Kitobni o'qish: «Ned Wilding's Disappearance: or, The Darewell Chums in the City»

CHAPTER I
THE NEW GUN

The Keene household was suddenly aroused from peacefulness, one quiet afternoon, by a loud thud as if something had fallen. It was followed by a report like an explosion. Then, from Bart’s room, sounded a series of yells.

“Wow! Ouch! Jimminities!”

“He’s hurt!” exclaimed his sister Alice, as she ran toward her brother’s room. As she entered she saw him running about the apartment, which was filled with smoke, holding one hand in the other. Drops of blood were coming from his fingers.

“What’s the matter? Are you hurt?” asked Alice. “Oh, Bart, are you really hurt?”

“Am I hurt? Do you think I’m doing this for fun? Where’s mother?”

“She’s gone out. I’m the only one home.”

“Get a rag or something, will you please Alice?” and Bart danced around on one leg, holding the other limb out so stiffly that he knocked over several chairs.

“Is your leg hurt too, Bart?”

“No, it’s only my three fingers.”

“But you stuck one leg out so I thought that was injured also.”

“I’d stick ’em both out if it would only ease this pain any! Maybe my fingers will have to come off!”

“Oh, Bart! What did it?”

“My new gun. I went to lay it down on the table and it fell to the floor and went off. Did you hear it?”

“I couldn’t very well help it. Did the bullet go through your hand?”

“It doesn’t shoot bullets. It shoots shot, and I guess it only grazed a few fingers. Most of the shot went into the wall,” and Bart gazed at a dark spot on the wall-paper, and then looked at his injured hand. “I didn’t think it would go off so easily,” he added.

“Oh, those horrid guns!” exclaimed the girl. “I just knew when papa let you send for it – ”

“Say, Alice, if you ever intend to be a trained nurse you’d better get to work on me before I faint!" cried Bart. “Now don’t talk any more, that’s a good girl. Get a rag before I bleed to death.”

“Oh, Bart, I’m so sorry! Of course I’ll fix you up. Wait until I get my book,” and Alice, whose ambition was to be a nurse and wear a blue and white striped uniform, hurried to her room and came back with a little book. On the cover was a red cross, and the inscription, “First Aid to the Injured.”

“What kind of a wound is it, Bart?” Alice asked, rapidly turning the leaves of the volume.

“How should I know? It’s a painful wound, if that’s what you mean.”

“Oh, no! Is it incised or lacerated or a contused one? Because you see I have to give it different kind of treatment if it’s an incised wound than I would if it’s a lacerated one.”

“Oh, give me any kind of treatment!” and Bart began to dance around again. “The shot grazed my fingers, that’s all I know!”

“I guess that’s a lacerated wound,” Alice replied a little doubtfully, as she took a look at her brother’s bleeding hand. Then she turned to the page of the book that treated of lacerated hurts and read:

“‘These wounds have ragged edges and the skin is torn and bruised.’”

“That’s me all right,” interrupted Bart.

“‘They result from force so applied as to tear rather than cut the tissues cleanly,’” the girl read on.

“Oh, I’m cut all right,” put in Bart. “Hurry up Alice, stick some court plaster on and let it go at that.”

“Why, Bart Keene! I’m ashamed of you! The idea of me putting such a common remedy as court plaster on a wound! Why, you’d get bloodpoison and other dreadful things! I must treat this just as I expect to treat other wounds when I get to be a trained nurse.”

“You’ll never get to be one at this rate,” Bart cut in.

“‘They are caused by railway and machinery accidents,’” Alice read on, “‘by falling timbers, stones and brick. Such wounds are frequently followed by shock.’”

“Well, this wasn’t a railroad accident, nor one caused by falling bricks or timber,” Bart retorted. “I guess it will come under the head of machinery. A gun’s machinery, I s’pose. But I can testify to the shock. Wow!” and, as a sudden spasm of pain seized him, he snatched his hand from the grasp of his sister and again began dancing around on one leg.

“Hold still! How can I treat the wound if you jerk around that way?” demanded Alice.

“Treat the wound! You aren’t treating any wound!” retorted Bart. “I could treat ten wounds in that time! All you’re doing is talk! If Fenn Masterson or Ned Wilding was here they’d have a rag around this long ago.”

“Yes, and it would probably be full of germs and other things and you’d be dead of lock-jaw,” said Alice calmly. “Now Bart, come here. I know what kind of a wound it is, and I must see how to fix it,” and once more securing her brother’s hand for examination, she began to leaf over the book.

“‘Treatment,’” she read. “‘Cleanse the wound thoroughly with warm water, lay a wet cloth over it and bandage lightly. If symptoms of shock are present they must receive careful attention. See page twenty-two.’”

“Never mind the shock, just get a rag on these fingers before I lose all the blood I’ve got and we’ll talk shock afterward,” interrupted Bart.

Then Alice, laying aside her book, brought some warm water in a basin, and some soft cloths, and soon had Bart’s hand tied up in a sling.

“You’ve got enough rags on here to make my hand look as big as my head,” objected the boy, as he gazed at the bandage his sister had adjusted.

“You don’t want to catch cold in it,” she replied. “It is very chilly to-day. I think we’re going to have more snow.”

“Ought to have some, with Thanksgiving here in about a week,” replied Bart.

“How did you get hurt?” asked his sister again.

“I was examining my new shotgun. It just came – Hark! Who’s that calling?”

“Oh, some of the boys I s’pose,” and Alice went to the window and looked down to the street, whence came a series of shrill whistles.

“Raise the window and I’ll yell to ’em to come up,” said Bart.

“Don’t you come near this window,” commanded Alice. “You forget you’re under treatment. If you should catch cold in that hand it might be terrible! I’ll call the boys. You go back in that corner.”

Then, as Bart meekly obeyed, Alice raised the sash and called:

“Come up, boys! Bart is hurt and can’t come down!”

“They’ll think I’m in bed,” her brother objected.

A few seconds later there sounded the noise of several feet on the stairs. A moment afterward three lads hurried into the room. They had just come from school, but Bart had not attended the afternoon session.

“Hello Frank!” cried Bart. “Howdy, Stumpy? How are you, Ned?”

“What’s the matter?” asked Ned, noticing the bandage on Bart’s hand.

“Oh, hurt myself with the gun. Went off before I was ready.”

“The gun!” exclaimed Frank.

“Got a new gun?” asked Fenn.

“Let’s see it,” demanded Ned.

“Here she is,” exclaimed Bart, and then, forgetting his sore hand, he took from the corner a fine shotgun. “It’s a beauty,” he went on. “It’s got patent – ”

“Oh! Oh!” screamed Alice. “Your hand!”

CHAPTER II
PREPARING FOR A HUNT

“What’s the matter with my hand?” asked Bart holding the gun in the one that had been injured.

“Why you’ve taken it from the sling. The blood will rush to it and – and – ”

“Oh, I guess it’s all right,” spoke Bart carelessly, as he held up the gun. “You see fellows, this is the patent ejector, and the barrels – ”

“Well of all things!” exclaimed Alice. “I spend a lot of time fixing up your injury and you go and undo all my work in a minute. I never saw such a boy!”

“How did you hurt yourself?” asked Ned.

“I had just loaded both barrels and put the gun on the table. It fell off and something hit one of the triggers or the hammers and it banged out like a cannon. My hand was in the way, that’s all.”

“Hurt much?” inquired Fenn.

“Not much,” was Bart’s careless answer.

But an exclamation of pain escaped him as he hit his bruised fingers against the gun stock.

“There!” exclaimed Alice. “I knew you’d do something wrong. Now I suppose it will start bleeding again,” and she turned back as if to undo the bandage.

“Never mind!” spoke Bart quickly. “I’ll stick some court plaster on if it does. Say Alice get us some cake and lemonade, please.”

Alice agreed and while she prepared the beverage and got some cakes from the pantry, in which interval the four boys talked nothing but gun, there is an opportunity of making you better acquainted with them. It’s hard to be introduced to a person when he has sustained a smashed thumb, so it is, perhaps, just as well that the formal presentation was postponed until now.

Bart Keene, Ned Wilding, Frank Roscoe and Fenn Masterson, (who was called Stumpy, for short, because of his rather limited height and breadth of beam), were four boys who lived in the town of Darewell. This was located not far from Lake Erie, on the Still River, a stream in which the boys fished, swam and upon which they spent many hours in their big rowboat.

With the exception of Frank Roscoe, the boys lived in the heart of the town. Their parents were fairly well off, and the boys had been chums since they attended primary school together. In fact, when their companionship continued on through the grammar school and into the high school, they became such a town fixture, in a way, that they were known as “The Darewell Chums.”

Those of you who have read the first volume of this series, entitled “The Heroes of the School,” know what sort of lads the four were. Those of you who are meeting them for the first time may be glad of a little sketch of their characters.

Frank lived with his uncle, Abner Dent, about a mile out of town. Mr. Dent was a rich farmer, and Frank had resided with him as long as he could remember. He could not recall his father or mother, and his uncle seldom mentioned them. Frank was rather a strange sort of boy. His chums were very fond of him, but they could not quite make out the curious air of mystery about him. Frank seemed to have some secret, but his chums never asked him what it was, though of late years his odd ways, at times, had attracted their attention.

Ned Wilding was an impulsive, lively chap, full of fun, and given to playing tricks, which sometimes got him into mischief. He was rather thoughtless, but never mean, and when his actions did result in trouble for others Ned was always ready and anxious to make reparation. Ned’s mother was dead and he lived with his father who was cashier of the Darewell bank.

As for Bart, he was so fond of sports, from baseball and swimming to snowballing and skating, that he was seldom still long enough to study his lessons.

Fenn, or Stumpy Masterson, had only one failing as far as his chums were concerned. He was “sweet” on the girls, as they called it. Fenn would go to considerable trouble to walk home with a girl. His chums made all sorts of fun of him, but he did not seem to mind much. His especial favorite was Jennie Smith, who was quite fond of poetry and who liked to recite and act.

As told in the first volume, the boys, during the summer preceding the winter in which this story opens, had taken part in some strange adventures. They discovered that some men in the neighborhood of the town were acting very queerly, and they resolved to find what it meant. One day they went up in a captive balloon at a fair, and the restraining cable broke. The four chums were carried off in the airship high above the clouds.

The boys were detained as prisoners aboard a barge on the river, because it was learned they knew something of the mystery the strangely acting men were trying to keep hidden. By dint of much pluck and hard work the boys managed to solve the affair, and, in order to avoid a law-suit, the men involved offered the boys one thousand dollars each, in valuable oil stock. This they accepted and their parents and relatives did not prosecute the men, as they originally intended, for detaining the boys on the barge.

“Here’s the lemonade!” cried Ned, as Alice came in with a big pitcherful while the chums were examining Bart’s gun. He took it from the girl, as it was quite heavy.

“Now I’ll get the cakes and glasses,” Alice said.

“Let me help you,” begged Fenn.

“Here, you quit that!” called Ned.

“Quit what?”

“Walking downstairs with Alice. I’ll tell Jennie on you, Stumpy!”

“Oh, you dry up!” cried Fenn, and, despite the boys’ laughter Fenn accompanied Bart’s sister to the next floor, where he got the cake and glasses.

“Stumpy’s as bad as ever,” commented Frank. “He reminds me of – ” Frank did not finish his sentence.

“Reminds you of what?” asked Ned. “There you go again, beginning a thing and not finishing it.”

“I guess I’ll not say it. Doesn’t make any difference,” and Frank turned aside and gazed out of the window.

Bart and Ned looked at each other. It was a peculiarity of Frank’s to begin to say something, and then seem to recollect a matter that made him change his mind. But his chums were now used to his strangeness.

“Where’d you get that gun, Bart?” asked Fenn as he came in with the cake.

“Saw it advertised in a catalog, and sent to New York for it.”

“How much?”

“Eighteen dollars. It was the first money I used of the thousand I got from the ‘King of Paprica’” – for such was the assumed name of the principal man in the mystery the boys had cleared up.

“From New York, eh?” spoke Ned. “That reminds me I have an invitation to visit my uncle and aunt there.”

“That’s so. You asked us to come and see you,” added Bart. “Wish we could go around Christmas time.”

“If the holiday vacation was longer maybe we could,” remarked Ned.

“Speaking of holidays, what’s the matter with going hunting the end of next week?” asked Bart. “I’ve got my gun, and you fellows have your small rifles.”

“I can borrow a shotgun,” put in Fenn.

“This is Thursday,” went on Bart. “School closes to-morrow for the Thanksgiving celebration. Let’s see, Thanksgiving is a week from to-day. That would give us three days counting Monday, when we can start off. Why not go on a shooting trip and stay a couple of nights in the woods? It’s not very cold, and we could take plenty of blankets.”

“The very thing!” cried Ned.

CHAPTER III
OFF IN THE WOODS

The town of Darewell, though situated near the center of a well-populated district, presented many advantages to the boys. There was the river to fish in, and it was a deep enough stream to accommodate steamers and barges up to a certain point. In addition there was, about five miles from the place, the beginning of a stretch of unbroken forest, seldom visited, and which in season contained much game. It was a favorite hunting spot, but had not been over-run with gunners.

The boys had, in past summers, camped along the river and in the woods, but they had not penetrated far into the forest, as there were few roads or trails through it.

“Have we got everything?” asked Fenn, as they stood in the front yard of Bart’s house, early the next Monday morning.

“I guess so,” Ned replied. “I looked after the blankets and such stuff, Bart saw to the tent and Frank to the portable stove and fixings. I suppose you’ve got the food all packed, Stumpy?”

“Everything.”

“Didn’t forget the salt, did you, the way you did when we went camping before and had to borrow of a tramp?”

“There’s lots of salt.”

“How about condensed milk?” asked Bart. “Remember how you dropped it in the river that day?”

“Do I? And how Ned howled because he had to drink black coffee.”

“Maybe we’d better take the sled along,” suggested Ned, as he noticed it was beginning to snow. “If it gets deep enough we can haul the things on it, instead of on the wagon.”

The camp supplies, including a shelter tent, had been placed on a wagon, on which they were to be taken to where the boys decided to make their first camp. On the large vehicle was a smaller one, which the chums could load with all their stuff and haul through the woods, in case they found it advantageous to move to a section where there was better hunting.

“Wait a minute, I’ve got an idea!” exclaimed Bart.

“Make a note of it before you forget it!” called Fenn. “Good ideas are scarce.”

“We can take runners along for the small wagon,” Bart went on, not noticing his chum’s sarcasm. “There are some adjustable ones I made a couple of years ago. Then we’ll be prepared for anything.”

The wagon was one the boys had built for themselves several seasons past. They used to cart their camp outfit on it when they did not transport the things by boat up or down the river. As Bart had said, there were adjustable runners, which could be fitted over the wheels, without taking them off, and thus on short notice the wagon could be transformed into a sled.

It was a crisp November day, with a suggestion of more cold to come, and the first few flakes had been followed by others while the boys waited until Bart, whose hand was almost well again, got the runners from the cellar.

“Looks as if we’d have quite a storm,” remarked Jim Dodd, the driver of the express wagon, whom the boys had hired to take their stuff to a point about two miles inside the woods. The road, which was made by lumbermen, came to an end there. “Yes sir,” Jim went on, “it’s goin’ t’ be a good storm. You boys better stay home.”

“Not much!” cried Ned. “A storm is what we want.”

“I’d rather eat my Thanksgivin’ turkey in a warm kitchen than in an old tent,” Jim added with a laugh.

“Oh, we’ll be home for Thanksgiving,” Fenn said, “and we’ll have plenty of game to eat too.”

“Wish ye luck,” was Jim’s rejoinder.

The adjustable runners were packed on the wagon, a last look given to see that everything was in place, and then, about nine o’clock the start was made.

“Keep your thumb wrapped up!” Alice called after her brother. “Don’t take cold. Drink some hot ginger tea every night before you boys go to bed. Keep your coats well buttoned up around your throats, don’t get your feet wet and – ”

“Say, give us the books, sis,” called Bart good-naturedly, “we can’t remember all that. Good-bye!”

“Good-bye!” called Alice, waving her hands to the chums.

“Good-bye!” the four boys echoed.

CHAPTER IV
THE FIRST TURKEY

“I must say you boys has got grit,” remarked Jim, as the wagon lurched along, pitching like a ship in a storm because of the rough road.

“Why?” asked Bart.

“Leavin’ your comfortable homes an’ comin’ out to a wilderness in winter. Land! I’d no more think of doin’ it than I would of flyin’.”

“Didn’t you do such things when you were young?” asked Fenn.

“Never had no time,” the expressman said. “When I got a few days off I had t’ go t’ th’ woods an’ chop cord-wood or tap trees for maple syrup.”

They jogged along for another mile or so, the road getting more and more rough as they progressed.

“Don’t believe I can take you any farther,” said Jim, as he brought his wagon to a stop before a big bog-hole. For the last mile the road was “corduroy,” that is, made by laying small logs across it, close together, like the ribs in corduroy cloth; whence its name.

The boys helped the expressman to unload, and, with his aid they soon had cleared a place among the trees for the tent. It was put up, and then the camp stuff and provisions were taken inside.

Stumpy quickly had ready a meal, which, if it was not elaborate, was appetizing, and Jim who was invited to it had to acknowledge that the coffee was good enough for anyone.

“Now for a turkey hunt!” exclaimed Ned, when Jim had left and his wagon was out of sight on the wood road. “We’ve got all the afternoon. Let’s get the guns and start out.”

The snow was coming down faster now, and the wind had increased. It was not very cold, however, and they were warmly dressed so they did not mind it. They had a compass with them, to avoid getting lost, and, confident they would return laden with turkeys or rabbits, they tramped on through the woods.

“Say, fellows! Here’s something!” cried Frank suddenly, pointing to some tracks in the snow. His companions ran to where he stood.

“Turkey tracks!” called Bart. “They’re leading off into the woods, too! Come on! We’ll get some birds now!”

The new-fallen snow deadened their footsteps or they would have frightened all the game within a mile, the way they rushed through the forest. They had never hunted wild turkeys, and did not know what shy birds they are.

So it was more by good luck than good management that they suddenly came upon a small flock, gathered about a big gobbler. The birds were in a little clearing, standing rather disconsolately about in the snow.

Bart, who was leading, came to an abrupt halt as he saw the flock through the bushes. He motioned for the others to remain quiet. Then he carefully brought his gun to bear on the big gobbler.

“Aren’t you going to give us a shot?” asked Ned in a whisper. He and the others were standing behind Bart, and could not get a fair aim at the turkeys, as the trail was a narrow one and Bart occupied the most of it.

The whisper, as it was, gave the alarm to the easily frightened birds. The gobbler raised its head and sounded one note of warning. But Bart shot at the instant. The flock scattered in all directions and the other boys fired wildly in the hope of getting a bird.

When the smoke had blown away the chums peered eagerly forward, expecting to see at least four turkeys lying on the snow-covered ground. Bart ran up, hoping the big gobbler had fallen to him.

“Didn’t we kill any?” asked Frank, as they saw nothing but turkey tracks.

“Looks as if we all missed,” remarked Fenn.

“No, here’s one, and it’s a fine one too!” exclaimed Frank, as he ran to one side and picked up a plump hen from under a bush.

“Who aimed at that one?” asked Bart, much disappointed at missing his gobbler.

“Hard to say,” said Ned. “I guess we can all claim a share in it. We each shot one-fourth of a turkey. Not so bad for a starter.”

“I’m out of it,” Bart rejoined. “I aimed straight at the gobbler, and he got away. It’s a third of a bird apiece for you fellows.”

“Anyhow it is the first turkey of the hunt,” observed Ned.

“Yes, and my gun is christened,” added Bart.