crouched down in the snow and glared upon me. I hurled a flaming brand at him, and he sprang backward, snarling, into the gloom. But the brand spluttered in the snow and went out, whereupon the brute returned to his post. Then I threw another at him; but he regarded it this time with contempt, merely drawing aside to give it room. When it had gone black out, he approached, pawed it over, and sniffed in supremest contempt. Then he came much nearer, so that I thought he was about to spring upon me. I moved discreetly to the other side of the fire.

“By this time the gun was ready for action, but not so the cartridges. They were lying farther from the fire and dangerously near my unwelcome visitor. I perceived that I must make a diversion at once.

“Selecting a resinous stick into which the fire had eaten deeply, so that it held a mass of glowing coals, I launched it suddenly with such careful aim that it struck right between the brute’s fore-legs. As it scorched there, he caught and bit at it angrily, dropped it with a screaming snarl, and shrank farther away. When he crouched down, biting the snow, I followed up my advantage by rushing upon him with a blazing roll of birch-bark. He did not await my onset, but bounded off among the trees, where I could hear him grumbling in the darkness over his smarting mouth. I left the bark blazing in the snow while I went back to see to my precious cartridges.

“Before long the panther reappeared at the limits of the lighted circle, but seemed not quite so confident as before. Nevertheless, it was clear that he had set his heart on making a meal of me, and was not to be bluffed out of his design by a few firebrands.

“I discovered that all my ball-cartridges were spoiled; but there were a few loaded with shot which the water had not penetrated. From these I withdrew the shot, and substituted ball and slugs. Then, slipping a ball-cartridge into one barrel, slugs into the other, and three or four extra cartridges into a handy pocket, I waited for my opponent to recover his confidence. As he seemed content to wait a while, I set about broiling my partridges, for I was becoming clamorously hungry.

“So also was the panther, as it seemed. When the odor of those partridges stole seductively to his nostrils, he once more approached my fire; and this time with an air of stern determination quite different from his former easy insolence.

“The crisis had come. I seized my gun, and knelt down behind the fire. I arranged a burning log in such a manner that I could grasp and wield it with both hands in an emergency. Just as the animal drew himself together for a spring, I fired one barrel,—that containing the ball,—and shattered his lower jaw. Mad with pain and fury, he sprang. The contents of my second barrel, a heavy charge of slugs, met him full in the breast, and he fell in a heap at my feet.

“As he lay there, struggling and snarling and tearing up the snow, I slipped in another cartridge; and the next moment a bullet in his brain put an end to his miseries.

“After this performance, I ate my partridges with a very grateful heart, and slept the sleep of the just and the victorious. The skin of that audacious Indian devil lies now in my study, where Sam is continually desecrating it with his irreverent shoes.”

“Good story, Stranion,” said Magnus with grave approval. “The only thing hard to believe is that you should make two such good shots.”

“Well, you see I had to,” responded Stranion. “And now let Magnus give us a hot story to satisfy Queerman.”

“I don’t think I know another tropical yarn,” said Magnus.

“I’ll give you one,” said Sam, “and a bear story it is too. It’s about a scrape I got into when I was down in Florida three years ago, looking after Uncle Bill’s oranges. I’ll call it—

‘AN ADVENTURE IN THE FLORIDA HUMMOCKS.’

“I was boarding at a country house not far from the banks of the Caloosahatchee River, in a district full of game. Most of my time was spent in wandering with gun and dog through the luxuriant woods that clothed the hummocks, and along the edges of the waving savannas or interval meadows. The dog which always accompanied me was a large mongrel, half setter and half Newfoundland, belonging to my landlord. He was plucky and intelligent, but untrained; and I used to take him rather as a companion than as an assistant.

“The soil in Florida is generally very sandy; but in the hummocks, or, as they are more usually called in Florida, ‘hammocks,’ the sand is mixed with clay, and carries a heavy growth of timber. The trees are chiefly dogwood, pine, magnolia, and the several species of oak which grow in the South. These ‘hammocks’ vary in extent from one or two to a thousand or more acres, and in many places the trees are so interlaced with rankly growing vines that one can penetrate the forest only by the narrow cattle-paths leading to the water.

“One afternoon I was threading a path which led through a particularly dense hummock to the bank of a wide, shallow stream, known as Dogwood Creek, a branch of the Caloosahatchee. I carried a light double-barrelled fowling-piece, and was seeking no game more formidable than wild turkeys. My cartridges were loaded with No. 2 shot, but I had taken the precaution to drop a couple of ball-cartridges in among the rest.

“Presently there was a heavy crashing amid the dense undergrowth on my right; and Bruce, the dog, who had dropped a few paces behind, drew quickly up to my side with an angry growl. The hair lifted along his back and between his ears.

“As the crashing rapidly came nearer,—startlingly near, in fact,—I made haste to remove my light cartridges and replace them with ball. But, alas! to unload was one thing, to find one of those two ball-cartridges in the crowded depths of my capacious pocket was quite another. Every cartridge I brought to light was marked, with exasperating plainness, No. 2.

“In my eager haste the perspiration stood out all over my face. I knew well enough what was coming. It was unquestionably a bear. A panther would move more quietly; and a stray steer would cause no such great concern to Bruce. Whatever may have been my emotions, surprise was certainly not among them when, just as I had concluded that those two ball-cartridges must have been a dream, a huge bear, which seemed very angry about something, burst mightily forth into the pathway only three or four yards behind me.

“It was not hard to decide what to do. On either hand was the thicket, to me practically impenetrable; and behind was the bear. Straight ahead I ran at the top of my speed. At the same time I managed to slip a couple of cartridges into my gun. They were just whatever ones came to my hand; but devoutly I hoped against hope that they might prove, when tested, to be those which were loaded with ball.

“For perhaps two or three hundred yards the running was distinctly in my favor, but then the pace began to tell on me. At once I slackened speed, and my pursuer closed in upon me so swiftly that I concluded to try a snap shot.

“Facing about with a sharp yell, I expected the bear to rise on his hind legs and give me a fair chance for a shot. But I had miscalculated my own momentum. The bear, indeed, rose as I expected. But at the same instant I tripped on a root and fell headlong. The gun flew up in the air in a wonderful way, and disappeared in the undergrowth.

“To recover it was, I knew, impossible. Almost before I touched the ground I was on my feet again, and running faster than ever. But what refuge there was for me to run to I knew not, and how the affair was going to end I dared not guess.

“In the first burst of my renewed vigor, and while the bear was recovering from his natural surprise at my extraordinary manœuvre, I had regained my lost ground. All at once, as my breath was about forsaking me, the path opened before my eyes upon a grassy savanna, beyond which shone the waters of Dogwood Creek. At the water’s edge was drawn up an old flat boat, with a pole sticking out over the bow. This craft was evidently used as a ferry to connect with a continuation of the path on the other side of the creek.

“I darted forward, thrust the punt off, and flung myself into it. An energetic push with the pole, and the little craft shot out into the stream. Bruce, meanwhile, ran up along the water’s edge, barking furiously, and the bear pursued him.

“Calling the dog to come to me, I pushed the punt towards him. With a frightened whine, which I did not at the moment understand, he plunged into the water and swam out bravely. The bear hesitated a second or two, and then dashed in after him, raising a tremendous splash.

“When Bruce was within a couple of yards of the boat, I was enlightened as to the cause of his reluctance to take the water. An ugly black snout, not unlike the butt of a water-logged timber, was thrust into view close by; then another, a few feet below the desperately swimming animal; then another, and yet another, till the sullen, whitish surface of the creek was dotted thickly with the heads of alligators. They had evidently been attracted by the sound of Bruce’s barking; and I called to mind some stories I had heard at the house as to the abundance and ferocity of the alligators in Dogwood Creek.

“A sturdy shove on the pole, and I was at Bruce’s side. Reaching over, I seized him by the scruff of the neck, and jerked him into the boat, just as a tremendous swirl in the water behind him showed where an alligator had made a rush for his legs.

“The next instant the snout of the disappointed animal shot up beside the gunwale, to receive a fierce jab from my pole, which made it keep its distance.

“By this time the bear was dangerously near at hand. He was approaching with great wallowing plunges, the water not being deep enough to compel him to swim. I began to pole with all my might, thinking that even yet I was far from being out of the difficulty. With a few thrusts I put a safe distance between myself and my pursuer, but the creek was not wide enough to enable me to gain any very great head start in this way. In a most discontented frame of mind I had almost reached the landing, when suddenly it occurred to me that really there was no necessity for me to land at once. I could pole up and down the creek, and dodge the bear until he should get tired and give up the chase. With this purpose I thrust out again boldly into mid-stream.

“The bear was now almost half-way across, but those black snouts were closing about him ominously. Indeed, the animal must have been blinded with rage, or he would never have ventured into the deadly stream. In a moment, however, it seemed to dawn upon him that he had got himself into trouble. He stopped with an uneasy sort of whine. Then he turned, and made for the shore as fast as he could.

“But it was too late for him to escape in that way. His path was blocked by several of the great reptiles, whose appetites were now thoroughly aroused. I thought to myself, ‘If that bear is game, there’s going to be a lively time around here just now.’

“And he _was_ game. True, seeing that the odds were so overwhelmingly against him, he had at first tried to avoid the combat. But now that he was fairly in for it, he acquitted himself in a way that soon won my sympathetic admiration, and made me forget that but a moment before he had been thirsting for my own blood.

“With a huge grunt of indignant defiance, the bear hurled himself upon the nearest alligator. On the massive armor of the reptile’s back even his powerful claws made slight impression; but with one paw he reached to the soft under-side of the throat, and the water was suddenly crimsoned, as the alligator, lashing the surface with his tail, made off and took refuge in a bed of reeds.

“At the same instant, however, the jaws of another assailant closed upon the animal’s flank. With a roar he rose straight up in the water, shaking himself so mightily that his adversary’s hold was broken. Then he threw his whole bulk on another which was advancing against him in front. The alligator was borne under and disappeared, probably forever _hors de combat_, and the bear gained several yards toward safety. Then others crowded in upon him, and his progress was stopped.

“Up to this time my sympathies had naturally been with the alligators, to whom I owed my release from an embarrassing situation. Now, however, I felt myself going over to the side of the bear. I hated to see the splendid, though to me very objectionable, brute thus at the mercy of a horde of ravening reptiles.

“Again shaking off his assailants, the bear seemed merely bent on selling his life as dearly as possible. Rising on his hindquarters, he faced toward the centre of the stream, where his foes were most numerous. What tremendous buffeting blows he dealt, and how the strong knife-edged hooks of his claws searched out the unarmored spots on his adversaries! In my excitement I pushed perilously near, and if I had had my lost gun I should certainly have taken a hand in the contest myself. I would have given a good deal at that moment to be able to help the bear.

“But the odds were too great for any strength or pluck to long contend against. Before many minutes the bear was dragged under, and there was nothing to be seen but a heaving, lashing, foaming mass of alligators. On the outskirts of the _mêlée_ swam a few hungry reptiles, who could not get in to the division of the spoils. These presently turned their attention to the boat, purposing to console themselves with Bruce and me.

“Awaking to the peril of the situation, I began poling hurriedly toward the landing-place whence I had first started. But almost instantly I was surrounded with alligators. Excited and enraged from their battle with the bear, they were much more formidable than at ordinary times. I had great reason to be thankful for the skill in poling which I had acquired in the birch-bark canoes of our Northern rivers. Dodging some of my assailants, I beat off others with the pole, thrusting fiercely at their wicked little eyes, which is the surest way to daunt them.

“All at once there was a wild yelp from Bruce, and the punt reeled sharply. The gunwale went under water, and I was all but pitched out head-first into the swarm of alligators. My heart was in my mouth as, with a swift and violent motion of the pole, I recovered my balance, and steadied the boat. But with all my terror I had room for a pang of grief as I saw that poor Bruce had been dragged overboard.

“The capture of the dog, however, was probably my salvation. The alligators which were in front of the boat darted into the scramble which was taking place over the new victim, and I saw a clear space between me and the safety of the shore. Desperately I surged on the pole, and the light craft shot in among the sedges. As the prow lifted onto solid ground, several of the long snouts rose over the stern, snapping greedily; but I had bounded forward like lightning, and was beyond their reach in a second. I paused not till I was clear of the savanna and among the timber.

“Throwing myself down on the reeking mould of the path, I lay there till I had recovered my breath, and a measure of my equanimity. Then, after finding my gun in the depths of a mimosa thicket, I wended my way homeward, much depressed over the fate of Bruce.”

“Talking of dogs,” said Queerman, “_I’ll_ tell you a story with a dog in it. And it’s got other things in it too. A college story, by way of a change. Come to think of it, though we are all college men, there has been very little in our stories to indicate the fact.”

“By all means, Kelly Queerman,” said Sam, “let’s have the college story at once!”

“Well, to give it a proper scholastic flavor, I will entitle it—

‘THE JUNIOR LATIN SCHOLARSHIP.’

“The sunshine of mid-May streamed alluringly into the great stone portico of the old college of X——. The wide-winged gray edifice stood on a high terrace just under the crest of the hill, its ample windows looking down over the topmost boughs of ash and elm and maple over the roofs and spires of the little university town of X——, and out to the broad blue curve of the placid river. On the steps, lounged a group of students, members of the Senior and Junior years. Several of the loiterers stood close to the open, arched door, and from time to time glanced expectantly into the hall. A large black dog, a cross between Spitz and Newfoundland, lay in the centre of the hall, assiduously licking at a small but angry wound on his leg.

“At the farther end of the hall now appeared one of the professors. He stepped in front of the notice-board, and pinned a slip of white paper to the green baize-covered surface. In a moment the portico was cleared; and the men crowded in to read the announcement. They did not rush noisily, as Freshmen, or even Sophomores, might have done; but their eagerness was tempered with dignity. The Seniors, in particular, were careful to be properly deliberate; for announcements were expected by both classes, and this might prove to be merely a Junior list!

“It _was_ a Junior list. Leaning on each other’s shoulders, the Juniors clustered around the board, while the Seniors lingered on the outskirts, and inquired with polite interest about the results. They were mindful that these Juniors would very soon be Seniors, and were therefore to be treated with a good deal of consideration. Then they dropped away in twos and threes, while the Juniors remained to take down the marks.

“The marks which excited so much interest were those of the third terminal examination in Latin. A Latin scholarship, of the value of one hundred dollars, was dependent on the results of three terminals, compulsory for all the Latin students of the Junior class, and on a special examination to be held at the very end of the term. This examination was open only to those declaring themselves competitors for the scholarship. It was generally expected throughout the college that the winner would be Bert Knollys, who, without effort, had gained a slight lead in the first two terminals, and whose ability in classics was unquestioned.

“At the top of the present announcement stood Knollys’s name with percentage of eighty-six. The second name on the list was that of J. S. Wright, with eighty-three to his credit.

“‘Wright’s pulling up! Five more points will put him ahead!’ was the remark of one man who had been figuring on his pad.

“Wright, a sharp-featured, sandy-haired fellow in the centre of the group, nodded his approval of this calculation. At the same moment, a slim youth of barely middle height, with laughing gray eyes and crisply-waving hair, ran up and peered eagerly through the throng of his comrades. Having deciphered his standing, he was turning away as abruptly as he had come, when some one said,—

“‘You’d better look out, Knollys! Wright is after you with a sharp stick!’

“‘I don’t doubt Jack can beat me if he tries!’ responded Knollys.

“‘Hold on a minute, Bert; I want to talk to you a bit!’ exclaimed a tall Junior by the name of Will Allison, extricating himself quickly from the crowd.

“‘Next hour, old man!’ cried Knollys, darting away. ‘I’ve got to catch Dawson in the laboratory, right off, and can’t wait a second!’

“Allison, who was Knollys’s most intimate friend, crossed the hall, and joined a Senior who was lounging in a window overlooking the terrace.

“‘It’s my firm belief, Jones,’ said he discontentedly, ‘that that cad, Jack Wright, is going to play Bert false!’

“‘How so, pray?’ inquired the Senior, in a tone of very moderate interest.

“‘Why, by going into the special exam., of course!’ replied Allison.

“‘And why _shouldn’t_ he, as well as Knollys, go into the special examination?’ asked Jones.

“‘Oh, I thought every one knew about that!’ exclaimed Allison somewhat impatiently. ‘But it’s this way, since you inquire. Wright took the scholarship for our class last year—the Second Year Greek, you know. Well, Knollys was way ahead on the average of the terminals, and would have had a walk-over. As every man in the class knows, he can wipe out all the rest of us in classics without half trying. But Wright went to him, and made a poor mouth about being so hard up that he’d have to leave college if he didn’t get the scholarship. Bert has none too much cash himself; but in his generous way he agreed not to go in for the special exam. So Wright, of course, got the scholarship. In return he promised Knollys that he would not go in for the Junior Latin the following year. This suited Bert very well, as he wanted to put his hard work on his readings for the science medal. Under these circumstances, you see, he has been taking it rather easy in the Latin; and I have reason to believe that Wright has been working extra hard at it. Mark my words, he’ll go in at the last moment and catch Bert napping. But there’s not another man in college that I would suspect of such a caddish trick.’

“‘Well, for my part,” said the Senior, ‘I don’t greatly care which gets it. I grant you that Wright’s a cad; but I’m disappointed in Knollys!’

“‘Indeed! Poor Knollys!’ murmured Allison.

“‘Yes,’ continued the Senior loftily, ignoring the sarcasm; ‘in my opinion Knollys funks.’

“‘It seems to me, Jones,’ retorted Allison, ‘you forget certain incidents that took place when Bert Knollys was a Freshman, and you a Sophomore!”

“‘Oh,’ said the Senior, calmly looking over Allison’s head, ‘the worm will turn! But what I’m thinking about is his refusal to play foot-ball last fall. He’s quick, and sharp, and tough; just the man the team wanted for quarter-back, if only he had the nerve! Said he was too busy to train—indeed!’ and Jones sniffed contemptuously as he turned away to join some members of his own class, leaving Allison in a fume of indignation.

“At this moment Jack Wright, chancing to stroll past the big black dog, gave the animal a careless kick. The dog sprang at his assailant with a ferocious snarl. Much startled, Wright evaded the attack by dodging into a knot of his classmates; and the dog lay down again, growling angrily.

“‘Bran doesn’t seem to be quite himself!’ remarked a Senior, eying him narrowly.

“‘He’d be an ugly customer to handle if he started to run amuck,’ commented another Senior, chuckling at Wright’s discomfiture. ‘I wonder where he got that bite on his leg!’

“This was something which nobody knew; and the incident was promptly forgotten by all but Jack Wright, who thenceforth gave the animal a wide berth.

“As soon as Knollys came out of the laboratory, Will Allison told him his suspicions in regard to Wright, and urged him to put his energies upon the Latin. But Knollys was always slow to believe that a comrade could be guilty of treachery.

“‘I don’t think Wright is really such a bad lot, old man,’ said he; ‘only his manner is unfortunate, and he isn’t popular.’

“Just three days later appeared on the notice-board the announcement that B. Knollys and J. S. Wright were competitors for the Junior Latin scholarship! The examination was to take place on the following morning. Bert Knollys was hurt and indignant; his friends were furious; and Wright looked craftily triumphant over the prospect of so neatly getting ahead of a rival.

“Knollys was by no means prepared for such a contest as he knew Wright was capable of giving him; but his anger nerved him to the utmost effort. Returning in hot haste to his home in the outskirts of the town, he shut himself into his little study. All through the afternoon he toiled mightily over book and lexicon. About tea time he took a short walk, and then settled down for a night of solid “grind.” He was bound that he would win if it was in him.

“Toward two o’clock, however, eyes and brain alike grew dim, and the meanings began to mix themselves most vexatiously. He sprang up, snatched his cap, let himself out of the house noiselessly, and set forth to wake his wits by a brisk run.

“For the sake of the freer air he took a path traversing the hilltop toward the college. The path ran through the open pastures, and reached at length a rocky ridge just back of the cottage of Doctor Adams, the professor of classics. Here Jack Wright was boarding. As Knollys swung past along the ridge he glanced downward to the professor’s study window; and as he did so a light appeared therein. He halted instinctively; and the next moment his lip was curling with astonished contempt as he saw Jack Wright seat himself before the study table, and stealthily search the drawers. The top of the ridge was so near the window that Knollys, where he leaned against the fence, could see all that went on, as if he had been in the room. At last, after going through almost every drawer with frequent guilty, listening pauses, Wright found what he wanted, an examination paper! After making a hurried copy of it, he returned it to its place; and then, with his lamp turned very low, he stole out of the room.

“Bert Knollys’s first thought was to go at once to Doctor Adams, lay his complaint, and have Wright’s room searched before he could have time to destroy the stolen copy. Then it occurred to him that this would lead inevitably to Wright’s expulsion, and not improbably to his ruin. He therefore dismissed the idea. He hastened back home; tried to study, but found the effort vain; went to bed, and fell asleep without having arrived at any solution of the problem. In the morning he was equally undecided. Perhaps his best course would have been to go to the professor, declare a suspicion that the paper had been tampered with, and ask that a new paper be set. But he failed to think of this way out of the difficulty; and, at last, tired of worrying over it, he made up his mind to do nothing. He went in to the examination, wrote an unusually good paper, and came out feeling that there was yet a chance for him in spite of Wright’s previous knowledge of the questions. But on the day following was posted the announcement that Wright was the winner by a lead of three marks on the average for the four examinations.

“The affair was a grievous disappointment to Bert Knollys, and meant the upsetting of all his plans for the summer. He had counted on the scholarship money to enable him to take a long vacation trip with Will Allison. This scheme he had now to abandon; and Allison could not refrain from reproaching him for his misplaced confidence in Jack Wright. Furthermore, he was accused of petty jealousy by many students outside of his own class; and his popularity, undermined by Wright’s skilful insinuations, rapidly dwindled away. Smarting under the injustice, and seeing no satisfactory way to remove the misunderstanding, Knollys grew moody and depressed.

“The days slipped by quickly, and Commencement was close at hand. One warm afternoon, a number of the students were in the baseball field, where a practice match was in progress. The college Nine was strenuously preparing for the great Commencement Day match. Knollys, Allison, Jones, and a few others, were lying under the fence on the farther side of the field, while most of the spectators were grouped as close as possible to the players. Jack Wright was at the bat.

“Suddenly in the gate of the college barnyard, above the ball-field, appeared Bran, the dog. The hair lifted along his back-bone and on his neck, and a light froth showed about his half-bared teeth. He was a sinister and menacing figure as he stood there, a strange trouble in his wild, red eyes. After glaring uneasily from side to side for several minutes, he gave utterance to a yelping snarl, and darted down the hillside toward the field. The group under the fence observed him at once.

“‘What’s the matter with the dog?’ exclaimed Jones, in a tone of apprehension; and ‘Look at Bran!’ shouted some one else. The pitcher stopped in the very act of delivering the ball, and every eye went in the one direction. The dread truth was evident at once. On all sides arose the appalling cry, ‘He’s mad! Mad dog! Mad dog!’ and players and spectators scattered in sickening panic. As it were in the twinkling of an eye, the field was empty.

“But no! It was not quite empty! Turning in wild terror, and starting to run as he turned, Jack Wright tripped, fell, and snapped his ankle. He got up, and saw himself alone in the wide, sunny field. The dog had just entered the gate, and was making straight for him with foaming, snapping jaws. He strove to flee, but the shattered ankle gave way beneath him; and, with a piercing cry of horror, he dropped in a heap, burying his face in his hands.

“Knollys, like all the rest, had sprung over the fence at the first alarm; but at that despairing cry he sprang back again. There was no hesitation, no waiting to see what the others would do. Swift as a deer he sped out across the shining and deadly expanse. As he ran, he stooped to snatch up a bat which lay in his path. It was a question which would win in the awful race; and the crowd of fugitives, checking their flight, watched in spellbound silence.

“The dog arrived first, but only by a foot or two. As it sprang at Wright’s prostrate body Knollys reached out with a fierce lunge, and caught it between the jaws with the end of the bat. Biting madly at the wood, the animal rose on its hind legs, and in a flash Knollys had both hands clenched in a grip of steel about its throat.

“For a few seconds the struggle was a desperate one. The animal’s strength was great, and Knollys had all he could do to hold him at arm’s length. Then Will Allison arrived, panting, and conscience-stricken for his tardiness. He was followed by two or three others who had broken the spell of their panic. A couple of well-directed blows from the bat in Allison’s hands stunned the dog, and it was then speedily despatched.

“Breathing somewhat quickly, but otherwise quite cool, Knollys looked down upon Jack Wright’s gastly face.

“‘Glad I was in time, Wright!’ said he.

“‘Bert,’ cried Wright, in a shaking voice, ‘_you_ won that scholarship! I just cribbed the whole paper!’

“To thank his rescuer, he felt, was not within the power of words; but reparation was in part possible, and his one thought was to make it.

“‘We won’t talk of that now,’ answered Knollys. ‘I know all about it, Jack! I saw the whole thing; and we just won’t say anything more about it, old fellow!’

“But Wright had fainted from the pain and the shock, and did not hear the forgiveness in Bert’s voice.

“The next day a letter went from Wright’s sick-bed to the president of the college. Wright wanted to tell everything; but on Bert’s advice he merely confessed that he had cribbed, without saying how, and resigned his claim to the scholarship. At Commencement, therefore, it was announced by the president that the Latin scholarship had been won by B. Knollys. Many conflicting rumors, of course, went abroad among the students; but to no one except Will Allison was the whole truth told. As for Wright, a new point of view seemed all at once to have opened before his eyes. The loftier standard which he now learned to set himself, he adhered to throughout the rest of his course, and then carried forth with him into what have proved very creditable and successful relations with the world.”

“Queerman has grown didactic,” said I. “That is surely not the tone for a canoe trip. Ranolf, it’s your turn to take the platform. Let us have something that is simple, unmedicated adventure!”

“I’ll tell you a bicycle story,” said Ranolf; “an unromantic tale of a romantic land. It is all about a bull and a bicycle in the land of Evangeline.”

A BULL AND A BICYCLE.

“It was in the autumn of 1889, while the old, high wheels were still in use, that I rode through the Evangeline land with a fellow-wheelman from Halifax. We rolled lazily along a well-kept road, and sang the praises of Nova Scotia’s scenery and air.

“Ahead of us, across a wide, flashing water, the storied expanse of Minas, towered the blue-black bastion of Cape Blomidon, capped with rolling vapors. To our left, and behind us, rose fair, rounded hills, some thickly wooded, others with orchards and meadows on their slopes; while to our right lay far unrolled those rich diked lands which the vanished Acadian farmers of old won back from the sea.

“Though another race now held these lovely regions, we felt that the landscape, through whatever vicissitudes, must lie changelessly under the spell of one enchantment,—the touch of the well-loved poet. We felt that something more than mere beauty of scene, however wonderful, was needed to explain the exalted mood which had taken possession of two hungry wheelmen like ourselves; and we acknowledged that additional something in the romance of history and song.

“Presently we came to a stretch of road which had been treated to a generous top-dressing of loose sand. Such ignorance of the principles of good road-making soon brought us down both from our lofty mood and from our laboring wheels. We trudged toilsomely for nearly half a mile, saying unkind things now of the Nova Scotian road-makers, and quite forgetting the melodious sorrows of the Acadian exiles.

“Then we came to the village of Avonport, and were much solaced by the sight of the village inn.

“In the porch of the unpretentious hostelry we found a fellow ’cycler in a sorely battered condition. Several strips of court-plaster, black and pink, distributed artistically about his forehead, nose, and chin, gave a mightily grotesque appearance to his otherwise melancholy countenance. One of his stockings was rolled down about his ankle, and he was busy applying arnica to a badly bruised shin.

“Against the bench on which he was sitting leaned a bicycle which looked as if it had been in collision with an earthquake.

“The poor fellow’s woe-begone countenance brightened up as we entered, and we made ourselves acquainted. He was a solitary tourist from Eastport, Me., and a principal in the important case of Bull _versus_ Bicycle, which had just been decided very much in favor of Bull. We dined together, and as our appetites diminished our curiosity increased.

“Presently Caldwell, as the woe-begone ’cyclist called himself, detailed to us his misadventure, as follows;—

“‘It wasn’t more than an hour before you fellows came that I got here myself. I was in a nice mess, I can tell you. But plenty of cold water and Mrs. Brigg’s arnica and court-plaster have pulled me together a lot. I only hope we can do as much after dinner for that poor old wheel of mine.

“‘This morning I had a fine trip pretty nearly all the way from Windsor. Splendid weather, wasn’t it; and a good hard road most of the way, eh? You remember that long, smooth hill about two miles back from here, and the road that crosses it at the foot, nearly at right angles? Well, as I came coasting down that hill, happy as a clam, my feet over the handles, I almost ran into a party of men, with ropes and a gun, moving along that cross-road.

“‘I stopped for a little talk with them, and asked what they were up to. It appeared that a very dangerous bull had got loose from a farm up the river, and had taken to the road. They were afraid it would gore somebody before they could recapture it. I asked them if they knew which way it had gone; and they told me the “critter” was sure to make right for the dike lands, where it used to pasture in its earlier and more amiable days.

“‘That cross-road was the way to the dikes, and they pursued it confidently. I took it into my head that it would be a lark to go along with them, and see the capture of the obstreperous animal; but the men, who were intelligent fellows and knew what they were talking about, told me I should find the road too heavy and rough for my wheel. Rather reluctantly I bade them good-morning and continued my journey by the highway.

“‘Now, as a fact, that bull had no notion of going to the dikes. He had turned off the cross-road, and sauntered along the highway, just where he could get most fun, and see the most of life. But I’ll venture to say he hadn’t counted on meeting a bicycle.