Chapter II In Stolen Plumage
“My, my!” murmured the only member of the camping party who seemed to take the visit of the constable with any degree of composure. “He seems savage enough to eat nails.”
“Now, don’t, Horrors!” begged Ben Comas. “Don’t make it worse!”
“Better be smooth with him, old man,” urged Kirby.
“See if you can pacify him,” groaned Pudge. “I worked like a dog helping Joe get this camp fixed.”
Their leader chuckled as he walked down to the natural dock where the two canoes, in which the party had reached Storm Island, were moored. The view of the sound, the rugged, well-wooded and scantily-inhabited mainland in the distance, expanded before his gaze. For several miles in either direction this mainland, as well as Storm Island itself, was either owned or leased by the Manatee Lumber Company. On the mainland the timber was properly policed by the company’s guards; but Storm Island, far off shore, was considered secure from invasion by irresponsible fishing parties and the like, by the trespass signs posted upon its beaches. Blackport, the nearest town, ten miles from the western point of the island, was hidden from it by the wooded and rocky “crabclaw” sheltering Blackport Cove.
There was scarcely a habitation to be seen from the spot where the boys’ camp had been established. There were fish-weirs visible at several points along the shore; but the catches gathered from these traps were, as a usual thing, taken to Blackport to be cleaned and iced, and then shipped to Portland or Boston by train. The locality was, therefore, as deserted as any spot along the entire stretch of the Maine coast.
Enos Quibb caught his boathook in the exposed root of one of the two great trees at the landing, drew the launch closer, and moored it. Then he sprang ashore. He was not a very big man save in his sense of importance. Being of a sandy complexion, his innumerable freckles were painfully yellow and prominent. His large, high-bridged nose was of a cold blue color even on this hot summer’s day.
“Say, you boys!” he began. “Can’t ye read them signs?”
“What signs, kind sir?” asked Horrors, languidly. Ben Comas, at his elbow, nudged the taller lad and whispered:
“Don’t make it worse! Don’t nag him!”
“Them ‘No Trespass’ signs,” said the constable. “You know well enough they was put up to warn such chaps as you be off the island.”
“But suppose we don’t believe in signs? You know, I never was superstitious myself; I’d just as soon walk under a ladder—or take a bath on a Friday—as not.”
Pudge began to chuckle, and the wrath of the constable was flagged in his thin cheeks by a rising flush.
“Stop it! Stop it!” ejaculated Ben Comas, under his breath. “We’re in a bad enough scrape as it is.”
The other gave no heed. He showed his even teeth in a sudden smile, that was all. Enos Quibb said, harshly:
“You’re one smart boy, I don’t dispute; but if you and your friends don’t pack up and git off of this island shortly, you’ll be smarter. Don’t you know I can arrest you for trespass?”
“No,” was the quiet reply. “I don’t know that.”
“Well, you’ll find out!” declared the constable. “Nobody’s allowed to camp on this island—not even to land here——”
“No-body?” put in the youth he addressed, in the same gentle tone.
“Why—we—well, say! The company did give a permit to one party for this summer.”
“Well?” was the suave query.
“Say! Be you them?” demanded Quibb, flushing again. “I remember seeing you in Blackport, and you didn’t say nothing to me then about comin’ over here. Le’s see,” and he began fumbling in the inside pocket of his coat. “I got notice of this crowd that got permission from the Manatee Company to camp here——”
He drew out a letter. Ben Comas groaned. Kirby whispered emphatically: “Good-night! It’s all off!” The constable unfolded the letter, and then quickly glanced up again at the quartette.
“This permit’s issued to ‘Rexford Kingdon and friends.’” Again he addressed the tall lad. “Does your name happen to be Kingdon?”
“Now you’ve said a mouthful,” returned the leader of the camping party airily.
“Well! Well!” ejaculated the constable. “Why didn’t you say so before?”
“You didn’t ask me,” the other returned, shrugging his shoulders, while his mates behind him stood in speechless amazement.
“Well! Well!” Enos Quibb exclaimed again, his watery eyes blinking. “If you air the right party I ain’t got nothin’ more to say. Only ye might have told me over to the port yesterday who ye was. I’d ha’ been saved this trip, an’ gas is mighty expensive.” He seemed aggrieved.
The tall lad, who had dominated the situation so easily, may have considered the part of the pacifist just then a wise move.
“You didn’t ask me who we were, my friend. You bawled us out over there at Blackport—told us we were blocking the sidewalk with our canoes, and drove us into the gutter. I suppose you had to do something like that,” he added, gently, “or we might have overlooked the fact that there was a constable around.”
Quibb flushed again at this last suggestion, but made no reply. He stepped into the launch, seized the boathook, and shoved off.
Kirby grabbed at his friend’s arm. “He’s never going to go without asking to see the permit?” he whispered.
But that is exactly what Quibb did. He spun the flywheel, and the exhaust began to spit.
“Dear me!” sighed Horrors. “And he’s going without even bidding us good-by.”
“Great Peter’s uncle!” exploded Kirby. “The nerve of you, Horrors!”
“Now you’ve done it!” fretted Ben Comas. “What do you suppose he’ll do to us when he finds out——”
“Dear, dear Bennie,” sighed the bold youth. “You’re at it again, are you? Always looking for trouble.”
“Just as well be prepared for trouble when you’re bossing things, that’s sure,” grumbled Ben.
“Oh, jumping mackerel!” giggled Pudge, who had dropped to the sod and was now having difficulty in smothering his desire to give broader vent to his delight. “The way you did it, Horrors! You’re a dandy! You’re a bird! And he swallowed it whole.”
“He didn’t have much to swallow,” the leader of the party said quietly.
“Huh? ’Tain’t much, I suppose, for you to string him along that you are this Rex Kingdon? Oh, no!”
“I didn’t tell him I was,” said the tall lad, smiling easily.
“What’s that?” exclaimed Kirby. “Well, you just as good as did.”
“I let him think so if he wanted to,” the other returned, plainly enjoying the admiration of his companions. “Quibb did it all. He can’t blame me.”
“But you don’t get me,” continued Pudge, sitting up and with tears of laughter running over his fat cheeks. “You don’t get me, Horrors. You to pose as this Kingdon chap.”
“Well, why not?” asked the tall lad.
“You as black as Joe, yonder—almost; and him a strawberry blond. I remember him plain enough now. Saw him play against Winchester last year. In size you are not far out, old boy; but blond and brunette were never farther apart—believe me!”
“What do I care?”
“Maybe you will,” Ben Comas put in. He begrudged Horrors the admiration of the other lads. He was not generous enough in any particular to be a leader himself, and he envied the good-looking youth’s lordly ways and the subservience that he commanded so easily of his mates. “This business isn’t finished.”
“Well, we’ll stay till the finish, Bennie,” drawled the other. “What’s the use of crossing bridges till you come to them? That doesn’t get you anywhere.”
“Aw—well,” muttered Comas, shaking his head.
“But suppose this Kingdon and his gang walk in on us?” asked Harry Kirby, suddenly. “What about that?”
“The island’s big enough, isn’t it, for two camps?” demanded Horrors.
“Mebbe it isn’t,” grunted Pudge. “This Rex Kingdon is a fighter.”
“Pshaw! You don’t mean it, Pudge? Who told you so much, and your hair not curly?” drawled Horrors with lifted brows and his usual lazy smile that displayed the line of his white and even teeth.
That smile marred his rather attractive countenance, for the lift of the lip was almost canine. He was dark-haired, and his brows seemed painted over his steady eyes, so clear was his olive complexion. The contrast of his black hair and brows with his almost colorless skin was somewhat startling. The budding mustache on his lip was jet black, too. This “down” on a blond fellow would scarcely have been observed; it made Horace Pence seem several years older than he actually was.
“I suppose,” he pursued, his drawling accents making Pudge MacComber flush, “you think this constable is going to put us all in the calaboose over at Blackport? That is what is troubling all you fellows.”
“Well, of course he can do that. We’re trespassing. Goodness knows there are enough signs all around the island forbidding landing upon it,” Harry Kirby said.
“Bosh!” sneered Horace Pence. “I know the law against trespassing. They’ve got to prove we’ve done some damage by landing here and setting up our tents.”
“And building fires,” put in Kirby.
“That’s all right,” agreed the leader, quite unruffled. “We’ve only built one fire, and it is properly guarded. I saw to that. And Joe knows the fire law, you bet. Don’t you fellows fret; I know what I am about.”
“You seem to,” admitted Harry Kirby admiringly. “I never knew a fellow like you, Horrors. You are always just skirting the edge of trouble, but never get into it.”
“He’ll get into it now, all right-o,” grumbled Ben Comas. “We know well enough that there’s a party did get a permit to camp here this summer; that’s why my father couldn’t work it for us—and he owns some stock in the Manatee Company, too.”
“We heard about that before,” said Kirby. “Is it true or just one of your false alarms?”
“That’s no false alarm,” defended Ben, vigorously. “It’s straight. A bunch from that prep. school out Scarsdale way, with this Rex Kingdon at their head, got permission to come here, and the company wouldn’t allow two camps on Storm Island.”
“What prep. school’s that?” demanded Kirby.
It was Horace Pence that made answer, to the surprise of his companions. “Walcott Hall,” he said briefly.
“Huh!” exploded Pudge. “How’d you know?”
“I heard about this crowd coming here, in town before we started,” confessed the leader of the camping party.
“Say! An’ you never told us!” Kirby complained.
“Because that Rex Kingdon and his crew were coming is why I suggested Storm Island. Say, Kirby! don’t you remember that slim, slick, blond chap who played with the Ridgewood High only a couple of years ago when they beat our nine so badly? I haven’t forgotten him, if you fellows have. That’s Rex Kingdon, and I’ve had it in for him ever since they gave us such a walloping. Kingdon and I had words after the game, too—some!”
“Why didn’t you lick him then, and get it over with?” scoffed Ben Comas.
“He got out o’ town with his crowd, that’s why,” Pence responded rather more earnestly than was his wont.
“And did Kingdon go to this Walcott Hall School?” asked Kirby.
Horace nodded. He was not much of a talker and, if he could convey his meaning without speech, he seldom troubled to open his lips. He felt as though he had been actually garrulous in speaking of Rex Kingdon.
“I know who you mean,” Pudge said; “he’s catching for the Walcott nine. And he’s a bear at football, too. Played on the Hall ’leven against Winchester last fall I tell you. And, say, Horrors!”
The tall youth looked at him questioningly, and the fat boy continued:
“You don’t want to be too sure of that blond fellow. He’s a fighter. He can use his fists.”
“So can I,” said Pence succinctly. “If he and his crowd land here and make camp, maybe we’ll find out who’s who, eh?” His lip lifted again with a sneering smile.
“Hoh!” ejaculated young MacComber. “You don’t suppose those prep. school fellers would stand for us being here, too, do you?”
“Why not?”
“Why, if they’ve got a permit, and know that they’re responsible for what’s done over here——”
“Forget it!” exclaimed Pence, now rather tired of the controversy. “Let’s wait till they come. You’re as bad as your cousin, Pudge. Maybe this Kingdon fellow and his gang won’t show up at all. If they do——”
“Well, what if they do, Horrors?” asked Kirby eagerly, as the tall fellow became silent.
“We’re here first. I don’t know why we shouldn’t stay. Quibb says we can. Let the other fellows worry—not us.”
“Whew!” murmured Kirby, his eyes flashing. “I see. As one of our professors says, ‘the onus of proving the case is on the other party.’”
“I s’pose you’re right,” grudgingly admitted Ben Comas. “My father says that ‘Possession is nine points of the law.’”
When Joe Bootleg, the Indian, appeared and asked for particulars, Pence left it to his mates to answer.
Without being in the least “grumpy” Horace Pence was a strangely silent lad. He had a good mind and a quick wit. Had he not been lazy he might have already matriculated at college, for his people were in circumstances to send him there. But for nearly two years he had loafed around his home town, having had trouble with his instructors in the last school at which he was entered, and thenceforth refusing to go to another.
In a fair way of becoming rather a useless member of society, if he maintained his present irresponsible attitude toward the world, Pence had thus far been saved from any very pronounced vices by a natural distaste for them. Honor meant little to him, however, as his present action showed. He had usurped the name and status of another fellow to his own advantage, and he really thought that he had turned a very smart trick by doing so.
If he and his friends, being first on the island, could “put over” this substitution of identity, Pence considered only the fun of the situation and the fact that they would not have to move camp. There was no place for miles along the mainland where they could make camp without being warned off by the lumber company’s fire warden. Storm Island was a “beauty spot,” and Horace determined to remain here with his companions.
The sound offered sheltered and quiet water for small craft while the Atlantic billows soughed upon the southern beaches and, in time of storm, the foam-crested surf drove high against the rocky interland of the island. These outer beaches of Storm Island were not considered perilous to shipping, however, as the course of deep-bottomed craft lay well off shore. The nearest light was at Garford Point, just visible in the East, while the only life-saving station within twenty miles was on Blackport Beach beyond the mouth of the cove.
It seemed as though there might be plenty of fun and chance for adventure on and about Storm Island, but these five fellows, who had established their camp here, had made a false step at the very outset of their vacation.