START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BUNGALOW BOYS IN THE GREAT NORTHWEST*** E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Roger Frank, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 45262-h.htm or 45262-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/45262/45262-h/45262-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/45262/45262-h.zip) [Illustration: âHERE GOES!â JACK LEAPED FORWARD AND OUTWARD. HE LANDED RIGHT ON THE SLOOPâS DECK.âPage 43.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE BUNGALOW BOYS IN THE GREAT NORTHWEST by DEXTER J. FORRESTER Author of âThe Bungalow Boys,â âThe Bungalow Boys Marooned in the Tropics,â etc., etc. New York Hurst & Company Publishers ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Copyright, 1911, by Hurst & Company ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CONTENTS I. IN THE VALLEY II. A âBLOW-UPâ III. AN INVOLUNTARY HAY-RIDE IV. BULLY BANJOâS SCHOONER V. A NIGHT OF MYSTERY VI. MR. DACRE SUSTAINS AN ACCIDENT VII. THE TALL CHINAMAN VIII. IN THE GRIP OF SIMON LAKE IX. FAST IN THE TOILS X. IN DIRE STRAITS XI. A LEAP FOR LIFE AND FREEDOM XII. SAM HARTLEY TURNS UP XIII. A NOTE OF WARNING XIV. AT THE CHILLINGWORTH RANCH XV. âSTEAMER, AHOY!â XVI. AN ATTEMPT AT FOUL PLAY XVII. A STRANGE ENCOUNTER XVIII. THE ISLAND XIX. THE ROCKING STONE XX. BURIED ALIVE XXI. MR. CHILLINGWORTH FIRESâAND MISSES XXII. MUTINY XXIII. HEMMED IN BY FLAMES XXIV. THE ROUND-UP.âCONCLUSION ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The Bungalow Boys in the Great Northwest. CHAPTER I. IN THE VALLEY. Turning over his morning mail, which Jared Fogg had just brought into the little Maine valley, Mr. Chisholm Dacre, the Bungalow Boysâ uncle, came across a letter that caused him to pucker up his lips and emit an astonished whistle through his crisp, gray beard. A perplexed look showed on his sun-burned face. Turning back to the first page, he began to read the closely written epistle over once more. Evidently there was something in it that caused Mr. Dacre considerable astonishment. His reading of the missive was not quite completed, however, when the sudden sound of fresh, young voices caused him to glance upward. Skimming across the deep little lake stretched in front of the bungalow came a green canoe. It contained two occupants, a pair of bright-faced lads, blue-eyed and wavy-haired. Their likeness left no doubt that they were brothers. In khaki trousers and canoeing caps, with the sleeves of their gray flannel shirts rolled up above the elbow exposing the tan of healthy muscular flesh, they were as likely a looking couple of lads as you would have run across in a muster-roll of the vigorous, clean-limbed youth of America. Regular out-of-door chaps, they. You couldnât have helped taking an immediate liking to Tom Dacre and his young brother Jack if you had stood beside Mr. Dacre that bright morning in early summer and watched the lightly fashioned craft skimming across the water, its flashing paddles wielded by the aforesaid lusty young arms. âWell, who would think to look at those two lads that they had but recently undergone such an experience as being marooned in the Tropics?â murmured Mr. Dacre to himself, as he watched his two nephews draw nearer. There was a fond and proud light in his eyes as they dwelt on his sturdy young relatives. In his mind he ran over once more the stirring incidents in which they had all three participated in the Bahamas, and which were fully related in a previous volume of this seriesââThe Bungalow Boys Marooned in the Tropics.â Our old readers will be able to recall, too, the bungalow, and the lake, and the country surrounding them. These environments formed the scene of the first volume of this seriesââThe Bungalow Boys.â How different the little Maine lake looked now to its appearance the last time we saw it. Then it was swollen, angry, and discolored by the tumultuous waters of a cloudburst. At the water gate leading to the old lumber flume stood Tom Dacre and Sam Hartley, horror on their faces, while out on the lake, clinging to a capsized canoe, were two figuresâthose of a man and a boy. Suddenly the man raises his hand, and the next instant a cowardly blow has left him the sole occupant of the drifting canoe. Swept on by the current, the lad, his features distorted by fear, is being sucked into the angry waters of the flume, when a figure leaps into the water to the rescue, andââ But we are wandering from the present aspect of things. All that happened a good while ago, when the Bungalow Boys were having their troubles with the âTrubblers,â as old Jasper used to call them. At that time the little valley, not far from the north branch of the Penobscot River, was, as we know, tenanted by a desperate gang of rascals bent on ousting the lads from their strange legacy. Everything is very different in the valley now. The old lumber camp up the creekâin the waters of which Jumbo, the big trout, used to lurkâhas been painted and carpentered, and carpeted and furnished, till you wouldnât know it for the same place. Mrs. Sambo Bijur, a worthy widow, is conducting a boarding house there to the huge disgust of the boys. Somehow, excitingâperilously soâas the old days often were, they have several times caught themselves wishing they were back again. âItâs getting awfully tame,â were Tomâs words only the day before, when he had finished fishing the youngest of the Soopendyke familyâof New Yorkâout of the lake in which the said youngest member of the Soopendykes had been bent on drowning himself, or so it seemed. His distracted mother had rushed up and down on the shore the while. âLike an old biddy that has discovered one of her chickens to be a duck,â chuckled Jack, in relating the story. âAnd she kissed me,â chimed in Tom, with intense disgust, âand said I was a real nice boy, and if Iâd come up to the boarding house some day sheâd let me have a saucer of ice cream.â Mr. Dacre had laughed heartily at this narration. âToo old for ice cream since we defeated the wiles of Messrs. Walstein, Dampier and Co.âeh, Tom?â he exclaimed, leaning back in his big chair on the bungalow porch and laughing till the tears ran down his weather-beaten cheeks. âItâit isnât that, sir,â Jack had put in, âbut a fellowâwell, he objects to being slobbered over.â âBetter than being shot at, though, isnât it, lads?â inquired Mr. Dacre, his gray eyes holding a merry twinkle. âUmâwell,â rejoined Tom, with a judicial air, âyou know, Uncle, weâve seen so much more exciting times in this old valley that it seems strange and unnatural to be overrun with Widow Bijurâs boarders. If it isnât one of the little Soopendykes thatâs in trouble, itâs Professor Dalhousie Dingle, with that inquiring child of his. I never saw such a child. Always asking questions. The other day the professor caught a bug and proceeded to stick a pin through it as he always does. ââPa,â asked Young Dingle, âdoes that hurt the bug?â ââI suppose so, my son,â answered the professor. ââThen the bug doesnât like it?â ââI guess not.â ââWill the bug die?â ââUndoubtedly, my boy.â ââWhy do you kill bugs, papa?â ââFor the purposes of science, my boy,â answered the professor. ââPa?â ââYes, Douglas.â ââWhat is science?â ââItâsâitâsâah, well, the art of explaining things, my boy.â ââDoes it tell everything?â ââYes, my boy.â ââThen what killed the Dead Sea, Pa?ââ Up to this point Mr. Dacre had listened gravely enough, but here he had to burst into a roar of laughter. When his merriment had subsided, he wished to know how the professor had dealt with such a âstumper.â âWhat did he say to that, Tom?â âWell,â laughed Tom, âI guess it was too much for him, for I heard him call Mrs. Bijur and ask her to give the lad a cookie. He said the boyâs brain was so large it was eating up his mind.â This conversation is related so that the reader may form some idea of how the valley has changed from the last time we participated in the Bungalow Boysâ adventures therein. Mrs. Bijur had other boarders, but Mrs. Soopendyke, with her numerous progeny, and Professor Dingle and his inquiring son, were the most striking types. But while we have been relating something of the Bungalow Boysâ neighbors, they have run their canoe up to the wharf, made fast the painter, and, with paddles over their shouldersâfor fear of predatory Soopendykesâmade their way up to the porch. âOut early to-day, Tom,â was Mr. Dacreâs greeting. âYes, we thought weâd see if we couldnât succeed in getting a bass or two before the sun got too hot,â rejoined Tom. âAnd you did?â For answer Tom held up a string of silvery beauties. âNot bad for two hoursâ work,â laughed Jack, leaning his rod against the porch. âNo, indeed, and more especially as Jasper has just informed me that we are almost out of meat. I was thinking of taking a stroll up to Mrs. Bijurâs after a while, to see if I could borrow some. Do you boys want to go?â Tom threw up his hands and burst into a laugh in which Jack joined. âMight as well,â they chuckled. âAt all events, thereâs always something amusing going on up there. By the way, the bugologistâ (Tomâs name for the dignified Professor Dingle) âis off on a new tack now.â âIs that so?â inquired Mr. Dacre interestedly, âand what is that, pray?â âWhy heâs got some wonderful notion about a new explosive. Heâs been experimenting with it for some days now.â âA new explosive!â echoed Mr. Dacre, in an amazed tone; âwell, what does he expect to do with that?â âSell it to the government, I guess,â chuckled Tom. âIâll bet, though, it wonât be as effective as that electric juice we turned into the handrail of the dear old _Omoo_ off Don Lopezâs island.â âI think it would have to be pretty powerful to equal the effects of that, indeed,â laughed Mr. Dacre, rising and thrusting the letter which had interested him so much into a side pocket of his loose linen jacket. He reached for his hat. âWell, letâs be starting before it gets really warm. By the way, boys, as we go along Iâve something to talk to you about. But first I want to ask you a question. I want you to answer it honestly. Arenât you getting a bit tired of your bungalow?â Tom and Jack exchanged glances. As we know, the bungalow and the estate surrounding it, was their âlegacyâ from their uncle, and not for worlds would they have admitted that they were getting a little tired of the pleasant monotony of their lives there. But being ingenuous lads they had not been able to conceal itâas has been hinted, in fact. Tom and Jack exchanged glances. As we know, the bungalow and the estate surrounding it, was their âlegacyâ from their uncle, and not for worlds would they have admitted that they were getting a little tired of the pleasant monotony of their lives there. But being ingenuous lads they had not been able to conceal itâas has been hinted, in fact. âCome,â said Mr. Dacre, a quizzical smile playing about the corners of his firm, yet kind, mouth. âSpeak out; havenât you exchanged views about the monotony of perfect plain sailing, or something of that sort?â âWhy, uncle, you must be a wizard!â exclaimed Tom. âHave you overheard us?â Then both lads burst into a laugh, seeing how they had betrayed themselves. âThere, there,â chuckled Mr. Dacre, âyouâd never do for diplomatsâtoo honest,â he murmured, half to himself; âbut, as Jasper would sayâbeing as how you have given yourselves away, I have something to propose to you.â âHurray!â shouted Jack, capering about, âa trip? Iâll bet the hole out of a doughnut itâs a trip!â âAnd you would win that bet,â cried Mr. Dacre, drawing out the letter from his pocket. âIn the mail to-day there came a letter from a man from whom I have not heard for some timeâa good many years, in fact.â A cloud passed over Mr. Dacreâs face. They could see that for a moment he was back in the old painful past. But it passed as rapidly as a shadow on the surface of the rippling lake. âMy friend has a ranch in Washington State,â he went on, while the boys, with parted lips and sparkling eyes, fairly drank in his words. âIt appears that he read in the papers about our adventures in the tropics. This letter is the result. He informs me that if I am anxious to make an investment with a part of the treasure of the lost galleon, that no better opportunity offers than the timber and fruit country of Washington. He says that he imagines that I must be anxious for rest anyhow, and, to make a long story short, he extends to me and to my two celebrated nephewsââthe boys blushedââa hearty invitation to visit him, renew old friendship, and take a look at the country. What do you say, boysâshall we go?â Tom drew a long breath. âSay, ever since I read that book on the Great Northwest of our country Iâve longed to get out there. Jack and I have talked it over many a time.â Here Jack nodded vigorously. âWill we go, uncle? Well,â Tom paused as he cast about for a fitting phrase, âwell,â he burst out, âif we _donât_, your Bungalow Boys will be Grumble-oh! boys.â âThen I will write him this afternoon that we will come,â said Mr. Dacre soberly, though it was easy to see that he was almost as pleased as the lads at their decision. As for the boys, they joined in a wild half-war-dance, half-waltz that didnât end till Jack was almost waltzed into the lakeânot that in his frame of mind he would have cared. At this stage of the proceedings an inky-black countenance, crowned with a tightly curling crop of grayish wool, projected from a rear door of the bungalow. It was Jasperâformer servant of Dr. Parsons, but now attached to the Bungalow Boysâ uncle. âFoâ de lanâs sake!â he cried, throwing up his hands in consternation. âDem boys done be actinâ up lak dey was two crazy pertatur bugs. Misto Daconâ (Dacre was beyond Jasper), âMr. Dacon, sah, does I git dat meat oâ does we dine on flap jacks anâ bacum?â âYou get the meat,â laughed Mr. Dacre, regarding with intense amusement the tragic mien of his colored servitor. âCome, boys, give Jasper your fishâjust to ease his mindâand insure the safety of Mrs. Bijurâs chickensâand then letâs hurry on our errand. Thereâs a lot to do before we start for The Great Northwest.â âThe great northwest!â echoed Tom, picking up the now despised string of bass. âIf there are any two finer words in the geographies, Iâve never heard them.â CHAPTER II. A âBLOW-UP.â All the way to Mrs. Bijurâsâalong the well-remembered trail, with its alder clumps fringing the crystal-clear Sawmill Creek and the big pool where of yore lurked Jumbo, and into which Tom had taken a header on one memorable occasionâthere was naturally only one topic of conversation, the coming trip, of course. By the time they reached the former lumber camp, and the place which had more recently been the headquarters of the Trulliber gang, the boys had crossed and recrossed the continent at least half a dozen times, and the geography and animal and vegetable history of the State of Washington been thoroughly discussed. The trim buildings, now painted white, with red roofs and green shutters and doors, presented a violent contrast to the ramshackle collection of structures in which the Trullibers had squatted. The barn in which Tom lay a prisoner, while in the next room he had heard Dan Dark and the others plotting, was now painted a vivid red, and a neat tin roof glittered above its contents of spicy-smelling hay and well-fed, sleek cows and horses. Josiah Bijur had left his widow a snug little fortune and, with true Maine thrift, she had spent it to the best advantage. Already she had more applications for boarders than her place would hold. If she could have persuaded the boys she would have liked to rent their bungalow for the overflow. But the fancy rent she offered had no allurement for them. Their share of the treasure of the galleon had made them two very independent lads. Hamish Boggs, Mrs. Bijurâs hired man, was clambering off a load of hay as the party from the bungalow came in sight. He had just hauled it in from the mountain meadow, not far, by the way, from the foot of the cliff where Tom took that memorable slide after his imprisonment in the cave, which came near proving his grave. Going to the rear of the wagon, which was halted on the steep grade in front of the house, he placed two big stones under each of the rear wheels. âDonât want the wagon to go rolling down the hill, eh, Hamish?â said Mr. Dacre, as they came up. âNo, sir,â responded Hamish emphatically; âthereâs a deep pool in the creek at the bottom of this grade and if ther old wagin ever started a-runninâ daown itâwall, by chowder, sheâd take er bath whether she needed one er not.â So saying, he proceeded to unhitch the horses and lead them toward the barn. âWhy donât you drag the load in under the mow?â asked Tom, not quite seeing the object of leaving the load stalled in front of the house. âWall, yer see,â drawled Hamish, âthet mowâs got quite a sight of grass inter it naow. By chowder, ef I tried ter put this load in on top, it might raise the roof ofen it, so Iâm gonâ ter shift it back a bit.â At this juncture Mrs. Bijur appearedâa thin, sharp-featured woman in a blue calico dress, with a sunbonnet to match. âWall, land oâ goodness, ef it ainât Mister Dacre,â she cried. âWall, dear suz, what brings you here? Hamish, yer better âtend to thet sick caow afore you put in yer hay. Do it right arter youâve got them horses put up.â âAnd leave ther hay out thar, mum?â asked Hamish. âYes, of course. Nobody ainât goinâ ter steal it, be they? Go on with yer. Mr. Dacre, come in. Hev a glass of buttermilk. Dear suz! if I ainât run off my mortal leags, anââoh, you air a sniffinâ, too, be yer?â She broke off her torrent of talk as she noticed Mr. Dacre sniffing with a critical nose. The atmosphere was, in fact, impregnated with a very queer odor. âGuess some senile egg must have gone off and died round here,â said Tom, with a snicker to Jack. âItâs that perfusser,â explained Mrs. Bijur. âI tole him that heâd hev ter stop experimentinâ ef it was goinâ ter smell us out oâ house anâ home this er way. Awful, ainât it?â âWell, it is rather strong,â admitted Mr. Dacre, as they took seats in the stuffy parlor, with its wax fruit under their glass covers, the imitation lace tidies on the backs of the stiff chairs, and the noisy, eight-day clock ticking away like a trip-hammer. âWhat ever is the professor doing?â he inquired. ââSperimentinâ,â sniffed Mrs. Bijur, smoothing out her apron. âMust be experimenting with cold-storage eggs,â put in Tom. âNo,â rejoined Mrs. Bijur gravely, âitâs some sort of a âsplosive. I tell you, Mister Dacre, Iâm terrible skeered. Reely I be. Sâpose thet stuff âud go off? Weâd all be blown up in our beds.â âUnless you happened to be awake, maâam,â answered Mr. Dacre. âAh, but he donât âsperiment only at night,â was the rejoinder. âHeâs off all day huntinâ bugs and nasty crawly things. Itâs only at night he works at it, anâ I tell yer, Iâve got my hands full with them Soopendyke children. Theyâre allers a-tryinâ to git inter the perfusserâs laboratoryâhe calls it. If they ever did, dear knows what âud happen. The perfusser says that ef any one who didnât understand that stuff was to meddle with it, it might blow up.â âGood gracious!â exclaimed Mr. Dacre, with mock anxiety. âI hope the young Soopendykes are all safely accounted for.â âI dunno. Thereâs no telling whar them young varmints will git ter,â was the reply. âTheyâre every place all ter oncet, and no place long tergither. Tother day I cotched one tryinâ ter git inter the laboratory. Crawlinâ over ther roof, he was, and goinâ ter drop inter ther window by a water pipe. Seems ter me thet they are just achinâ ter blow themselves up, andââGood land! Look at âem now!â The widow rushed to the window and shook her fist at four young Soopendykes who were disporting themselves in the hay wagon, leaping about among the fragrant stuff, and pitching it at one another, to the great detriment of Hamishâs neat load. âWhere is Mrs. Soopendyke?â inquired Mr. Dacre, as the widow finished shooingâor imagined she had done soâthe invading youngsters from their play. âLyinâ down with a headache,â was the rejoinder. âPoor woman, them young âuns be a handful, anâ no mistake.â As Mrs. Bijur seemed inclined to enlarge on her troubles, Mr. Dacre lost no time, as soon as he could do so, in explaining his errand. âMeat!â exclaimed Mrs. Bijur. âGood land, go daown cellar and help yourself. The boys can give me some of those nice fresh fish in trade some time. No, you wonât pay me, Mr. Dacre. Dear suz, ainât we neighbors, andââ Land oâ Gosh-en!â The last words came from the good lady in a perfect shriek. And well they might, for her speech had been interrupted by a heavy sound that shook the house to its foundations. Bo-o-o-o-m! âGood heavens!â cried Mr. Dacre, rushing out of the door, followed by the boys. âAn explosion!â âThat thar dratted explosive soup of the perfusserâs has gone off at last!â shrieked the widow, following them in most undignified haste. As they emerged from the house, a shrill cry rang out: âMa-ma! Oh, ma-ma!â âJust as I thought, itâs one of them Soopendykes!â cried Mrs. Bijur. âGood land! Look at that!â She indicated the extension of the house, a low one-storied structure, jutting out from the rear. It was in this that the professor had set up his âlaboratory,â as Mrs. Bijur called it. Her exclamation was justified. A large hole, some three feet six inches in diameter, gaped in the once orderly tin roof. Through the aperture thus disclosed, yellow smoke was pouring in a malodorous cloud, while, on a refuse pile not far away, the eldest Soopendyke, Van Peyster, aged twelve, was picking himself up with an injured expression. His Fauntleroy suit, with clean lace cuffs and collarâfresh that morningâwas in blackened shreds. His long yellow curls were singed to a dismal resemblance to their former ideal of motherâs beauty. Master Van Peyster Soopendyke was indeed a melancholy object, but he seemed unhurt, as he advanced toward them with howls of: âI didnât mean ter! I didnât mean ter!â âYou young catamount!â shrilled the widow. âWhat in the name of time hev yer bin a-doinâ of?â âBoo-hoo! I jesâ was foolinâ with that stuff of the professorâs anâ it went off!â howled the Soopendyke youngster, while the boys likewise exploded into shouts of laughter. In the meantime, Mr. Dacre had burst in the locked door and discovered that, beyond wrecking the laboratory, the explosion had not done much harm. He had just finished his examination when Mrs. Soopendyke, her hair falling in disorder and her ample form hastily dressed, came rushing out. âMy boy! My boy!â she cried, in agonized tones. âVan Peyster, my darling, where are you hurt; are youâââ The good lady had proceeded as far as this when her eyes fell on the smoke-blackened, ragged object, which had been blown through the roof by the force of the explosion. Luckily, his having landed on the rubbish pile had saved his limbs. But Master Soopendyke, as has been said, was an alarming object for a fond parentâs eye to light upon. âOh, Van Peyster!â screamed his mother. âGreat heavensâââ âAw, keep still, maw. I ainât hurt,â announced the dutiful son. âOh, thank heaven for that! Come to my arms, my darling! My joy! Comeâââ Mrs. Soopendyke was proceeding to hurl herself upon her offspring, who was about to elude her, when from the front of the house came an appalling shriek. âItâs Courtney!â screamed out the unhappy lady. âOh, merciful heavens! What is happening now?â CHAPTER III. AN INVOLUNTARY HAY-RIDE. Louder and louder came the shrieks and cries, and the party, all of them considerably alarmed, rushed around to the front of the house to perceive what this new uproar might mean. They beheld a sight that made Mrs. Soopendyke begin to cry out in real earnest. One of her family had, in a playful mood, removed the stones which held Hamishâs hay wagon stationary on the steep grade. As a natural result, it began to slide backward down the hill. But what had thrilled the good lady with horror, and the others with not a little alarm, was the sight of three other young Soopendykes, including the baby, on the top of the load. It was from them and from Master Courtney Soopendyke, who perceived too late the mischief he had done by removing the stones, that the ear-piercing yells proceeded. âOh, save them! Oh, save my bee-yoot-i-ful children!â screamed Mrs. Soopendyke, wringing her hands, as the ponderous wagon, with its screaming load of children, began to glide off more and more rapidly. âGreat Scott!â shouted Mr. Dacre. âThat deep hole in the creek is at the bottom of the hill!â âOh! Oh! Oh!â shrilled Mrs. Soopendyke, and fainted just in time to fall into the arms of Hamish, who came running round from the barn. âHelp! Fire! Murder! Send for the fire department!â screamed Mrs. Bijur, with some confusion of ideas. In the midst of this pandemonium Tom and Jack and their uncle alone kept cool heads. Before the wagon had proceeded very far, the two Bungalow Boys were off after it, covering the ground in big leaps. But fast as they went, the wagon rumbled down the gradeâwhich grew steeper as it neared the creekâjust a little faster seeminglyâthan they did. Its tongue stuck straight out in front like the bowsprit of a vessel. It was for this point that both lads were aiming. Tom had a plan in his mind to avert the catastrophe that seemed almost inevitable. Mustering every ounce of strength in his body, he made a spurt and succeeded in grasping the projecting tongue. In a second Jack was at his side. âSwing her!â gasped out Tom. âItâs their only chance.â But to swing over the tongue of a moving wagon when it is moving away from you is a pretty hard task. For a few seconds it looked as if, instead of succeeding in carrying out Tomâs suddenly-thought-of plan, both Bungalow Boys were going to be carried off by the wagon. But a bit of rough ground gave them a foothold, and, exerting every ounce of power, the lads both shoved on the springy pole for all they were worth. Slowly it swung over, and the wagon altered its course. âSteer her for that clump of bushes. Theyâll stop her!â puffed out Tom. âAll right,â panted Jack, but as he gasped out the words there came an ominous sound: Crack! âWow! The poleâs cracking!â yelled Jack. The next instant the tough wood, which, strong as it seemed, was sun-dried and old, snapped off short in their hands under the unusual strain. A cry of alarm broke out from the watchers at the top of the hill as this occurred. It looked as if nothing could now save the wagon from a dive into the creek. But even as the shout resounded and the boys gave exclamations of disgust at their failure, the wagon drove into the mass of brush at almost the exact point for which they had been aiming. At just that instant a big rock had caught and diverted one of the hind wheels, and this, combined with the swing in the right direction already given the vehicle, saved the day. With a resounding crashing and crackling, and redoubled yells from the terrified young Soopendykes on the top of the load, the wagon, as it plunged into the brush, hesitated, wavered, andâcame to a standstill. But as the wheels ceased to revolve, Hamishâs carefully piled load gave a quiver, and, carrying the terrified youngsters with it, slid in a mighty pile off the wagon-bed. Fortunately, the children were on top of the load, and they extricated themselves without difficulty. Hardly had they emerged, however, before a violent convulsion was observed in the toppled off heap, and presently a hand was seen to emerge and wave helplessly and imploringly. âWho on earth can that be?â gasped the boys, glancing round to make sure all the group was there. Yes, they were all present and accounted for,âMrs. Soopendyke, sobbing hysterically in the midst of her reunited family, the ladsâ uncle, Mrs. Bijur, Hamish, and several other boarders who had been aroused by the explosion, and had set off on a run down the hill as the wagon plunged into the brush. Before they could hasten forward to the rescue of whoever was struggling in the hay, a bony face, the nose crowned with a pair of immense horn spectacles, emerged. Presently it was joined by a youthful, pug-nosed countenance. âProfessor Dalhousie Dingle?â cried everybody, in astonishment. âAnd that dratted boy, Douglas Dingle!â echoed Mrs. Bijur. âYes, madam,â said the professor solemnly, emerging with what dignity he could, and then, taking his boy by the hand and helping him forth, âIt is Professor Dingle. May I ask if this was intentional?â âWhy, dear land, perfusser, you knowâââ âI only know, madam, that while my lad Douglas here and myself were searching for specimens in the thicket we suddenly found ourselves overwhelmed with an avalanche of dried grassâor, as it is commonly calledâhay. Bah! I am almost suffocated!â The professor carefully extricated a âfox tailâ from his ear and then performed the same kind office for his son and heir. âPa-pa,â piped up the lad, âmay I ask a question?â âYes, my lad,â beamed the professor amiably stepping down from the pile of hay, which Hamish was regarding ruefully. âWell,â spoke up Douglas, âif we had not gotten out from under that hay, would we have been suffocated?â âUndoubtedly, my boyâundoubtedly,â was the rejoinder. âGross carelessness, too.â He scowled at the assembled group. âWould it have hurt, pa-pa?â âSurely, my boy. Suffocation, so science tells us, is a most painful form of death.â âWorse than measles, pa-pa?â âYes, my child, andâââ âPerfusser,â interrupted Mrs. Bijur, with firmness, âI want to know what you intend to do about my roof?â It was the professorâs turn to look astonished. âWhat roof, madam?â he asked, still brushing hay-seed from his long-tailed black coat. âTher roof of my extension whar you hed thet thar lab-or-at-oryâwhar you was making them messes that was liable to blow up.â âWell, madam?â âWall, sirâthey done it!â âThey doneâdid what, madam?â âBlowed up!â responded Mrs. Bijur, with deadly calm. âGood heavens, madamâimpossible!â âNot with them Soopendykes around!â was the confident response. âItâs my belief theyâd a turned the Garden of Eden inter a pantominium. Theyâââ But the professor rushed off dragging Douglas by the hand, his long coat tails flapping in the air as he sped up the road as fast as his lanky legs would carry him. âThe greatest invention of the age has gone up in smoke!â he yelled, as he flew along. Laughing heartily over the comical outcome of events that might have proved tragic, Mr. Dacre and the boys rendered what aid they could in replacing the hay load, and then started back for the bungalow. The last they saw of the professor he was crawling about on his hands and knees, scooping up fragments of the explosive with a tin teaspoon in one hand, and waving Mrs. Bijur indignantly to one side with the other. They little imagined, as they shook with amusement at the ludicrous picture, under what circumstances they were to meet the professor again, and what a singular part his explosive was destined to play in the not very far distant future. CHAPTER IV. BULLY BANJOâS SCHOONER. âGuess this will be your getting-off place.â One of the deck hands of the smoke-grimed, shabbily painted old side-wheeler, plying between Victoria, B. C., and Seattle, paused opposite Mr. Dacre and the Bungalow Boys. They stood on the lee side of the upper deck regarding the expanse of tumbling water between them and the rocky, mountainous coast beyond. The sky was blue and clean-swept. A crisp wind, salt with the breath of the Pacific, swept along Puget Sound from the open sea. The surging waters of the Sound reflected, but, with a deeper hue, the blue of the sky. The mountainous hills beyond were blue, too,âa purplish-blue, with the dark, inky shadows of big pines and spruces. Here and there great patches of gray rock, gaunt and bare as a wolfâs back, cropped out. Behind all the snow-clad Olympians towered whitely. Off to port of where the steamer was now crawling slowly alongâa pall of black, soft coal smoke flung behind herâwas a long point, rocky and pine-clad like the mountains behind it. On the end of it was a white, melancholy day-beacon. It looked like a skeleton against its dark background. âThereâs Dead Manâs Point,â added the friendly deck hand. âAnd Jefferson Station is in beyond it?â asked Mr. Dacre. âThatâs right. Must look lonesome to you Easterners.â âIt certainly does,â agreed Mr. Dacre. âBoys,â he went on, looking anxiously landward, âI donât see a sign of a shore boat yet.â At this point of the conversation the captain pulled his whistle cord, and the ugly, old side-wheelerâs siren emitted a sonorous blast. Poking his head out of the pilot house window, he shouted down at Mr. Dacre and the boys: âIâm a goinâ ter lay off here for ten minutes. If no shore boat shows up by that time, on we go to Seattle.â âVery well,â responded Mr. Dacre, hiding his vexation as best he could. âWe mustâbut,â he broke off abruptly, as from round the point there suddenly danced a small sloop. âI guess thatâs the boat now, captain!â he hailed up. âHope so, anyhow,â ejaculated Tom, while the captain merely gave a grunt. He was annoyed at having to slow up his steamer. As the engine room bell jingled, the clumsy old side wheels beat the water less rapidly. Presently the old tub lay rolling in the trough of the sea almost motionless. On came the boat under a press of canvas. She heeled over smartly. In her stern was an upright figure; the lower part of his face was covered with a big, brown beard. As he saw the party, he waved a blue-shirted arm. âThatâs Colton Chillingworth!â exclaimed Mr. Dacre. âI havenât seen him for ten years, but Iâd know that big outline of a man any place.â The deck hands were now all ready with the travelersâ steamer trunks. The boys had their suit cases, gun bags, and fishing rods in their hands. âHow on earth are we ever going to board that boat?â wondered Jack, rather apprehensively, as the tiny craft came dancing along like a light-footed terpsichorean going through the mazes of a quadrille. âJump!â was Mr. Dacreâs response. âThese steamers donât make landings. Iâm glad Chillingworth was in time, or we might have been carried on to Seattle.â And now the boat was cleverly run in alongside. She came up under the lee of the heavily rolling steamer, her sails flapping with a loud report as the wind died out of them. âHul-lo, Dacre!â came up a hearty hail from the big figure in the stern. âHullo there, boys! Ready to come aboard?â âAye, aye, Colton!â hailed back Mr. Dacre. âWeâll be with you in a minute.â âIf we donât tumble overboard first,â muttered Jack to himself. âBetter take the lower deck, sir,â suggested one of the deck hands. Accordingly, our party traversed the faded splendors of the little steamerâs saloon and emerged presently by her paddle box. Between the side of the vessel and the big curved box was a triangular platform. âStand out on this, sir, and you and the boys jump from it,â suggested the deck hand. âA whole lot easier to say than to do,â was Tomâs mental comment. He said nothing aloud, however. In the meantime their baggage had been lowered by a sling. A second person, who had just emerged from the cabin of the little boat, was active in stowing it in the cockpit. This personage was a Chinaman. He wore no queue, however, but still clung to the loose blue blouse and trousers of his country. âAllee lightee. You come jumpee now,â he hailed up, when the baggage was stowed. âHere goes, boys,â cried Mr. Dacre, with a laugh. He made a clean spring and landed on the edge of the deck of the plunging sloop. The Chinaman caught him on one side, while the ladâs uncle braced himself on the other by grabbing a stay. Another instant and the boys could see him and Mr. Chillingworth warmly shaking hands. âGo ahead, Jack,â urged Tom. But for once Jack did not seem anxious to take the lead. He hesitated and looked about him. But he only saw the grinning faces of the deck hands. âCome on!â shouted his uncle, extending his arms. âItâs easy. Weâll catch you.â âHum! If I had my diving suit here, Iâd feel better,â muttered the lad. âButâhere goes!â Like a boy making a final determined plunge into a cold tub on a winter morning, Jack leaped forward and outward. He landed right on the sloopâs deck, falling in a sprawling heap. But the active Chinaman had him by the arms and he was on his feet in a jiffy. Tom followed an instant later. Hardly had his foot touched the deck before the steamer gave a farewell blast and forged onward, leaving them alone in the tossing, tumbling wilderness of wind-driven waters. Somehow the waves looked a lot bigger from the cockpit of the sloop than they had from the deck of the steamer. They watched the big craft as with a dip and a splash of its wet plates, it gained speed again, several passengers gazing from its upper decks at the adventurous party in the little sloop. Introductions were speedily gone through by Mr. Dacre. The boys made up their minds that they were going to like Colton Chillingworth very much. He was a big-framed six-footer, tanned with wind and sun, and under his flannel shirt they could see the great muscles play as he moved about. âThis is Song Fu, my factotum,â said Mr. Chillingworth, nodding toward the Chinaman, whose yellow face expanded into a broad grin as his master turned toward him. âHow do you do, Song Fu?â poetically asked Tom, not knowing just what else to say. âMe welly nicely, tâank you,â was the glib response. By this time Mr. Chillingworth had set the helm and put the little sloop about. She fairly flew through the water, throwing back clouds of spray over the top of her tiny cabin. It was exhilarating, though, and the boys enjoyed every minute of it. But as they sped along, it soon became apparent that the wind was freshening. The sea, too, was getting up. Great green waves towered about the boat as if they would overwhelm her. The combers raced along astern, and every minute it seemed as if one of them must come climbing over, but none did. âGot to take another reef,â said Mr. Chillingworth presently. âCan either of you boys handle a boat?â âWell, what a question,â exclaimed Mr. Dacre. âIf you had seen them managing the _Omoo_ in that gale off Hatteras, youâd have thought they could handle a boat, and well, too.â âThat being the case, Tom here can take the tiller, while I help Fu take in sail.â Mr. Chillingworth resigned the tiller to Tom, who promptly brought the sloop up into the wind, allowing her sails to shiver. This permitted Mr. Chillingworth and the Chinaman to get at the reef points and tie them down. This done, the owner of the boat came back to the cockpit and she was put on her course once more. âYou handled her like a veteran,â said Mr. Chillingworth to Tom, who looked pleased at such praise coming from a man whom he had already made up his mind was a very capable citizen. The rancher went on to explain something of his circumstances. He and his wife had come out there some years before. They were doing their best to wrest a living from the rough country. But it was a struggle. Mr. Chillingworth admitted that, although he had big hopes of the country ultimately becoming a new Eldorado. âJust at present, though, itâs a little rough,â he admitted. âOh, we donât mind roughing it,â responded Tom. âWeâre used to that.â âSo I should imagine from the newspaper accounts I read of your prowess,â said Mr. Chillingworth dryly. âOh, they wrote a lot of stuff that didnât happen at all,â put in Jack. âNot to mention the pictures,â laughed Mr. Dacre. âWell,â said Mr. Chillingworth, âif there were some enterprising reporter out here now, he would find plenty to write about.â âHowâs that?â inquired Mr. Dacre. âWhy, you may have heard of Chinese smugglersâthat is to say, men who run Chinamen into the country without the formality of their obtaining papers?â Mr. Dacre nodded. âSomething of the sort,â he said. âWell, they have been pretty active here recently. Some of the ranchers have had trouble with them.â âBut surely they have notified the authorities?â exclaimed Tom. âThatâs just it,â said Mr. Chillingworth. âThey are all afraid of the rascals. Scared of having their buildings burned down, or their horses hamstrung, or something unpleasant like that.â âWell, if you are the same old Colton Chillingworth,â smiled Mr. Dacre, âIâm sure you do not belong in that category.â A look came over Colton Chillingworthâs face that the boys had not noticed on that rugged countenance before. Under his brown beard, his lips set firmly, and his eyes narrowed. Colton Chillingworth, with that expression on his features, looked like a bad man to have trouble with. But to Mr. Dacreâs astonishment, and the no less surprise of the boys, his reply was somewhat hesitant. âWell, you see, Dacre,â he said uncertainly, âa married man has others than himself to look out for. By the way, my wife doesnât know anything about the troubles. Please donât mention them to her, will you?â âCertainly not,â was the rejoinder. âButâââ A sudden cry from the Chinaman cut his words short. The Mongolian raised a hand, and with a long, yellow finger pointed off to the west. The boys, following with their eyes the direction in which he pointed, at first could descry nothing, but presently, as the sloop rose on the top of a wave, they could make out, in the blue distance, the sudden flash of a white sail on the Sound. âItâs the schooner, Fu?â asked Mr. Chillingworth eagerly. The Celestial nodded. No change of expression had come over his mask-like features, but the boys vaguely felt that behind the impenetrable face lay a troubled mind. Mr. Dacre looked his questions. âWhat is there about the schooner particularly interesting?â he asked, at length. âOh, nothing much,â said Mr. Chillingworth, with what seemed rather a forced laugh. âExcept that she is Bully Banjoâs craft.â âBully Banjo?â echoed Mr. Dacre, in a puzzled tone. âYes. Or Simon Lakeâs, to give the rascal his real name. Lake is the man who is at the present time the real ruler of the ranchers in this district,â said Mr. Chillingworth bitterly. âDacre,â he went on, âIâm afraid that I have invited you into a troubled region. Iâll give you my word, though, that when I wrote to you things were quiet enough.â âMy dear fellow,â was the rejoinder, âdonât apologize. I myself relish a little excitement, and here are two boys who live on it.â âIf that is the case,â replied the other, with a wan smile, âthey are on the verge of plentyâor Iâm very much mistaken.â CHAPTER V. A NIGHT OF MYSTERY. Soon after the sloop beat up into the shelter of the point, the wind having by this time increased, to what appeared to the boys, to be a mild hurricane. The sky, too, was overcast, and big black clouds were rolling in, shrouding the dark trees and heights ashore in gloom, and turning the snow-covered peaks beyond to a dull gray. It began to feel chilly, too. âWeâll have to run up here and take the trail to the ranch,â said Mr. Chillingworth, after a while. âI thought it was quite close in here,â rejoined Mr. Dacre. âOh, no. Itâs a biggish beat along the coast,â replied his friend, âbut itâs blowing too hard now to risk beating up the shore. Weâll run in under shelter of the point there, and then we can cut across through the woods and reach the place by trail.â âBut not to-night,â observed Mr. Dacre, pulling out his watch. âItâs after four now.â âWeâll start out to-morrow morning if the wind hasnât gone down,â said Mr. Chillingworth. âFu can bring the sloop round when the wind moderates.â It was not long after this that, as they ran quite close to the shore, where the rocks sloped steeply down, that Mr. Chillingworth ordered the Chinaman to take in sail. Aided by the boys, this was soon accomplished. To the accompaniment of rattling blocks, the sails were lowered, and presently the anchor splashed overboard. The sloop then lay motionless, about thirty or forty feet off shore. Supper was cooked and eaten in the tiny cabin, which boasted a stove. As the air had grown quite chilly, too, and the boys were wet with spray, they were all glad to warm and dry themselves in the heat. After the meal the men drew out their pipes, while Fu produced a queer-looking arrangement for smoking. Its bowl was not much bigger than a thimble and made of stone. The stem was a long, slender bit of bamboo. âOpium?â whispered Tom to Mr. Chillingworth, as the Mongolian stepped out of the cabin to give a look to the anchor. The rancher laughed. âNo, indeed. I would have no such stuff around me. I broke Fu of smoking opium long ago. But he still clings to his old pipe.â The after-supper talk was mainly about ranching and prospects in Washington. Mr. Dacre appeared to be much interested in the timber aspects of the country. âThere are millions of feet of good timber around here,â said Mr. Chillingworth. âIt can be bought cheap, too, right now. You see, there is no railroad here yet, and no means of getting the timber out. It wouldnât pay to cut it. But in a few yearsâââ He spread his hands. Evidently he deemed the prospects to be very good. Mr. Dacre nodded thoughtfully. Then the two men produced old envelopes and stubs of pencils and fell to figuring. This didnât interest the boys much. âLetâs slip outside and see whatâs doing,â suggested Tom to Jack, after a while. The younger lad agreed willingly. In a few minutes they were on deck. Overhead the wind roared and shouted, but on deck, sheltered as it was by the wooded, rocky point, things were comparatively quiet. Ashore they could hear the wind humming and booming in the trees like the notes of a mighty pipe organ. Even where they stood the balsam-scented breath of the forest was borne to them. They inhaled it delightedly. âNot unlike Maine,â decided Tom. All at once, as they stood there enjoying the fresh air after the stuffy cabin, Jack gripped Tomâs arm tightly. âHark!â he whispered. Above the hurly-burly of the wind and the clamor of the waters as they dashed against the shore, they could hear a voice upraised in what was, apparently, a tone of command. Then came a loud sound of metal rattling. The sound was unmistakable to any one who had any knowledge of seafaring. âSome vesselâs dropped her anchor not far from us,â decided Tom. âRight,â assented Jack, âand strain your eyes a bit and youâll see that sheâs a schooner.â Peering into the darkness it was possible to make out, after a
{'title': 'The Bungalow Boys in the Great Northwest by John Henry Goldfrap', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}