The Castaways of Pete's Patch (A Sequel to The Adopting of Rosa Marie)

CHAPTER XIII Breaking the News The space behind the log was already occupied For a long moment Mabel, who had unconsciously dropped her load on her own toes, stood still and gazed questioningly at her unexpected find. Then the astonished little adventurer climbed over the wood she had dropped, bent down, and, with one finger, touched the boy's stocking, gingerly. "If—if he'd been here very long," she said, sagely, "his stockings would have been faded. Things fade pretty fast on the lake shore. Perhaps if I poke him he'll wake up." Mabel prodded the unfaded legs very gently with a pointed stick. There was no response. "I guess he's dead," she sighed. "But I s'pose I ought to feel his pulse to find out for sure—ugh! I sort of hate to—suppose he is dead!" But, bravely overcoming her distaste for this obvious duty, Mabel laid a trembling finger on the slim white hand. It was not as cold and clammy as she had feared to find it. Mabel touched it again, this time with several fingers. Yes, the hand was actually a little bit warm. As she bent closer to the golden head, it seemed to Mabel that she could detect a sound of breathing, rather heavy breathing, Mabel thought; a little like Mrs. Crane's, when that good lady snored. Mabel crouched patiently near the prostrate lad and listened. The labored breathing certainly came from that recumbent boy. "But," argued Mabel, "if he's only taking a nap, why is he all tangled up in that net? And there's that life-preserver. He's been wrecked and tossed up, I believe. And he's still all wet underneath. Perhaps I ought to wake him up—he ought not to sleep in such wet clothes." So Mabel grasped her discovery very firmly by one thin shoulder and shook him quite vigorously; but he still slept. Then, clutching him by both shoulders, she succeeded in dragging the heavy sleeper a few inches from the log; but he seemed rather too firmly anchored to his resting-place for this method to work successfully. Still, she had gained something, for now one ear and a bit of one cheek were visible. They were not white like the extended hand, but darkly red and very hot to the touch. "Boy!" called Mabel. "Why don't you wake up? Don't you know that you're not drowned? Wake up, I say! Whoo! Whoo! Whoo! " But the boy, in spite of what should have proved alarming sounds, made, as they were, in his very ear, still slumbered on in a strange, baffling fashion; and Mabel, after watching him in a puzzled way for several moments longer, found a broad shingle, which she balanced neatly on the boy's unconscious head. "That'll keep the sun off," said she, "while I'm gone for help." CHAPTER XIII Breaking the News "I  WONDER," said Marjory, who, perched on the edge of the bank, was shaking the sand from a dried bathing suit, "what's happened to Mabel. She's running down the beach like mad. And calling! I guess she wants somebody." "If you'd keep quiet," suggested Henrietta, "perhaps you could hear what she says." "It's 'Mr. Bla-a-a-a-a-ack!'" mimicked Marjory. Mabel was breathless by the time she reached the foot of the steep sand bank, just below the camp. "Oh," she panted. "Mr. Black—get him, quick. And, Jean, you come. And, Mrs. Crane—scissors! I must have scissors. Phew!" "Be quiet a moment," advised motherly Mrs. Crane, from the bank. "Sit right down where you are and rest till you get your breath. Marjory, you're the quickest—you run for Mr. Black; he's just started for the wigwam to see if he can find Dave. Jean, I'll trust you with my scissors; but I'm going to tie them to you with a piece of string. There! Now we'll go down to Mabel. "Now," said Mrs. Crane, when that stout lady had made a careful descent of the sandy bank, "tell us exactly what's happened, Mabel." "It's a boy!" panted Mabel, "and he isn't dead." "Most boys aren't," encouraged Bettie, who had a large number of lively brothers. "Go on, Mabel." "I found him on the beach." "Well," scoffed Henrietta, "I guess a boy on a beach isn't anything so wonderful." "How did he get there?" queried Mrs. Crane. "Washed up, I guess. I thought he was drowned. He's most dead." "Where? Where?" shrieked Henrietta, with sudden interest. "Where? Where?" echoed Bettie. Just then Marjory flung herself breathlessly over the edge of the bank with Mr. Black, also short of breath, close at her heels. "What's it all about?" demanded Mr. Black. "Has Mabel fallen in again?" "Get the bread-knife, somebody," ordered Mabel, now sufficiently recovered to scramble to her feet, "and follow me." "I have a knife," said Mr. Black, displaying as bloodthirsty a bit of cutlery as one would want to see. "Saunders thought I might need a hunting knife. If you've caught a deer I'll skin him for you." "I guess," laughed Bettie, "she doesn't want her game skinned . She's found a boy." Presently the procession, headed proudly by Mabel, who now felt very important indeed and would allow none of her impatient followers to pass her, was marching up the beach. She was, however, too breathless for speed. "Couldn't you go a little faster?" pleaded Marjory. "No, I couldn't," panted Mabel. "And, if you run ahead of me, you won't know where to turn off—so there." "Tell us more about it," begged Henrietta. "I've always been crazy to rescue a shipwrecked crew!" "No," said Mabel, "I want my breath to walk with." Fortunately, the beach was smooth and hard; the excited campers soon reached the cove. Mabel, thoughtfully pausing long enough for Mrs. Crane and Bettie to catch up, led them to the big, half-buried log. "There!" said she, pointing to what was behind it. "That's the boy." Bettie, Marjory, and Henrietta peered eagerly over the log. Jean, Mrs. Crane, and Mr. Black hurried behind it. Mr. Black whipped out his knife, dropped to his knees, and began to cut at the mesh of the stout net. After a moment Jean assisted with the scissors. Mrs. Crane patted the boy's hand and laid her own motherly palm against his cheek. "Poor lamb! Poor lamb!" she murmured. Presently the lad was freed from the net and the life-preserver and gently lifted from the wet wreckage to the warm, dry sand. His eyes were closed, his breathing jerky and strange, his whole countenance deeply flushed. Big tears rolled down Mabel's cheeks as she looked at the limp, pathetic figure. "That boy," said Mrs. Crane, "is terribly ill with a fever. Goodness only knows how long he's been imprisoned here, chilled and shivering, before this fever came on." "Or just when the waves flung him behind that log," said Mr. Black. "It might have been early last night, any time yesterday, or even during the previous night. He was lashed to something with that net—yes, here it is; a piece of rotten pole as thick as my arm—possibly a mast or part of a raft. But what concerns us just now is what we're to do for him." "He's certainly a sick boy," agreed Mrs. Crane, "and there's nobody but us to help him." "Mabel," said Mr. Black, "you'd better take off his shoes—he'll be lighter without them. Sarah, you'd better hurry back to camp and fix a bed for him in your tent. Jean, you go with her, build a fire, and put some water on to boil—a little hot broth might help. If you other girls will boost him a little, when I say the word, I think I can carry him." The girls boosted. Mr. Black, with the long, thin boy hanging limply over his shoulder, started toward camp. Mabel, a wet shoe dangling from each hand, plodded after. "Isn't it exciting?" breathed bright-eyed Henrietta, falling into line. "A boy right out of the skies." "I guess you mean right out of the lake," corrected Marjory. "I hope he'll wake up pretty soon—I'm dying to know how he got behind that log." "Perhaps it was a good thing," said Bettie, "that the log was there. The end of that pole swung under the log and held him right there, or the waves might have carried him out again or hurled him against the rocks—ugh!" "His father," declared Henrietta, dreamily, "was the captain of a gallant ship. When the vessel was about to sink he said: 'Men! Save yourselves. As for me, I perish with her.' Then he lashed his only son to the mast of the sinking ship——" "What for?" demanded practical Marjory. "I guess maybe he didn't," amended Henrietta, reflectively. "He made a raft out of one of the hatches and tied him to that with the only thing he had at hand—a fish-net." "But first," added Marjory, "he fastened a life-preserver about him." "If I could run the way I used to," said thoughtful little Betty (this was the longest walk she had taken since her arrival at Pete's Patch), "I'd rush ahead and help Mrs. Crane with that bed. As it is, I'm willing to help with one of the baskets we're coming to—I guess Mabel's forgotten all about them." "I'll help Mrs. Crane," promised nimble-footed Marjory, "if you and Henrietta will bring the wood—they may need it for the fire that Jean is to build." Mr. Black undressed the thin, still-unconscious lad, wrapped him in a warm blanket (his feet, Mrs. Crane said, were like lumps of ice), and tucked him into bed. "If we were in town," declared Mrs. Crane, "I'd send for the doctor." "Just what I'm going to do, as soon as Dave turns up. I'll go to his wigwam now—perhaps he's back. Too bad there isn't any medicine——" "But there is," said Mrs. Crane. "Mrs. Tucker sent a bottle to Bettie to be used in case her fever should return. She sent a tonic, too, but neither bottle has been opened. If you think it's safe——" "Good for Mrs. Tucker! Give that boy a dose of the fever medicine—he certainly needs that. Now for Dave—I'd like to get him started for Lakeville at once." Dave, however, was not to be found. His ways were strange and mysterious; he had an inconvenient habit of disappearing without warning for hours at a stretch. No one would see him go. He would set out, ostensibly for his wigwam; but if Mr. Black followed him to that habitation, as he sometimes did, no sign would he find of Dave. This time, the canoe was gone, also, and, of course, Dave's dog. "He hasn't shown up," said Mr. Black, returning from the wigwam. "I suppose he rose at daybreak and took to the lake; for his canoe isn't in the river. And here I am paying him to bring water and wood for us and help with the boats." "Paying him!" gasped Mrs. Crane, "when he lived on your land for four years without paying rent? Peter! " "Well," returned Mr. Black, "it's only a dollar a day. Perhaps that isn't enough—I'll raise his wages!" "But that poor boy——" "We'll just have to wait until Dave gets back, I suppose. But you can dose the boy with Bettie's fever medicine—not the tonic—and perhaps we can pull him through." "Anyway, we'll try," assured Mrs. Crane. CHAPTER XIV A Missing Messenger IT was Thursday when Mabel discovered the boy. Friday morning Dave was still missing and the lad was still unconscious. "He must have been a pretty tough little chap to start with," declared Mrs. Crane, when all the members of her always-hungry family had been bountifully served with steaming breakfast food, "or he never would have lasted as long as this with such a fever. I wish Dave was here. He ought to have a doctor; and, if the boy's people live in Lakeville, they'll surely want to know that he's alive." "We've been talking about that," said Jean, "and we don't think he is a Lakeville boy." "You see," explained Marjory, "he must be about twelve or thirteen years old—somewhere between Mabel's age and Henrietta's. If he'd been in school one or another of us would have seen him—we're scattered all over, you know." "And I," said Henrietta, "am scattered about in all the grades, because I'm so smart and so stupid in spots." "But perhaps," suggested Mr. Black, "this illness has altered his appearance." "It couldn't change his hair," asserted Mabel. "It's a very queer color." "Yes," agreed Mrs. Crane, "it's a most unusual shade—very bright and glistening like ruddy gold. There's a tinge of copper to it and yet it's golden. If only Dave were here——" "I could walk to Lakeville myself," began Mr. Black, reflectively, "but——" "But you're not going to," protested his sister. "We can't stay here without a man. Besides, if anything happened to you on the way down, where should we be?" "At Pete's Patch, I suspect," twinkled Mr. Black. "Suppose you give that boy some hot sponge baths—that may help a little." "But, goodness!" objected Mabel, "he must be perfectly soaked with water—his clothes were drenched." "Still," said Mr. Black, "baths are beneficial to fever patients." "I've been putting mild mustard plasters on his chest," confessed anxious Mrs. Crane. "I didn't like his breathing—it sounded too much like pneumonia yesterday; but it's a bit better to-day. And I'll try those baths." "I haven't much faith in your mustard plasters," asserted Mr. Black, teasingly. "You're too tender-hearted to make one strong enough to do any good." "I'm not," retorted Mrs. Crane; "but there's no sense in blistering folks." "I'm glad there's a really sick person in this camp," said Bettie, "because now, perhaps, I can persuade you to believe that I'm most as well as ever. I had two long walks yesterday and I feel just fine to-day." "Did you sleep well?" queried Mrs. Crane, anxiously. "I declare, with all this excitement, I forgot to ask you." "Only five minutes," said Bettie, in a sorrowful tone. "I shut my eyes at eight o'clock last night and when I opened them it was only five minutes after eight." "Last night?" pursued Mrs. Crane, anxiously. "No, this morning," replied Bettie, demurely, "but the clock said five minutes, and it didn't seem like any more than that." Among the many things that Mrs. Crane had ordered from town was a truly alarming alarm clock. Although it went off faithfully and with astonishing vigor at seven every morning, no one ever heard it after the first day except Mrs. Crane. The campers, never very early risers, grew lazier every day—and fatter! Mabel, always exceedingly plump, was now so rotund that Mrs. Crane was obliged to tie loops of twine in all her buttonholes. Bettie's cheeks and the calves of her legs were certainly rounding into new and pleasing curves. Tall Jean was casting a wider shadow, shapely Henrietta had punched two new holes in her tight leather belt; and it was now possible to pinch the hitherto unpinchable Marjory. Their complexions, too, had undergone curious changes. Mabel had gained a generous sprinkling of very fine, very dark freckles. Marjory's blue-white skin was dotted with a limited number of very large, pale tan-colored freckles. Henrietta was tinged a rich even brown, except where a fine red glowed in her dark cheeks. Most of the time Jean was a brilliant scarlet; for her tender skin burned easily and her nose, as Bettie said, was disreputably ragged, for it peeled every day or two. So did the edges of her ears. As for Bettie, her yellowish pallor was gone and a fine, rose-colored flush now tinged her lips and her cheeks. Her big, dark eyes were brighter and merrier than the girls had ever seen them. "Another ten days in camp," asserted Mr. Black, pinching Bettie's firm cheek, "and you'll all be wearing Mrs. Crane's clothes. Your own mothers won't know you by the time we're ready to go home." "They won't want to," laughed Marjory, "if we all gain as Mabel has. Look at her back!" It was really a shockingly untidy back, because bits of Mabel and Mabel's underwear stuck out between the loops. "She drinks so much water," complained Henrietta, "that my arm just aches from filling her cup." "Put the pail beside her," suggested Mr. Black. "Water's the one thing that can't give out." "That reminds me," said Mrs. Crane, "we'll need a lot of things by the time Dave goes to town again. My list is growing bigger every minute." "Like Mabel," breathed Marjory, teasingly. "Well," sighed Mabel—and the sigh burst two of her loops—"I shall ask for a very wide sailor-jumper to pull on over my head. The knots in those loops are pretty bumpy. If I were to sneeze, they'd all go, I guess." Mrs. Crane, of course, appropriated most of the care of the newest castaway. But the willing girls helped in many ways. "They are my feet," said slow-moving, stiff-jointed Mrs. Crane. "They bring me everything I need and save me hundreds of steps every day. They're all as good as gold, Peter." "They're better ," declared Mr. Black. "I wish they all belonged to me —anyway, we'll enjoy 'em while we can." Sometimes one or another of the girls was permitted to sit beside the sleeping boy for half an hour, while Mrs. Crane busied herself with the camp cooking—no one else, the good lady was certain, could plan the meals; but nursing proved rather an uninteresting task, because there was really nothing that one could do. The girls found cooking rather more to their taste and were able to relieve Mrs. Crane of many of her culinary burdens. Jean, however, was the only one who could fry the fine brook trout that Mr. Black sometimes caught in the attractive river. "They're all right after they're cooked," shuddered Marjory, that afternoon, when Mr. Black brought in a pretty string of fish, cleaned and ready to fry, "but I couldn't touch a raw one—ugh!" "Neither could I," said Henrietta, "but Anthony Fitz-Hubert could—see, he's just crazy for one this minute." "Here's one with his name on it," said Mr. Black, presenting the little cat with a small specimen. "That one is under-sized, so it wouldn't do for us to be caught with it; but they couldn't arrest or fine Anthony, because he's too active and too poor. How would you girls like to try fishing?" "We'd like it," responded Henrietta. "Once, when I was very small, I went fishing in Scotland, in a little rushing river; and once, in France, a little peasant boy let me hold his rod for a few minutes." "Well," promised Mr. Black, "some day I'll take you all fishing. After you've caught a trout or two you won't mind handling them. But just now I can't afford to be reckless with the bait—we'll get a bigger supply next time." "I've heard it said," laughed Mrs. Crane, "that there's a stingy streak in everybody, if you know just where to look for it; we've found yours, Peter; it's fish-worms." "Well, they're mighty scarce in this part of the country. I dug for nearly an hour along the river bank and found only one. I'll send word to Martin, next time, and have him dig a pailful in our garden." "He'll dig up everything else, too," sighed Mrs. Crane, "but never mind. But that reminds me of Dave. Marjory, I wish you and Henrietta would see if that rascal has slipped in by some back way to his wigwam. I declare I never thought that I'd want to set eyes on that homely half-breed, but I'd give a dollar, this very minute, to see him." Mrs. Crane, however, was not called on to part with her dollar. The messengers returned without Dave. "Not a single sign of him," said Henrietta, "and we called until all the little squirrels sat up and scolded us for making such a noise." "He's out for venison, I fear," said Mr. Black, who was counting his seven precious fish-worms. "He has no regard whatever for the game laws. I shall give him a good talking to when he returns." "You'd better wait," suggested Mrs. Crane, "until after he's been to Lakeville." "You'd better wait," laughed saucy Henrietta, "until you see him." "Anyway," said Mr. Black, "we must all remember to stand between Dave and the game warden, if that officer ever visits Pete's Patch." "No really respectable game warden," laughed Henrietta, "would ever visit a camp with a name like that." "That's a nice name," championed Mabel. "It's plain and sensible like Mr. Black. I like things that are plain and sort of—homely." At this, everybody (including Mr. Black, who might easily have been much homelier than he was) laughed merrily; for Mabel, cheerful little blunderer, usually managed to give a queer twist to her compliments. "Anyhow," said Mabel, rather huffily, "I meant to be polite." "You were ," assured Mr. Black, patting the hunched shoulder, "because it's our meaning that counts; and we all know that you meant well." "I wonder," queried Jean, "if Dave does?" "I fear," returned Mr. Black, "that the workings of that rascal's mind would be pretty hard to follow—let's see if his boat is in sight." But it wasn't, so Mr. Black got the wood and the water that he was paying Dave to bring and arranged the evening bonfire. And the sick boy, in spite of the young campers' impatience to learn his story, still slept. Mrs. Crane, by this time, was almost sure that he would never waken. CHAPTER XV Doctor Dave AT daybreak the next morning the barking of a dog wakened the sleeping camp. Mr. Black pulled on his clothes and went sleepily down to the water's edge, where Onota, Dave's yellow dog, was running madly about, uttering excited yelps. "Heem glad for got home," explained Dave, who had beached his canoe and was gathering up its contents. "What have you got?" asked Mr. Black. Dave displayed a small doe, not yet skinned. "Dose bigges' one—som' beeg buck, Ah'm t'ink—she ees bus' up ma trap," Dave complained, "so Ah'm snare dose li'le doe. He ees good meat, all right." "Dave, you scalawag, you ought to be in jail. I'll wager there isn't a game law that you haven't broken." "He ees mos' all for you," assured Dave, ingratiatingly. "You got fine dinner off heem ver' soon—I skeen heem for you, bam-bye. She's good meat, dose young-lady deer." "I ought to tell the game warden on you. Don't you know that you're breaking game laws?" "Ah'm t'ink maybe Ah'm crack dose law som'," admitted Dave; "but me, Ah mus' eat li'le deer meat som' tam', halso dose par tridge , maybe som' duck, too." "Well," warned Mr. Black, helplessly, "don't expect me to help you out if you get caught. And now, Dave, I wish you'd stay right here for awhile; I've got a job for you. I want you to go to Lakeville to-day—we've a sick boy up there and we need a doctor." "Seeck boy?" queried Dave. "W'ere you got her from? W'at she ees seeck on herself wit'?" Mr. Black explained. "Dat's all right," Dave said. "Bad cold on her long (lung). Ah cook you som't'ing w'at feex her pooty good." "No, no," protested Mr. Black, "we want a doctor and a lot of other things. You must go to Lakeville. I'll—yes, I'll give you two dollars." "Maybe Ah go behind dinner," promised Dave, uncertainly. "Ah mus' sleep, me, for two-t'ree hour—Ah'm chase dose deer hall night. Tell dose Jean, dose Bet tee , dose Mabelle, and dose Henriette, eef he ees com' roun' pooty soon, Ah show heem how to skeen dose deer." Notwithstanding the fact that his medical services had been declined, Dave began almost at once to search for herbs, dig for roots, and gather certain pungent leaves and twigs. These he covered carefully with water and placed over a slow fire in a most repulsive saucepan. By half-past eight o'clock, by which time the castaways were eating breakfast, Dave had obtained about half a pint of a queer-smelling, most unattractive-looking, greenish-black fluid. He carried this strange brew carefully to the clearing, peered cautiously into Mrs. Crane's unguarded tent, entered noiselessly, and dropped the flap. Then, kneeling beside the helpless lad, the half-breed raised him gently and poured the contents of his blackened tin cup, a little at a time, down the boy's throat. This accomplished successfully, Dave, much pleased with himself, emerged just in time to meet startled Mrs. Crane, returning to look at her charge. "Dave," she shrieked, noting the empty, not over-clean cup, "what have you done?" "Das all right, Mees Crane," assured Dave. "Dose boy, she swallow good. Ev'rybody wait fi—seex hour. Dose boy sweat lak' horse bam-bye—wake up weak like babee—open hees eye. Maybe she's dead then, maybe she's get well. You geeve her queek som' brot'—bouillon—w'at you call heem—soup, hey?—behin' dos beeg sweat. For mak' her strong, dose seeck boy." "Dave," moaned Mrs. Crane, who had seized the cup and was smelling it, "you've surely killed that poor child!" "Nong, nong," protested Dave. "Dose ees ver' goo' medicine—Ah'm got her off ma gran'modder." "Well," growled Mr. Black, finding it difficult to be stern, with five amused little girls giggling at his back. "If you get any more medicine off your grandmother I'll throw you into the lake." "Hee ees been dead long tam'—dose gran'modder." "Took her own medicine, I suppose," said Mr. Black. "Was she French or Indian?" "Ojibway; som' squaw—som' Injun lady; ma fadaire, he French, from Canadaw—speak no Englise. Ma modder Injun, sam' lak ma gran'modder; he mak' dose medicine, too. Bot' dead, dose fadaire, dose modder." "No wonder," breathed Henrietta. "Mees Bet tee ," said Dave, turning to go, "you breeng dose odder girl—Ah show you how to skeen som' deer. Maybe Ah'm geeve you dose tail. Dose liver—vaire fine meat, dose liver—ees for Jean." At this the girls found it hard not to laugh outright, because, as they very well knew, Jean heartily disliked liver of any kind. But gentle-mannered Jean, who was always careful not to hurt any other person's feelings, managed to say, prettily: "Thank you, Dave; you're very good to me." "You pooty nice girl," returned Dave. "Ah mak' som' med'cine for dose sunburn hon your face." "Thank you," faltered Jean, "but I—but I like to be sunburned. I'll be such a fine color after I've lost all my skin." "Dear me," groaned Mrs. Crane, when the girls had trooped away at Dave's heels, "I was almost sure, this morning, that that boy was better. I put my hand on his forehead very early—when Dave's dog barked, and it felt cool and even a little damp—as if the fever had left him for just a moment or two. And now Dave has probably finished him. That boy must have had a fine constitution to start with or that fever would have ended him yesterday. That horrible medicine on top of everything else he's gone through——" "Well," returned Mr. Black, "we won't gain anything by worrying about it. We'll get Dave started after a real doctor as soon as possible—I'll write a note to Doctor Bennett, so he can bring the proper medicines with him. Make out your list and put the girls at theirs as soon as they return—I'll go after them presently. That rascal said he'd start 'behind dinner.'" It was considerably "behind" the noon meal when Dave was ready to begin his long walk; but at last, with a little food tied in a soiled red handkerchief that dangled from a stick resting on his shoulder, he departed. Although Dave never looked particularly clean, although he was not especially handsome, there were moments when, because of his picturesqueness, he decidedly pleased the eye. Now, with the touch of dangling scarlet at his back, all the rest of him except his rather long black hair an even, woodsy brown, Dave and the landscape, harmoniously combined, made a truly attractive picture. But not for long. The leaves at the edge of the grassy clearing closed suddenly behind him; the castaways could not discover his trail; but Dave must have guessed that they were trying to find it, for his laugh, always an unexpectedly musical sound, floated back to the searchers. "I hope," said Jean, "that he won't be gone as long this time. Mrs. Crane is almost as worried about this boy as she was about Rosa Marie with the measles—perhaps more, because she had the doctor to help her then." "Dave helped her this time," said Marjory. " I hope he'll hurry, too," returned Henrietta. "It seems a year since I ate the last crumb of candy out of my box." "And we can't make any," mourned Marjory, "because the sugar's all but gone." "There's only a little butter," added Bettie, "and less than half a loaf of rye bread; but luckily we've plenty of flour and cornmeal. Biscuits and johnny-cake help a lot." "It's a good thing," said Mabel, "that Mrs. Crane thought of sending for that old tin oven. I'd hate to be obliged to go hungry with the kind of appetite I've got now . I believe I could eat raw potatoes this minute." "You won't have to," assured Jean. "There's plenty of oatmeal and rice and a lot of things in packages. Oh, yes, and beans —a great big bag of dried ones." "Wouldn't it be nice," suggested Bettie, "to surprise Mr. Black and Mrs. Crane with baked beans for supper!" "But they'd see us cooking them," objected Jean. "We could build a stone oven, the way Dave showed us, on the beach," said practical Bettie. "Of course, if we used the tin one here in the clearing, they'd see what we were doing. Marjory, you're so small they won't notice you, so you slip into the provision tent and get the beans. How many? Why—I don't know." "Seven hundred," said Henrietta, promptly. "A hundred apiece—Anthony prefers fish-tails." "I guess," protested Marjory, "I'm not going to count those beans—they come in pounds , not dozens." "They swell a lot," said Bettie. "I think that about four cupfuls would be enough—bring them down in one of those round pudding pans—we'll bake 'em in that." "It seems to me," said Jean, when Marjory had successfully captured the beans, "that we ought to wash them. But we haven't any colander—one of those things with holes in it." "Never mind," said Henrietta, "we'll use the lake—it's big enough, anyway. I'll wade in with the beans——" "I guess not," retorted Mabel. "Your feet and beans all in together!" "That's so," agreed Henrietta. "Well, we'll dig out a basin in the hard clean sand and wash them in that." The basin grew larger than the girls meant to make it, and the slippery white beans, turned loose in this little pond, proved remarkably elusive. But finally the last one was captured and placed in a pan of water with a pinch of salt; the pan was placed in the oven that the girls had built, and a fire was started under it. "They'll be surprised, won't they?" giggled the happy conspirators, far from suspecting that they themselves were to be the surprised persons; for this was their first experience with cooking dried beans, and of course, since they couldn't consult Mrs. Crane without betraying the secret, there was no one to ask for very necessary instructions. CHAPTER XVI A Valuable Insect MRS. CRANE remained very near her sleeping charge all that day. She didn't see, she said, how anybody could survive the dreadful dose that Dave had poured down the unconscious lad's throat. At four that afternoon one of Dave's predictions came true. Great beads of perspiration broke out on the boy's forehead; and soon the voluminous nightgown in which Mrs. Crane had arrayed the patient was wet through, for he was indeed "sweating like a horse." Remembering Dave's advice concerning broth, yet decidedly fearful of following advice from so doubtful a source, the anxious nurse searched her cupboard for the little jar of beef extract that had been ordered for Bettie (by this time Bettie was clamoring for—and getting—more substantial food) and made a small bowlful of strong bouillon . But first, careful Mrs. Crane wrapped her patient in a warm blanket. When she returned with the broth, intending to force it by spoonfuls into the lad's mouth, she realised that a great change had taken place in her patient. The fever flush was gone from his cheeks, leaving him pale and clammy; but now, for the first time since his arrival in Pete's Patch his eyes were open. They were big and very, very blue. "Well," greeted Mrs. Crane, "this is something like! Awake, are you? Don't be frightened, poor lamb—you're as safe here as if you were in your own bed. Open your mouth, there's a good boy. It's some time since you've had a Christian meal." After the first few spoonfuls, the boy's eyes closed wearily; but he still opened his mouth obediently, just like a young robin, his pleased nurse said afterwards. "That's all," announced Mrs. Crane, giving him the last spoonful. "Now go to sleep if you want to." Apparently he did want to, for that is what he did. Mrs. Crane stole softly from the tent. "Girls," said she, to the little group in the shade of the biggest tree, "I want you to be very quiet whenever you come near the tents—tell the others when they come back. I believe that boy has taken a change for the better—he's lost his fever and he's sleeping like a baby." "Was it Dave's awful medicine?" queried Bettie. "I don't know," returned Mrs. Crane. "Your bottle probably helped. I don't suppose we'll ever know just what effect Dave's potion had; but something has certainly brought about a change in that poor child. Anyway, remember not to make a noise near my tent." "My!" giggled Marjory, when Mrs. Crane had returned to her charge, "she never even looked toward the beach. I was so afraid she'd notice the smoke from that fire and ask what Jean and Mabel were doing." "So was I," said Henrietta, who was endeavoring to weave a basket from some long, fragrant grass that she had discovered in a marsh near the river, "but she doesn't think of anything but that boy." "What's Mr. Black doing all this time?" asked Bettie, who was lying at full length on the ground with her head in Marjory's lap. "Fishing with his two and a half worms," replied Henrietta. "There he comes now," said Marjory, "but what in the world ails him?" No wonder she asked, for stout Mr. Black, hatless and coatless, his thick, iron-gray hair standing upright, his oft-mended suspenders broken once more and dangling from his waist, was dashing madly about the further end of the clearing. Now with arms aloft, now with fingers gripping the sod, this usually sedate and dignified gentleman was behaving in a most remarkable manner. "Goodness!" gasped Henrietta. "He must be doing an Indian war-dance!" "He's pounding the ground with his hat," said Marjory. "Now he's trying to fly—mercy! He's tripped right over a stump!" exclaimed Henrietta. "Let's go and see what he's doing." Just then Jean and Mabel clambered up the bank from the beach. On seeing the others fleeing hurriedly in Mr. Black's direction, they, too, scurried after. "He got away," panted Mr. Black, ruefully, as he picked himself up from the grass plot. "What?" inquired Marjory, "a squirrel? a rabbit? a beaver?" "No," returned Mr. Black, rather sheepishly, wiping his perspiring brow, "a grasshopper. But I must have that beast. Girls, I'll give you a dollar apiece for every grasshopper you can catch within the next ten minutes. You see, I accidentally caught one—the thing was down my neck—put it on my hook, and in two seconds it was snatched off by the biggest trout I've seen in six years! Yes, siree! He was a yard long! I'd pay two dollars for another grasshopper this minute; for I can't catch the pesky things." "Easy money," laughed Henrietta. "Come on, girls. Let's see who'll get the two dollars." In another moment all five were hurling themselves recklessly about the sunny clearing, wherever a grasshopper jumped. To an unenlightened observer, it must have seemed as if they, too, were doing an Indian war-dance; certainly they alarmed the grasshoppers. "Oh," gasped Bettie, after five minutes of this strenuous exercise, "I can't try any longer—my poor old legs are all gone." So tired Bettie nestled comfortably against Mr. Black, who, with his broad back against a stump, was resting as peacefully as the thought of that big, uncaught trout would permit. But the other four still chased grasshoppers. Suddenly, a big, bewildered insect hopped right into Bettie's lap; and, in a moment, Bettie's quick, slender fingers had closed over as fine a grasshopper as fisherman would wish to see. "I've got him—I've got him!" she shrieked. "He's right in my hand." Mr. Black placed the captive in his pocket match-safe. Then gravely extracting a two-dollar bill from his trousers pocket, he dropped it in Bettie's lap. "Oh, no ," breathed Bettie. "Not when you're so good to me—I'd catch a million grasshoppers for you for nothing, if I only could." "If you don't keep it," declared Mr. Black, closing her fingers over the bill, "I'll let that precious insect fly away." "Well," sighed Bettie, stuffing the money down her neck, "I'll sit here with my mouth open and let grasshoppers fly in until I catch a truly two dollars' worth." "Well," laughed Mr. Black, rising with difficulty, "bring all you catch down that left-hand trail to the second bend in the river—that's where I saw that whale." But there was no need of a second grasshopper; for before another was captured, Mr. Black, beaming with pleasure, rushed to the clearing to display his trout. Although the big fish lacked almost two feet of being a yard long, he was a fine specimen. "And Bettie's grasshopper," said Mr. Black, readjusting it on his hook, "is still as good as new, so I'm going back for another fish—with one more, plus the three I caught this morning, we'll have enough for supper." "My goodness!" gasped Jean. "Our surprise—nobody's watching the fire!" With one accord, the five cooks rushed to the beach. "The fire's out," said Jean. "We'll have to build it again." When all the rest of the supper was on the table, including Mr. Black's satisfactory catch of trout, nicely fried by Jean, Marjory slipped quietly away to extract the surprise from the oven. She was not entirely satisfied with its appearance; but, at any rate, the dish was good and hot. She succeeded in getting it safely up the sand bank and into the octagonal tent, where she placed it triumphantly beside the trout. "Why!" exclaimed Mrs. Crane, whose patient was still sleeping, "what have we here?" "A surprise," beamed Mabel. "Boston baked beans," explained Bettie. "Now, that," said Mr. Black, "is a real treat. There's nothing better than beans for camp fare." But when the beans were served they rattled, as they touched the plates, like rain on a tin roof. Instead of being smooth and nicely filled out, each bean was shriveled and as hard as a pebble. "Dear me," mourned Bettie, who had taken the first mouthful, "those are dreadful beans—I can't bite them." "But," said puzzled Jean, "they cooked for hours." "Did you soak them first?" asked Mrs. Crane. "No," replied Jean. "Didn't you boil them?" "No, we didn't do that, either. Just baked 'em." "Dear, dear," laughed Mrs. Crane. "No wonder they're hard. You should have soaked them all night, boiled them for an hour, and then baked them. And I think, my dears, that you forgot the pork, the molasses, and the salt—beans need a great deal of salt. But it was nice and thoughtful of you good little girls to go to all that trouble." "We wanted it to be a lovely surprise," mourned Mabel. "Well," teased Mr. Black, "it's certainly more of a surprise than you meant it to be, therefore more of a success, because we are all surprised." "Cheer up," said Mrs. Crane, touched by the downcast countenances of the disappointed cooks. "We'll feed the surprise to the squirrels. After supper—you see there's plenty this time without the surprise—we'll put some more beans to soak; and to-morrow we'll cook them the other way. Anyway, I'm very glad you thought of cooking those beans—I'd forgotten that we had them." At this the seven gloomy faces brightened. And the beans were not wasted; for the kind squirrels carried away every one. CHAPTER XVII The Game Warden's Visit THE boy was really better; but very, very weak. Every time he opened an eye, that next day, solicitous Mrs. Crane was ready with a bowl of broth. Once he did not fall asleep immediately but followed her with big, questioning blue eyes as she moved about the tent. He remained awake for twenty minutes that time and even moved his hands slightly. "You've been real sick," explained Mrs. Crane, sociably, her soft dark eyes very kind and encouraging. "You're pretty weak yet, but you're twice the boy you were yesterday. Could you eat more broth?" For an instant something that looked like a genuine smile flickered across the boy's lips; and his eyes, Mrs. Crane said afterwards, almost twinkled. Then, in a very thin, weak voice, he said: "Please." After that he again fell into a long, deep sleep. But now his prolonged slumbers were no longer terrifying, for his breathing was natural, his fever entirely gone. " Can't we see him next time his eyes are open?" pleaded Mabel, waylaying Mrs. Crane in the provision tent, "and couldn't I be the first one? I found him, you know, so he's really mostly mine." "Ye—es," replied Mrs. Crane, pondering this matter. "I guess it's only fair that you should be the first. If you'll stay where you can see the door of my tent, I'll wave a towel when the time comes. But it won't be right away, for he's just gone to sleep again." "That boat ought to get here to-day," said Mr. Black, who had been expectantly gazing from time to time at the lake, "but I suppose that rascal Dave stopped all along the way to set traps." Mr. Black was quite right. Dave had stopped to set traps. But first of all, with characteristic stealth, the conscienceless half-breed had begun his journey with a comfortable nap. For almost two hours, within five minutes' walk of Pete's Patch, Dave had slumbered, with no thought of anything but his own comfort. After that, he attended leisurely to the numerous traps along his almost invisible trail. Fortunately—or he might never have reached his destination, he found only a solitary muskrat. The big rat was still living. Dave eyed him reflectively. "Goo'-by, li'le son," said Dave, liberating the bright-eyed prisoner. "You ees more bodder dan you ees wort', to-day. An' w'at for Ah'm eat moskrat! Me, Ah'm go for eat dose bifsteak, dose pork shop, dose baked bean hon top of Lakeveele. Go home, you son of a moskrat—Ah catch you som' more nex' veek." The limping rat splashed into the river, and Dave, after one half-regretful glance at the eddying water, at last started briskly along the trail that led to Lakeville. He spent the night with his cousin on the outskirts of the town, who refreshed him so generously that faithless Dave didn't know, next morning, whether he was headed toward Lakeville or toward camp. So he slept all that day and the next; while his good friend Mabel, at Pete's Patch, made brave efforts to save him from threatened disaster. Mabel and all the other girls knew that Dave had every reason to fear the game warden. The youthful castaways, who were not very clear as to the duties of game wardens in general, considered them the natural enemies of all hunters and fishermen. Dave had once shown the girls a battered, yellowed newspaper containing a full-length picture of a brawny, khaki-clad game warden arresting a lawless sportsman. The half-breed had said, half laughingly, half seriously: "Eef you ees see dose man som' tam', Mees Mabelle, Mees Bet tee , don't you go for tole her som't'ing about Dave Gurneau, or maybe, me, Ah'm got maself lock up for sure. Or maybe Ah'm go for pay feefty dollar fine." The idea of a fifty-dollar fine had probably tickled Dave, who, at that poverty-stricken moment would have found it impossible to pay even fifty cents. But the girls had been deeply impressed. They saw clearly that a visit from the game warden would result disastrously to Dave, whom the youngsters liked, in spite of his many irregularities; for the ignorant half-breed was always good to them in his own peculiar way. And then, too, Mr. Black had said that Dave was to be protected from all chance visitors. Very soon after the arrival of the nails, Mr. Black had built a rain-proof shed to shelter the disabled "Whale." As it was possible to reach this spot without tumbling into either the lake or the river, Mabel often strolled that way to look for berries, flowers, mushrooms, or mosses—she was apt to return with specimens of all four jumbled untidily together in the skirt of her dress. This fine morning, Mrs. Crane having suggested that a few mushrooms would add flavor and bulk to the noon meal, Mabel and Henrietta, with the praiseworthy intention of gathering a bushel or two, walked along the swampy, woodsy road that led to Lakeville. It was not often that Mabel and Henrietta paired off together, for Henrietta was the oldest, Mabel the youngest of the five girls. But in some ways pretty, black-eyed Henrietta was more thoughtless, less responsible than Jean, Marjory, or Bettie. After the death of her young mother, various relatives, including an inexperienced father and a too-indulgent grandmother, had done their best to spoil attractive Henrietta. They hadn't exactly succeeded; but the unrestrained little girl, naturally impulsive, naturally a bit daring, and always very high-spirited, was apt to act first and do her thinking afterwards. As for Mabel—why, Mabel simply plunged into trouble. Still, it seemed safe enough to send this pair forth for mushrooms; so, with a basket between them, a smiling sky overhead, they set forth merrily. "It's funny about mushrooms," observed Mabel. "You can gather all there are and the next day you find just as many more. But when you pick berries that's the last of them for a whole year." "I wish," returned Henrietta, "it were just the other way." "So do I," agreed Mabel, her mouth full of big, red wintergreen berries. "It never is," sighed Henrietta, sentimentally. "Every time there's a storm, the sea brings in millions of cobblestones and only one agate. I love to hunt for agates." "If they came in like cobblestones," said practical Mabel, "you wouldn't have the fun of hunting—— Why! There's something coming down the road. See! That way—toward Lakeville." "A man on horseback!" exclaimed Henrietta. "Let's hide——" "What for?" demanded Mabel, bravely. "His clothes!" breathed Henrietta, in an agonized whisper, as she dragged Mabel backward. "Can't you see? It's the game warden—I know him by his leggings. Just like that picture. Hurry, Mabel—he's after Dave!" "Oh! do you think so?" gasped Mabel, paralyzed with horror. "And all that venison hanging near Dave's wigwam! And all those partridge feathers on Mr. Black's land! They might arrest him, too! And us! Oh, Henrietta! What'll we do?" "Run," urged Henrietta, tugging at Mabel's dress. "But—but I can't!" gasped Mabel, helplessly. "And, anyway, it's too late—he's looking right this way. But, oh! We mustn't let him go anywhere near Pete's Patch." "Sh!" breathed Henrietta, warningly; but with a quick, decisive nod that seemed vaguely reassuring. "Stop looking scared." The rider, having cautiously and more or less successfully skirted a bad bit of swamp, caught sight of the girls and checked his travel-stained horse. "Is this the way," he asked, politely, "to Barclay's Point?" Henrietta's forefinger promptly pointed toward the north—directly toward the concealed Point. "Just keep going," she advised. "It's quite a long way, but you're headed right for Barclay's." "Yes," assisted Mabel, after a closer scrutiny of the telltale leggings, "you just keep going." "I'm looking," explained the man, "for Mr. Black. He's at Barclay's Point, isn't he?" "Sometimes," replied Henrietta, truthfully. "How's the fishing up there?" "I haven't fished," returned Henrietta, shortly. The game warden, it was plain, would get no incriminating information from Henrietta. "This road, you say, leads to the Point?" "Ye—es," faltered Mabel; "yes, if——" "Never mind the 'if,'" hissed Henrietta, into Mabel's surprised ear. "Yes," she added aloud, and very convincingly, "it does lead to the Point. But you'd better hurry, or Mr. Black may be starting out for some other place." "I'd hate to miss him," said the man, touching his hat. "Thank you, young ladies. I'll go at once—perhaps I'll see you later." Mabel and Henrietta eyed each other in discreet silence until the sound of hoofbeats had gradually died away. "We've been bad," breathed Mabel. "It was necessary," sighed Henrietta. "Goodness knows, I'd rather be good. And that road does lead to Barclay's Point." "Yes—if you're smart enough to find the turn off." "That's why I told him to hurry—if he rides fast, he'll never see it." "Nobody would," agreed Mabel. "Where does this road go, anyway?" "Seventeen miles to an old lumber camp—Dave told me. There's another camp, not so far, but it has a 'blind turn-off'—you'd never find it if you didn't know just exactly where to look. Even then you'd think you were wrong. I guess it'll take him all day to find Pete's Patch. Anyhow, I hope so."

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