Chapter V Behind the Lighted Canvas
“Now what?” Midkiff asked in a whisper, the water dripping from every part of his big body. Then he jumped, for a light flashed in his friend’s hand. “What you got there—a lamp?”
“A tiny glow worm. ‘You, in your small corner, and I in mine,’ Jawn. You remember the old infant class ‘rondeloo’? Won’t do for us to go stumbling about here, mauling ourselves and announcing our presence—perhaps—to the enemy,” chuckled Rex.
“If they’re still here,” grumbled his friend. “If they’re not, so much the better. But I have a sneaking idea that nobody got off this island in the storm.”
“Looks reasonable.”
“Quite. Maybe, at that,” Kingdon added, “they have no intention of remaining for more than over night. Fishing party, maybe—picnic bunch.”
“Then, for goodness’ sake what are we mouching around here in the dark for?” snarled the short-tempered Midkiff, for he had already barked his bare shin on a tree root.
“Sh! sh! and a couple of hushes,” advised his mentor. “Ha! Jawn, I see a light.”
The other’s reply was another growl: “Let me see that light you’ve got, will you? Not right in my eyes. That blinds a fellow.”
It was true Kingdon was chuckling softly. He took his finger off the latch of the electric spotlight, and they were again in gloom; but, having scrambled up the rough bank from the water a few yards, there was visible before them—at least, to his eyes—a faint glow.
“That isn’t a campfire,” grunted Midkiff, finally observing the odd illumination.
“A campfire wouldn’t have much of a chance in this rain,” suggested Kingdon. “That light’s behind canvas.”
“A tent!” exclaimed Midkiff.
“You can risk your last iron man on it, old boy and—listen to the voices!”
“I hear ’em,” admitted his comrade. “What you going to do? Sneak up and stretch your ear?”
Rex nodded, but gestured for Midkiff to remain where he was. They had drawn too near to the encampment for further conversation to be wise.
The radiance of the lantern inside the nearest tent rendered approach to it easy. The second, and totally dark canvas shelter, was beyond.
“Eavesdropping isn’t my long suit,” thought Rex Kingdon, “but all’s fair in love and war—and several other things! We’ve got the rights of this. Whoever these chaps are, they’re in wrong.”
“’Tis no casual fishing party; they’re here with tents and boats, I fancy—all the trappings of a stable camp. The unmitigated gall of them!”
In a minute he learned more important things. There were four in the tent, and they were playing cards. One fellow was whining:
“I don’t wanta play any more. Ben has all the luck. I’ve lost too much now.”
“Why, you poor fish!” said another voice. “This isn’t real money we’re playing for. It’s only for fun.”
“Just the same, Kirby, Ben always sets it down against me when he wins; and I owe him enough already—more’n I can pay,” was the frank statement.
“Aw, come on, Pudge! Be a sport,” urged a third speaker.
“So Cousin Ben keeps a day-book account on you, does he?” drawled the fourth player. “Ben’s going to be a wealthier man than his father some day.”
“Mind your own business, Horrors,” snapped the one called “Ben.” “If you and Harry Kirby are silly enough to play for matches, not me. I want some go in the game—and so does Pudge.”
“That so, Pudge?” drawled the same laughing voice.
“I wouldn’t mind if I won once in a while,” confessed the fat youth, whose humped shoulders were so near Rex Kingdon on the other side of the canvas that the listener could have trumped him—and was tempted to!
The brief dialogue, however, had told the eavesdropper much. There were four in the tent, and all boys. From the manner of their talk and their occupation, he was sure that they were fellows who would not be too squeamish about breaking trespass laws. Rex was confident, too, that they must be settled here on Storm Island for some time.
Rex did not much fancy his situation and would have crept away almost immediately, having discovered enough for the time being, had not a topic of conversation arisen between the quartette in the tent that could not fail to hold his attention.
“Wonder if that catboat got around the point all right?” Kirby ruminated, evidently scanning his cards. “Say, Pudge! You’re some poor dealer.”
“Didn’t see a thing of it after we got back to camp,” the fat fellow said.
“Too dark,” grunted Ben’s voice.
“May be lying off there at anchor—shouldn’t wonder,” the fourth fellow lazily observed.
“You don’t think so, do you, Horrors?”
“Why not?”
“If they anchored here they mean to land on the island in the morning—what?”
“Thought nobody ever came here,” complained Ben.
“There’s one party we can expect—is that your idea, Harry?” drawled the languid fellow.
“You get me, Horrors. Kingdon and his gang.”
“Whoo!” puffed Pudge. “That couldn’t be them in the cat?”
“It might,” Ben Comas said in evident gloom.
“Those fellows aren’t cannibals, I suppose?” proposed the laughing Pence.
“Supposin’ Enos Quibb shows up again?” retorted Ben. “Then we will be in a pickle.”
“Bah! you’re a reg’lar grumbler, Ben,” scoffed Kirby.
“Well, if it’s those Walcott Hall fellows out there——”
“If anybody’s out there,” drawled Pence. “Let’s wait till daylight before worrying over that. Your lead, Pudge.”
At that moment Rex was startled—if those under the canvas were not—by a half smothered cry from the other side of the tent, and the fall of a heavy body.
“Ugh!” was expelled from the lungs of the victim of this accident, and Rex knew he must have fallen over a guy rope. He darted swiftly around the lighted tent, hearing a sibilant “Sh!” from within as the quartette forgot their cards to listen. Rex was convinced that he knew the meaning of the disturbance—and who caused it; but before spying the victim of the accident he saw the fly of the second tent parted, and a crouching figure darted out.
There was a larger party than he supposed in this encampment. In another minute the whole crowd would be in action.
“Hey, Mid!” hissed Rex.
He got no reply from his friend, but the individual from the second tent turned as quick as a flash and sprang to tackle him. The charge was so unexpected that Rex went down under the weight of his silent opponent. Whoever the fellow was he didn’t shout for help.
Rex twisted and heaved, using every wrestling trick he knew to break the hold of his antagonist. It was like a band of steel about his middle. Rex was too plucky himself, however, to call again for his friend, as long as this stranger fought the battle in silence.
They rolled over and over upon the saturated ground. Rex realized that there was confusion inside the lighted tent. The cardplayers had jumped up and were stumbling over each other to get outside and investigate the disturbance.
“Whole pack will be on me in a minute!” thought the Walcott Hall youth, and the idea stirred him to additional effort.
He managed to get a grip on the other fellow’s shoulders, and held him off. His thumbs sought the bunch of muscles and nerves at the joint of the upper arm and shoulder. Pressure here brought a pained grunt from his victim’s lips.
His grip on Kingdon relaxed. Slippery as an eel in his bathing suit, the latter wriggled free, rolled over, and leaped to his feet.
Between him and the lighted tent loomed suddenly an unmistakably lanky figure. “Hold ’em in the tent, Jawn,” Rex panted, “till I find out what sort of a thing this is that grabbed me. It strikes me it’s deaf and dumb.”
“Right-o!” agreed the big fellow, and a sudden smack upon the wet canvas, and a wild roar inside, betrayed the collision of the spare tent stake in Midkiff’s hands athwart the parting fly of the main tent.
“Ow! Let us out!” yelled the beleaguered boys as Midkiff slammed the canvas curtain a second time with his weapon.
“Joe! Joe Bootleg!” shrieked Ben Comas.
The fellow who had tackled Rex had scrambled to his feet. The Walcott boy cried: “Believe I’m favored with the attention of Mr. Shoetop—or whatever he’s called. Ah! Would ye?”
He parried a swing dealt at him, and the next instant he and the silent Indian were clinched again.
“Want—help?” panted Midkiff, who had brought on all this trouble by disobeying Kingdon’s order.
“No!” was expelled from Rex’s lips. “I’m—going—to take—this—Boot—let apart—and see how it’s made. Ah! would ye?”
His apparel did not gain Rex so much advantage after all. Joe had gone to bed with his boots on. Now he unceremoniously trampled on the other’s bare feet. Rex could not entirely repress a cry of pain, and for the second time the Indian uttered a sound. He laughed.
If anything was needed to make Kingdon fighting mad, it was that. He broke away from the Indian, dancing back a pace or two. As Joe Bootleg came at him again, Rex sent in a quick right drive to the point of the other’s chin.
His antagonist went to the earth, and lay there.