Chapter XIV: Nick Wipes Out His Disgrace

Everybody in the camp jumped up.

All eyes were turned toward the point from which this racket sprang; and it was a strange sight that immediately met their astonished eyes. Jimmie was jumping about as though he had accidentally stepped into a bee's nest, and was now engaged in a hand-to-hand fight with the entire swarm.

Nick happened to be in a position where he could see better than any of his companions. And he immediately discovered that the troubles of the Irish lad were not at all imaginary.

Something was leaping back and forth, now threatening to land on the shoulders of Jimmie, and then springing to the low limb of a tree, or it might be the ground.

Nick had never before set eyes on such a strange creature, yet he realized that it was a wild animal. His late unpleasant experience was of course still fresh in his mind; and his first suspicion may have been that this was another specimen of a Canadian pussy cat.

Whatever it was, Jimmie seemed to be having the time of his life fighting. True to his inherited instincts, the Irish lad had snatched up some sort of stick, to serve him as a shillalah. It was a stout bit of wood too, and he wielded it in a manner that proved him to be a "broth of a boy." Several times it landed with a resounding whack upon the flying body of his antagonist, and at each connection the unknown beast was hurled heavily backward.

But evidently the furious animal was grim and determined. Instead of being cowed by these temporary setbacks it only resumed the attack with added zeal; so that Jimmie had often to throw up his left arm in addition, to fend off his foe.

Now, Nick chanced to remember that at the very moment he was holding a gun in his hands. With one of his chums in grave peril it seemed to devolve upon him to engineer a rescue party.

"Come on, boys! Jimmie needs help!" he shouted, starting to run forward as well as his bulk admitted.

"Careful of that gun, Buster!" called Herb.

"Yes, don't shoot Jimmie instead!" added Josh.

"Hold your fire till you can get 'em separated!" supplemented George; who being a little farther away at the time, managed to bring up the rear.

In this way then the quartette started to the assistance of Jimmie, who was still whanging away with might and main. What with the loud shouts of the aroused Irish lad, the whoops of the runners, and the angry snarling of the enraged beast, one would think a menagerie must have broken loose in the neighborhood.

Just then George happened to get a good look at the beast as it jumped up on the limb, and whirling, crouched to make another leap.

"It's a wildcat!" he shouted as loud as he could. "Be careful, Nick! Don't you try to grab it now, on your life!"

Nick heard, but was too busy to think of replying. The cat had sprung again at the pugnacious Irish boy, to be met with another smart thump that landed with a loud thud, and sent the beast sprawling to the ground.

"Ye would, hey?" howled Jimmie in derision, though the blood was streaked upon his face, where the sharp claws of the beast had scratched him. "Thry for it again, plaze! And be the powers, ye'll foind Jimmie Brannagan at home whin ye knock at the dure. Come on, ye omadhaun! I'll soon knock all the breath out of the body of ye! Wow!"

The Canadian cat was a fighter. It looked it every inch, now that the defiant defense of the intruder had aroused its fury. Once more it sprang to the limb of the tree, as though recognizing that here it had a better chance to leap than from the ground.

"Now! Buster! But be careful! Keep back Jimmie!" shouted George.

The others held their very breath, for they saw that Nick had the Marlin repeater up at his bulky shoulder. Perhaps every one of them was mentally hoping that he would not shut his eyes while pulling the trigger; for a little swerve might bring Jimmie within range, and the result be disastrous at that short distance.

Bang!

Instantly a series of whoops broke forth, and every fellow started forward once more, as though meaning to be in at the death. George and Herb and Josh had each managed to possess himself of some sort of improvised weapon. The first had in his hand a hatchet which he had been using at the time; Josh was waving his favorite big spoon, with which he was wont to beat the summons to meals on a pan; and the skipper of the _Comfort_ had picked up a billet of wood while passing the fire, which he now flourished eagerly above his head.

Nick himself stood there, struggling with the pump-gun. As usual with novices he could not work the mechanism; for in his excitement he was trying to fire without having ejected the used shell; and no self-respecting modern arm will stand for that sort of treatment.

Fortunately all around, no second shot was needed. The animal was kicking its last upon the ground, and emitting agonizing screams of anger and pain. Whether by accident or real accuracy of aim, Nick had apparently managed to send the contents of the shell where it counted.

Already Jimmie was indulging in what seemed to be a war dance, waving his stick, and singing. George was compelled to laugh just to see his antics, streaked as his freckled face was with smootches of his own gore.

"Ye done it, Buster, sure ye knocked the silly gossoon clane over!" he called. "'Tis a broth of a boy ye arre, and afther me own heart. Look at the baste, would ye? If he hasn't got tassels on his ears!"

"That's a fact!" declared George, now arriving to see the last kick of the animal on the ground, and note the unquenchable fury shown to the very end. "Why, I tell you what it is fellows. A Canadian lynx, that's what!"

"It does look different from my cat--er, that other animal," admitted Nick, as he cautiously advanced, evidently ready to beat a hasty retreat should he discover any need.

"I've heard of the missing links," spoke up Josh; "but we never lost any; so this critter couldn't belong to us."

"A good shot, Buster, old man!" declared George, bending down to see where the charge had struck the beast while crouching on the limb, and preparing for still another leap at Jimmie.

Nick swelled up with importance. Apparently this was one of the few occasions when he could assume an attitude, and receive congratulations. Usually it was just the other way; and like a wise fellow he believed in making hay while the sun shone.

"Oh! pretty fair, considering how quick I had to shoot!" he remarked, carelessly, as much as to say that, given a little more time, and he could have done better.

Jack now came running up, having of course heard all the row, and being consumed with curiosity to know its meaning.

"What is it?" he called, as he ran. "Another Canada pussy cat?"

"That's just what it is," replied George quickly.

"And is Buster at his old tricks again?" continued the other; at which Nick was compelled to grin amiably, knowing his hour of triumph was at hand.

"Buster was in the mix-up, all right," George went on; "only this time he happened to be at the other end of the gun. Buster has covered himself with immortal glory. We all must knuckle down to him after this as the great Nimrod; for he has just slain the Jabberwock. Looky here, Jack; what d'ye call that?"

"Well, I declare, a big Canada lynx!" cried the newcomer, recognizing the dead beast as soon as he saw its queer tasseled ears, and its ferocious whiskers.

"It tackled Jimmie here, and they were having a hot old argument of it, Jimmie pounding with his club, and the cat using its claws," Herb said, turning to the Irish boy, to see how badly he was wounded.

Jack became sympathetic at once, and anxious in the bargain.

"Only a few little scratches you say, Jimmie," he remarked. "That's true, they don't seem serious; but it's always dangerous to be marked with the claws of animals that live on carrion, like lions, grizzlies or wildcats. And I'm glad to say I've got something along for just such a case. Come on back to camp with me."

Jimmie, still protesting, did so; while the others, dragging the lynx, made Buster head the procession, while they sang: "Lo! the Conquering Hero Comes; Sound the Trumpets, Beat the Drums!" greatly to the delight of the fat boy.

When Jack applied the purple colored tincture from a small bottle to the wounds on Jimmie's face and hands, the Irish boy gave a whoop of pain.

"Sure, the rimedy is worse nor the disease!" he complained.

"That's all right," said Jack; "just stand the pain for a little. It's an insurance against blood poisoning. Many a hunter has lost his life from little cuts no worse than yours, when they were caused by the claws of a wild beast. My father would not let me come out unless I carried this."

"What is it, Jack?" asked Herb, curiously.

"A strong tincture of permanganate of potash," was the reply. "Just remember that, will you; and it's got to be powerful enough to hurt like fun; eh, Jimmie?"

"Indade it did, that," was the immediate response; while the Irish boy screwed up his good humored face in a knot.

Jack went back to his fishing, for he had already managed to take one pretty good specimen of the Lake Superior speckled trout that would have weighed nearly four pounds; and was eager for more.

All the while he sat there, employing every device he knew of to tempt the finny denizens of the depths to bite, he kept one eye to windward. That low bank of clouds interested him; for it seemed to presage a storm.

Since everything possible had been attended to in order to ward off any evil effects of a gale, Jack did not stop fishing until he had succeeded in catching a fine mess, that would please the heart of Buster.

Josh was preparing the fish as fast as they were caught. Indeed, he dispatched Nick several times to see if there were any more forthcoming; when the sportsman would toss ashore his latest catch, and the cook's assistant hurry back with the prize, his hungry eyes fairly glistening with anticipation.

Of course it was a royally good supper that followed. Josh cooked the trout in the same capable manner he had served the lake white fish; and every fellow declared they had never tasted anything more delicious.

Still, there was plenty for all, and to spare. Even Nick had to shut his eyes with a deep sigh, because he had reached the extreme limit of his capacity; and a pan of trout remained untouched.

The growling of the thunder now became more pronounced. Across the heavens the zigzag lightning shot, in a way that was as terrible as it was fascinating. Supper done, the boys clustered near the fire, talking, and watching the coming of the gale. Again and again had Jack and George gone around, to see that every tent peg was clinched in the ground.

"They're going to hold, unless the wind tears the blessed things to flinders!" Jack had announced; and at the same time he had seen to it that the boats were protected by the friendly point of land from the giant waves that would soon be sweeping in from the sea beyond.

Already were they rising in majestic grandeur that was awe inspiring. The storm was about to swoop down upon the shore line, and hurl the rising sea against the mighty rocky barrier, as it had done for countless ages past without success.

"Oh! ain't I just glad I'm not out there!" exclaimed Nick, as he shudderingly surveyed the darkening picture of warring elements.

"But look there, fellows; what d'ye call that?" cried Herb, as he pointed a quivering finger at some object that had suddenly come in sight from the east.

It was a little motor boat, wallowing in the rising sea, and doomed to certain destruction unless able to make shelter immediately. And with the waves dashing wildly against the rocks, those aboard would never see the small opening through which the motor boat boys had come to their present snug harbor!

"It's the _Flash_!" shouted Jack; "and unless we manage to show them the way in, it's good-bye to Clarence and Bully Joe! We must do it, fellows. Come on!"