The Launch Boys' Adventures in Northern Waters, Edward Sylvester Ellis [red white royal blue txt] 📗

ever happened," said Chester.

The discovery was as cheering as amazing. The large amount of money had been saved by a hair's breadth. The woman clasped her hands in thankfulness. Chester slowly shoved the steel door shut.

"Now try the combination," he said to Mrs. Friestone. "Chester and I will turn our backs while you do so."

"And why will you do that?"

"So that we shall not learn the secret. If anything like this happens again, you cannot say we did it."

She saw the smile on his face and knew he spoke in jest.

"It may be the lock was broken in some way," suggested Chester.

But it worked perfectly. The knob was turned forward till the finger pointed to a number, then back and then forward again to another numeral. It moved as smoothly as if the delicate mechanism was oiled.

"Now open it," she said to the lads, her spirits rallying over her good fortune. They shook their heads and Chester said:

"We might succeed, and that would be suspicious."

"Whether you noticed the combination or not, you surely did not know what it was a little while ago. I acquit you of having any understanding with the burglars."

"What's become of Mike?" asked Nora plaintively, speaking for the first time. "I'm afraid something dreadful has happened to him."

"He is probably still chasing the bad man," said Chester.

As if in answer to her wail a hasty tread was heard at that moment and a bushy red head without a cap appeared at the window, as if flung thither by the hand of a giant. The bright light within the door told him the story.

"The top of the morning to ye all, for I jedge it's near morning, as Tim Mulligan said after he had been slaaping fur two days and nights. I hope ye are all well."

He began climbing through and was half inside when Nora dashed forward and caught hold of his arm. It so disarranged his balance that he tumbled on the floor, the rifle falling from his grasp.

"I'm so glad to see you, Mike! I was afraid those awful people had killed you," said the happy girl. "Are you hurt?"

"Not worth speaking of; I think my neck is broke and me lift leg fractured in two places, but niver mind."

Then the exuberant youth told his story, to which his friends listened with breathless interest.

"Then you didn't catch the villain?" said Chester inquiringly.

"No, but I made it hot fur him, as me cousin said after chasing the expriss train a couple of miles. He has longer legs than mesilf. The next time I engage in a chase wid him I'll make sure his legs is sawed off at the knees, so as to give me a chance. If I had thought to have that done I'd brought the spalpeen back to ye."

"Well, you drove him off in the nick of time. He didn't get away with a penny," said Alvin.

"But what was the maans he used to open that door? That's what gits me--whisht!"

The report of a gun rang out on the stillness, and the friends stared at one another. Before anyone could venture an explanation, the sound of hurried footsteps told that someone was approaching.


CHAPTER XX

"I PIPED AND YE DANCED"

Gerald Buxton was boiling over with indignation when he parted company with Mike Murphy and realized how he had been tricked. He had allowed the real burglar to get away while he held up his innocent pursuer.

"All I ask is one sight of that villain!" he muttered, striking into a lope which carried him rapidly over the ground. Since the fugitive had disappeared several minutes before and there was no telling what course he had taken, it would seem there was not one chance in a hundred of Buxton ever seeing him again.

But, although the citizen had been cleverly hoodwinked, he used shrewdness in wrestling with the problem. As he viewed it, the fellow was likely to make for the stretch of woods between Beartown and the river, that he might screen himself as quickly as possible. He would lose no time in getting away from the village as soon as he could. It was quite probable that he and his gang had come up or down the river and had a launch awaiting them. To avoid going astray, he would use the highway which joined Beartown and the landing.

Mr. Buxton had to climb three fences before he reached an open field of slight extent, beyond which lay the woods. He knew the chances of overtaking the criminal were meagre, but with a thrill of delight he caught sight of his man only a little way in front and walking in the same direction with himself. He seemed to have sprung from the ground, and it was clear that he had no thought of further pursuit. His follower tried to get nearer to him before he reached the woods, but the fellow heard him and glancing over his shoulder broke into a run.

"Stop or I'll fire!" shouted Buxton.

After the young man's experience with his first pursuer and his Springfield, he could not be blamed for refusing to heed the command. He ran the faster and the next minute would have whisked beyond reach, had not Buxton come to an abrupt halt, and taking a quick aim, fired.

He got his man too. With a cry of pain he leaped several feet in the air and fell. Terrified by what he had done, Buxton ran forward, gun in hand, and called out while several paces distant:

"Are you hurt bad?"

"I'm done for," was the reply as the wounded fellow laboriously climbed to his feet.

With anger turned into sympathy, the captor asked:

"Where did I hit you?"

"You shattered my right leg," was the reply, accompanied by groans as the fellow with excruciating effort tried to support himself on the other limb.

Buxton laid down his weapon and knelt to examine the wound. He saw now that the lower part of the trousers leg was shredded by the charge of shot and that, doubtless, the hurt was a very grievous one.

"I'm sorry I gave it to you so bad, but you can't deny you desarved it. If you're able to walk back to my house, with my help, I'll get a doctor and we'll soon----"

At that instant the young man sprang back a couple of paces, and the startled Buxton looking up saw that he stood firmly on both feet, with the shotgun pointed at him. He had snatched up the weapon while the owner was stooping over to inspect the wound.

"Now it's _my_ turn!" he said, with a chuckle. "It isn't your fault that you didn't kill me, and it will be my fault if I don't even matters up with you!"

Poor Buxton slowly came to the upright position, with jaws dropping and eyes staring. He could only mumble:

"W-w-what's the matter?"

"Nothing with me; it's _you_ that's in a hole."

Believing it was all up with him, the terrified victim stood mute.

"I ought to shoot you down and I'll do so if you don't obey me."

"W-w-what do you want?" Buxton managed to stammer out.

"Dance!" was the crisp command.

The citizen stared, not comprehending the order.

"We cowboys in the West when we want a little fun make a tenderfoot dance while we fire our revolvers at his feet. BEGIN!"

The victim lowered the point of the gun so as to point it at the shoes of Mr. Buxton.

"I--I--can't dance; never done it in my life," he stuttered.

"Can't begin earlier. Start up!"

Knowing what was ordered, the victim obeyed. He leaped up and down, shuffled his feet and made such comical antics that the gun wabbled in the hands of the laughing master of the situation.

"I have one loaded barrel left and I'm aching to let you have it! Keep it up!"

Now that he had started, Mr. Buxton threw more vigor into his steps. He bounded in the air, side-stepped, kicked out his feet, tried a number of fancy movements of which he knew nothing, and acted like an energetic youth taking his first lessons in that branch of the terpsichorean art called buck dancing.

"Turn your back toward me and dance all the way home! If you let up for one minute or look around I'll blaze away, and you won't get the charge in your _feet_! Remember that!"

Mr. Buxton reflected that having left home so jauntily with loaded weapon over his shoulder, it would be anything but a dignified return to dance back again without it. If he jig-stepped down the main street some neighbor was likely to see him and make remarks. A waltz through the gate, up the steps of the porch and into the hall, by which time it would probably be safe for him to cease his exhausting performance, would undoubtedly cause annoying inquiries on the part of his wife and family.

But there was hope. He might gain a start that would make it safe to resume his natural gait. He did his best. Facing the boundary fence less than two hundred yards away he kicked up his heels, swung his arms in unison, and steadily drew away from that fearful form standing with gun levelled at him. He yearned to break into a run, but dared not. He believed his tormentor was following so as to keep him in range.

It was hardly to be expected that he should go over the fence with a dance step, but he reflected that he could resume his labors immediately he dropped to the ground on the other side and faithfully maintain it to the next boundary. But there was risk and he was afraid to incur it. While still shifting his feet with an energy that caused him to breathe fast, he approached the obstruction. Partly turning his head while toiling as hard as ever, he called:

"I'll have to stop a minute till I climb over, but I'll resoom dancing as soon as I hit the ground on the other side agin. Is that all right?"

There was no reply and he repeated the question in a louder voice. Still hearing nothing, he ventured to look back. The young man was nowhere in sight. Truth to tell, no sooner had Mr. Buxton begun his humorous exhibition than the youth, vainly trying to suppress his mirth, flung down the gun, turned about and entered the wood toward which he was running when so abruptly checked by his pursuer.

"Wal, I'll be hanged!" was the disgusted exclamation of the panting Buxton. "That's the meanest trick I ever had played on me. The scand'lous villain oughter be hung. What a sight I made! I'm mighty glad no one seen me."

In his relief, he did not notice a vague form which flitted along the edge of the wood, so close to the trees that the shadow screened it from clear view. Had Mr. Buxton noted it he might not have felt certain that no one witnessed his unrivalled performance.

He was so tired out from his tremendous efforts that he stood awhile mopping his moist forehead with his handkerchief while he regained his wind.

"It's lucky he didn't foller and make me dance all the way home. Never could have done it. Would have dropped dead, I am that blamed