Chapter VIII: Setting a Snare

Pickerel Pete did not feel overloaded with responsibility. Two dollars a day was a princely wage, but there were things he would not do even for that immense sum. He would try to stay with the boat for an hour, in spite of the owls and the queer crooning of the wind in the trees, but if he saw a "ha'nt," he'd resign his job, right then and there, and leave the _Sprite_ to take care of herself. Anyhow, he had two dollars. The fact that his services had been paid for until afternoon of the following day did not enter seriously into his calculations.

"Wisht de screech-owls would stop dat 'ar screechin'," muttered the darky, "an' I wisht de win' would stop dat ar' groanin' in de trees. Dishyer's jest de time fer spookerous doin's, an' I'd radder be home in mah baid wif mah head kivered, so'st---- Golly, whut's dat?"

Something fluttered among the tree branches overhanging the water, farther along the creek. It may have been an owl, or some other bird, changing its roosting place, but Pete's fears magnified the cause into something connected with the "ha'nts."

Crouching in the boat's bottom, he stared through the darkness and held his breath. The fluttering had ceased and nothing else happened. As one uneventful minute followed another, Pete gradually put the clamps on his nerves.

"Ah dunno 'bout dat," he whispered. "Mebby dat floppin' noise didun' mean nuffin', en den, ag'in, mebby it _mout_. Hey, you, dar!" he added, lifting his voice.

The cry echoed across the creek, but the only answer was the echo.

"If yo's one ob dem gliderin' spooks," called Pete, "den you-all doan' want any truck wif _me_. Ah's on'y a po' li'l moke, en Ah ain't nevah done no ha'm tuh nobody. Ah's fibilus, occasion'ly, en now an' den Ah's tole a whopper, but dem yarns doan' amount tuh nuffin'."

The silence continued, save for the soughing of the wind and the "tu-whit, tu-whoo!" from the depths of the woods.

"Ah done got tuh do somethin' tuh pass de time," thought Pete. "Ah'll frow de iv'ries, dat's whut Ah'll do. Wonner where dar's a lantern?"

Pete remembered having seen a lantern in one of the lockers while he was helping Matt with the engine. After a little thought he located the lantern, and secured it. Then he recalled having seen a box of matches in the tool-chest, and he soon had the lantern going.

It's surprising what a soothing effect a light will have on a superstitious mind that dreads the dark. With the lantern on the stern thwart, Pete knelt in the boat's bottom and cast his dice again and again, becoming so careless of his "spookerous" surroundings that he almost forgot his fears.

The little white cubes dropped and rattled on the thwart, and Pete bent low to read the faces.

"Ah's got two dollahs," he muttered, surprised at the lucky combinations turning up for him, "en Ah wisht dar was some odder moke here tuh take er han' in dis game. Ah's havin' mo' luck, here, all by mahse'f, dan I evah----"

He straightened on his knees in sudden panic, then dropped his head down on the thwart and covered his face with his hands.

"Whut's dat?" he whimpered. "Whut's dat Ah hear? Hit sounded monsus lak er chain rattlin'."

But it wasn't a chain; it was a good, well-developed groan. It came from the darkness at the top of the bank and echoed shiveringly across the creek.

"Dat wasn't no screech-owl," murmured Pete, in stifled tones. "Golly! De ha'nts is comin' fo' me. Wisht Ah was out ob here! Oh, I wisht Ah was some place else where dar's folks, en buildin's, en 'lectric lights. Br-r-r!"

The groan was repeated. It was a hollow kind of groan, long drawn out, and given in the most approved ghostly style. Pete groaned on his own account, and collapsed in the bottom of the boat, floundering forward and trying to crawl into the motor and lose himself in the machinery.

While the wretched little darky lay in a palpitating heap under the steering wheel, a funereal voice was wafted toward him--a voice that made him gasp, and close his eyes, and shiver until he shook the boat.

"Who-o are you-u-u?" inquired the voice.

"Oh, lawsy! Oh, mah goodness!" fluttered Pete in tremulous, incoherent tones. "Ah's as good as daid! Ah's nevah gwine tuh git out ob dis alive! Der ha'nts has cotched me! Oh, if I c'u'd only git away dis once, Ah'll nevah brag no mo'! Ah'll nevah tell anodder whopper!"

"Who-o are you-u-u?" insisted the sepulchral voice from the darkness at the top of the bank.

"Ah's er moke," whimpered Pete, "jes' a moke. You-all go 'long an' nevah min' me. Ah ain't nevah done nuffin'--Pickerel Pete's a good l'il coon. Please, Marse Gose, go off some odder place en do yo' gliderin'. Oh, gee! Oh, golly!"

"Go 'way, go 'way, go 'way!" ordered the "ghost."

"Ah'll go, yassuh," chattered Pete, "on'y doan' yo' grab me as Ah run by. Dat's all. Yo' ain't layin' fo' tuh grab me, is yuh?"

"Go 'way, go 'way, go 'way!" insisted the spook, with hair-raising emphasis.

Pete got up slowly and cautiously in the boat. The lantern threw a weird reflection over him, but the most noticeable thing about the frightened little darky, just then, was the white of his eyes. He shook like a person with the ague, and nearly dropped into the water while stepping from the gunwale of the boat.

Begging the spook not to grab him, he floundered up the bank and darted into the timber as though the Old Nick was after him. His piteous wail was lost in a crashing of bushes, and finally even that sound died out.

A chuckling laugh echoed from the top of the bank, and a form disentangled itself from the shadows.

"Come on, Kinky," called a voice. "That little nigger was scared white. He'll not stop running until he gets clear to Madison. What kind of a spook do I make, eh?"

"Pretty raw," answered another voice, as a second form pushed out of the shadows and joined the first. "You can fool a superstitious, half-grown darky, Ross, but I wouldn't make a business of this ghost racket. What was the good of it, anyhow?"

"Well, that darky never came here alone in that boat."

"Well."

"Some one must have come with him. Maybe the boat's other passengers are the two kids we couldn't find in the cabin."

"I don't know how it could be, Ross, but mebby you're right. That's not a rowboat."

"Just what I was thinkin', Kinky. Let's go down and look her over. The darky was obliging enough to leave a lighted lantern for us."

The two men descended to the boat, and Ross picked up the lantern and swung it about him.

"It's a motor-boat, blamed if it ain't!" Kinky exclaimed.

"Right you are," chuckled Ross. "She must have come up from the town. What's she doin' here at this time o' night? Suspicious, that's what it is! I'll gamble heavy the boat has somethin' to do with the young fellers in that cabin."

"Well, like enough you're right," answered Kinky. "But what's that to us? We came up the Catfish in a boat, too, an' we'd better take to our oars an' go back to town huntin' for Big John. If he overhauled Motor Matt and got that money, we don't want to give him a chance to get away from us."

"We'll see to _that_," grunted Ross decisively.

"It looked as though Big John was tryin' to sidetrack us when he wanted us to keep watch of that cabin to-night. What's the good of watchin' the cabin if he gets the money? What's the use of keeping track of the other two boys when King's the one we want?"

"Right again, Kinky. That brain of yours seems to be doin' some brilliant work to-night. Here, take a hack at this."

Ross turned and held out a bottle.

"If I take too many hacks at that, Ross," answered Kinky, "the brilliant brain work is liable to stop."

Nevertheless he seized the bottle and a prolonged gurgling followed. When he had finished, Ross took the bottle back and gave some attention to it himself.

"All I want," growled Ross, as he screwed the top back on the flask, "is to get a chance at this here Motor Matt."

"Big John has already had a chance at him," suggested Kinky.

"Will Big John do anythin' to even up with Motor Matt for the way we was treated in 'Frisco Bay?" flung back Ross. "Don't you never think it, Kinky. If Big John gets the money, he'll turn the cub loose to make some more trouble for us. I'm built along different lines, myself. I want revenge, with a big R. That's me."

"Oh, slush!" grumbled Kinky. "You ought to have left more of that stuff in the bottle. _Your_ brain work's anythin' but brilliant."

"I mean what I say, anyhow," rapped out Ross.

Picking up the lantern, he went forward, crawled over the hood, and made a close examination of the forward part of the boat.

"Thunder!" he exclaimed.

"What've you found?" demanded Kinky.

"What was the name of that chug-boat the Chink won in 'Frisco, and that Motor Matt used in windin' us up?"

"_Sprite._"

"Well, wouldn't this knock you stiff? Say, Kinky, this here's the _Sprite_."

"Go on!"

"There's the name, plain enough."

"Then it's another _Sprite_. It's a common name, and the 'Frisco _Sprite_ couldn't be here."

"It's the same boat, you take it from me. It looks the same, and by thunder it _is_ the same."

"I don't see how it got here."

"Nor I--but here she is, for all that. Let's burn her!"

"What for?"

"If it hadn't been for this boat we'd have been on the way to the Sandwich Islands by now. I'll feel a heap better if we burn the blame thing."

"Aw, be sensible, can't you. If----"

"Hist!"

Ross interrupted Kinky with the warning syllable; then, quickly, the lantern was extinguished, and Ross crept back into the rear of the launch.

"Listen!" he whispered; "some one's coming."

"Then we'd better hike!"

"Not on your life! Crowd up forward, there. I played the spook, a while ago, and now let's see how well I can play the rôle of the darky."

"But what----"

"Sh-h-h!"

Thus suddenly did Ross lay his snare. As Kinky crept forward, Ross crouched in the stern; then followed the brief colloquy between Matt and Ross, the latter imitating the voice of the negro.

The instant Motor Matt dropped into the boat the snare suddenly tightened.