The Girls of Central High in Camp: or, the Old Professor's Secret

CHAPTER XIV
“MORE FUN THAN A LITTLE”

The girls were tired enough when they got back from the search; and it being an hour before dinner, Mrs. Morse advised them all to retire to the sleeping tent and lie down.

However, it was too sultry for that, and they chose to put on bathing suits and take a second dip to cool off. The boys had their bathing suits, too, and the party had twenty minutes of fun in the lake, with Mrs. Morse sitting on a rock in the shade and enjoying the pranks.

Lil’s bathing suit was very resplendent, and so was Purt’s. They were so much better dressed than anybody else that Bobby declared she was ashamed to be seen in their company – so she dove under the water.

The cut-up had the power of remaining beneath the surface a long time, and she crawled on the bottom to where Lil and Purt stood, waist deep in the water, without being observed.

Suddenly Purt yelled, dropped Lil’s hand, and grabbed at the calf of his right leg. “A crab’s got me!” he bawled.

“A crab in fresh water?” jeered Billy Long. “That’s a new one!”

“It’s one of those horrid snapping turtles!” shrieked Lil, and started for the shore. Not quickly enough, however, to escape Bobby’s thumb and finger.

“It’s that horrid Bobby Hargrew!” gasped Lil, seeing the black-eyed one shoot up from beneath, and take a long breath.

“Aw, Miss Hargrew!” begged Purt. “Don’t bother us so. It’s weally too bad of you.”

“Then act human!” ejaculated Bobby. “Don’t you two stand around as though you were fashion pictures in the magazines. Duck under and get your hair wet! You’ll both get a sunstroke,” and in passing them she managed to tip Lil right over backward – and that beautiful bathing suit never did look as well after it was all wet!

They had dinner before Lance and Reddy returned from their errand. It had already been agreed that the boys should stay all day at Acorn Island and not return to their own camp until after supper.

Occasionally one of them took a squint at the camp across the lake through a pair of glasses. But nothing disturbed that spot. Their tents were erected in a clearing at the edge of the water, and they knew there was not a human habitation on that side of the lake within five miles.

Elberon Crossing was at the head of Rocky River, but a good half mile from the water and landing, where a “tote-road” went through the Big Woods to the lumber camps farther west.

The Duchess was in sight of the girls’ camp all the way from the landing on the south side of the river. On her return the party watched her approach, which was soon after the noonday meal.

“Hello!” ejaculated Chet, suddenly grabbing up the glasses. “They have a passenger.”

“Who have?” queried Billy Long.

“Lance and Reddy. Crickey! who have we here?” and then Chet began to laugh uproariously.

He tossed the glasses to Short and Long. The latter looked at the motorboat for a moment, and then began to laugh, too. Some of the girls became interested, and they ran for their glasses.

There was a third moving figure in the boat. It sat up forward and seemed to be gazing on the island eagerly. The girls began to giggle as well as Short and Long.

“Hush!” begged Laura. “Don’t say a word.”

Purt and Lil were sitting together in the shade, and paid no attention to what was going on. Almost everybody on the island but themselves realized the identity of the third figure in the Duchess before the boat neared the beach.

Suddenly Purt gasped, and sat up straighter. He glanced all about and a sort of hunted expression came into his face.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Sweet?” demanded Lil, in surprise.

“I – I thought I heard – Yes! I knew I could not be mistaken,” said Purt, in horror.

“What is the matter?” demanded his companion, with some tartness. She did not like mysteries.

“I – I heard a dog bark,” stammered Purt.

“Well! what if you did?”

“But on this – this island. Who – who could have brought the howwid cweature here?”

“Not that dog, Purt!” gasped Lil, suddenly remembering.

There was a hail from the crew of the Duchess. Again the sharp bark of a dog sounded.

Purt leaped to his feet. He glared down upon the approaching motorboat. Then he glanced around helplessly, as though tempted to run.

The Barnacle was fixed on his tail in the bow of the approaching boat, barking for all he was worth!

“Hi, Purt!” yelled Lance, standing up in the cockpit of the Duchess and bawling the news. “Here’s your canine friend!”

Purt fairly groaned. Then he got mad and forgetting the girls were present, he blackguarded the jokers in the launch wrathfully.

“Oh, hush-aby! hush-aby, sonny!” begged Bobby. “You wouldn’t do all that to Lance and poor little Reddy – would you really?”

“I’ll get square with them!” stammered the dude, “and I’ll kill that dog.”

“Don’t you bite him,” warned Short and Long, “for if you do right now he will sure have the hydrophobia. Take it easy, Purt – cool and easy.”

But the dude could not. The very sight of that laughing, ragged-coated dog made his blood boil. He hunted a club with which to meet the brute when he landed.

But Lance explained about the Barnacle before the Duchess came close enough for them to land.

“Why, there he was ready to meet us at the Elberon store,” laughed Lance. “I found out that everybody along the Big Woods trails knows the mongrel. He had come up yesterday with a tote-team which was going into the woods.

“He welcomed Reddy and me as if we were his long-lost brothers. But it’s Purt he wants to see – believe me!”

“I’ll fix him!” threatened the dude, from the shore, and waving a club.

“Hold on!” begged Lance. “I have a better idea than that. I didn’t bring the Barnacle along to be slaughtered to make a Sweet holiday – no, sir! What do you think about leaving him at the island here with the girls, Chet?”

“Great! he’ll guard the camp,” declared Laura’s brother. “Nobody else will come around to steal grub.”

“That’s a good idee, Mister,” said Liz, from the cook-tent. “The dog is wuth more than any boy to watch for us.”

“Hear that, will you?” demanded Chet. “You girls have one fine suffragette in this Lonesome Liz, as Billy calls her.”

“She’s ripe for battle, when it comes to pitting the ladies against the mere male,” laughed Laura. “We have found that out.”

Against Purt’s objections the Barnacle was allowed to come ashore. And the poor beast did seem so delighted to be among them again that they had not the heart to treat him badly. At least, nobody hated him save Lily and Purt.

Barnacle was fed hugely by Liz Bean, and had to lie down after it and sleep. So he did not disturb Purt during the afternoon.

The girls had agreed to get supper all by themselves. Liz and Mrs. Morse were to have nothing to do with it.

Bobby and Laura made cake. There were chickens to roast – two pairs of them – that Lance had thoughtfully bought of a woman at the Crossing. These were handed over to the tender mercies of Jess and Nell.

Now, Jess was a good cook; she did most of the housework at the Morse cottage. But when they had had chicken, the butcher always cleaned the creature before sending it home.

“My goodness!” sniffed Nell. “What do you know about taking a chicken apart?”

“Not – not much, I am afraid,” admitted Jess, “And here are four of them! Well, we ought to learn a good deal about it by the time we have butchered all four.”

“Ugh! I don’t want to cut into them. And some of their insides are the delicacies of the chicken, while other parts are no good. Do you know one from the other, Jess?”

“I reckon I know the giblets – if I can once get at them,” said Jess.

“Mother and I took our sewing machine to pieces once, and fixed it,” Nellie said, “and that was pretty complicated. But we had a book of instructions–”

“They don’t issue a book of instructions with a roasting chicken,” Jess chuckled. “It’s up to us, I expect–”

Then she called Lance. They had to admit a boy was good for something once in a while. Lance knew all about cleaning and drawing chickens, and he did that part of the work very neatly and with dispatch.

It being such warm weather the girls made dressing enough to stuff only two of the chickens. They got on bravely with their share of the work and were ready to put the chickens in the oven in the big dripping-pan when Laura’s and Bobby’s cakes were done.

Meanwhile Reddy and Short and Long had been very busy with the ice-cream freezer. The boys had brought over a can of milk and a big block of ice from the landing and Mrs. Morse had made the ice-cream. The boys froze it and packed it down in the shade.

Everybody began to get hungry early, for the odors from the cook-tent had been most delicious. As soon as the chickens and the baked potatoes were done, supper was served. Liz, in a clean dress and a clean apron served it.

Everything was fine except the chicken stuffing. There was something just a little queer about that; but what it was nobody seemed able to tell.

“I know I seasoned it with that same prepared seasoning of herbs that we use at home,” wailed Jess.

“You must have left something out,” said Nellie, despairingly.

Chet was tasting the dressing critically. “No,” he said, without a smile. “I don’t think you could have done that.”

Jess brightened visibly. “Then it doesn’t taste so bad?” she said, hopefully.

“There’s nothing you could have left out, Jess, that would make it taste like this. It’s something you’ve put in–”

Liz suddenly presented herself at the table shaking a box in her hand. “Was this what you took for seasonin’ for that stuffin’?” she demanded, solemnly.

“Why – yes,” admitted Jess. “That’s the very box I always buy it in at our grocer’s.”

“Yep,” said Liz. “It comes in that. But that’s an old box I’ve had a long time, and there was lic’rish powder in it. I guess ’twon’t hurt none o’ yer; but I wouldn’t eat much o’ that stuffin’.”

“Goodness!” murmured Jess, as the laughter broke out. “I thought that stuff smelt kind of funny when I shook it out of the can.”

CHAPTER XV
THE BARNACLE HAS A NOSE

Aside from that single mistake the meal was declared to be a great success. The cake turned out a joy, and when it and the heaping dishes of ice-cream were brought on, the boys stood up and gave three cheers for the girls of Acorn Island Camp.

“But hold on!” exclaimed Chet, suddenly investigating his share of the ice-cream with a spoon. “I have been given a premium with my supply. Here! who has lost a perfectly good fly?”

“Alive?” demanded his chum, Lance.

“He can still crawl,” admitted Chet.

“That fly’s a perfect idiot,” declared Lance, warmly. “It’s the same one that was in the hot gravy a little while ago. I hope he takes a chill. What does he think this is – a turkish bath?”

They lingered long at the table, until finally Liz (who had agreed to “clean up”) drove them all out of the tent. They finished the ice-cream (which Reddy and Short and Long declared had to be eaten up because there was not ice enough to keep it out in the open), with the light fading out of the western sky and the early fireflies flitting about the edge of the wood.

The Barnacle began to bark vociferously, all of a sudden. Lizzie, up at the lighted cook-tent, squealed.

Up rose the boys with a great whoop. “Go for it!” yelled Lance. “Sick ’im!” which seems to be the approved way to set a dog on anything living.

Barnacle was barking his foolish head off. He dashed across from the cook-tent to the woods, and then back again. The boys all urged him on. The girls ran together in a frightened group, Lil moaning:

“Oh, he’s here again! that dreadful man is here again!”

“Hush you!” commanded Liz, in disgust. “’Tain’t no man. ’Tain’t even a ha’nt. I seen it. It’s a black and white kitten–”

“Oh, Chet! call him off! call him off!” begged Laura.

“Quick, Chet!” added Jess. “Don’t let that horrid dog hurt that kitty.”

“Chetwood!” shrieked Laura again, knowing more about the inhabitants of the woods than her chum. “Chetwood! Stop it! Come back! That’s a polecat!”

“What?” gasped all the girls, and then Bobby began to shriek with laughter. It was too, too funny – with Jess begging the boys not to let the Barnacle hurt “kitty.”

It was impossible, however, to call the dog off the trail. That camp scavenger, the American skunk, is the mildest mannered little creature in the world – providing he is left strictly alone. Being timid and otherwise defenseless, God has given him a scent-sack which–

“Nobody can tell me that the skunk only brought a cent into the Ark,” declared the exhausted Bobby. “That fellow has a dollar’s worth himself!”

“Why – why did the Creator ever make such a horrid beast?” demanded Lil.

“You ask that and wear those furs of yours in the winter?” said Nellie, laughing. “The pretty little fellow that the Barnacle has so unwisely chased away from our vicinity is becoming very valuable to the furriers. There are people who raise the creatures for the market–”

“Excuse me!” gasped Bobby. “I’d want a chronic cold in the head, if I had to work on a skunk farm.”

As Barnacle and his quarry went farther from the camp the odor that had risen drifted away, too; but for two days thereafter the girls could easily tell in which part of the island Barnacle was running game, by the way in which the odor came “down wind” to them.

Liz fed him at the edge of the wood; the girls chased him from the vicinity of the tents whenever he appeared.

The Barnacle did not mind much; for he had struck a dog-hunter’s paradise. He was a fiend after small game and there had not been a dog on Acorn Island for some years, in all probability.

He was running and yapping all day and pretty nearly all night. How many groundhogs, chipmunks, muskrats, coons, and other small animals, besides the rabbits, he chased and caught there was no telling. Perhaps he did not kill one.

But he barked to his heart’s desire and when he finally had driven everything to cover, he came back to the tents, purified in soul as well as in odor, and was willing to sleep during the day and sit up on his haunches at night (when they tied him to the corner of the cabin) and try to howl his head off at the moon.

The girls – even Lil and Nellie – lost their fear of a second visit from the mysterious “kleptomaniantic.” Nobody would land upon the island to disturb them while that crazy dog was about.

So they fished, and swam, and picked berries, and hunted flowers and herbs, and went out sailing with the boys in the powerboats, and drove their canoes up and down the lake, having a fine time every hour of the day.

Mrs. Morse got on famously with her book, and allowed the girls to do about as they liked. They got into no mischief, however; but they all grew brown, and strong, and even Lily began to put on flesh.

At this season there were few fishermen at Lake Dunkirk. Some days there were long processions of barges sailing past the island, making for Rocky River and the ports down stream. And sometimes puffy tugs drew other barges westward, against the current.

None of the crews of these boats disturbed the campers. Acorn Island had been placarded for years, and it had always been necessary to get a permit to have even a picnic there.

Just one couple of fishermen came within range of the girls’ vision that first week or ten days. And that couple, in their clumsy canoe, were never near enough for the girls of Central High to see their faces.

“I wonder where they camp at night?” said Laura thoughtfully one evening as she and Jess were paddling in for supper, being the last of the scattered girls to make camp. She had sighted the strange fishermen off the western end of Acorn Island again.

“Bet they are the fellows who took our food!” exclaimed Jess, suddenly.

“And have hung about here all this time? Nonsense!” returned Laura. “But don’t let Lil and Nellie hear you say that.”

“All right. But I bet they are.”

“I’m more worried by that cloud yonder,” said Laura. “We’re going to have a tempest.”

“Hope not till supper’s over,” said the hungry Jess.

“We’ll peg down the tents to make sure as soon as we get in,” said the careful Laura.

They did so. Half through supper the first drops of the storm fell. Then the thunder rolled nearer and a tall tree was riven on the mainland, within sight of Camp Acorn.

That pretty well settled the supper for most of the girls. Even the bravest had never experienced a thunder storm under canvas before.

So they all ran into Mrs. Morse’s cabin. It did not seem so bad there.

In the midst of the downpour, however, and in a lull between thunder claps, Barnacle, who had been tied to the corner of the hut and had crawled under the floor for protection, suddenly broke out with a terrific salvo of barks. He rushed out into the rain and leaped at the end of his rope, barking and yelping.

“Somebody’s about the camp,” murmured Mrs. Morse. “The dog’s nose – if not his eyes – tells him so.”

“It’s Liz,” ventured Jess, for the maid-of-all-work had not come with them to the cabin.

Laura threw the door open, in spite of the flashing lightning. Lil shrieked and even some of the other girls cowered as the lightning played across the sky. But before the thunder burst forth again, Laura heard another sound – and it was not the Barnacle baying.

Lizzie Bean, in the cook-tent, was screaming in a queer and stifled way.

CHAPTER XVI
WHERE THE BARNACLE’S NOSE LED HIM

The rain descended in torrents before the cabin door. E’er Laura could plunge into it, Jess dragged her back and slammed the door.

“Don’t be a goose, Laura!” she cried.

“She – she–Something is the matter with Liz,” declared Laura.

“Of course not!”

“I tell you, I heard her. And there’s the dog barking again.”

“You can’t go through that rain–”

“I will!” declared Laura, and she wrenched open the door once more. Jess could not hold her. Mother Wit plunged out into the storm.

Never having deserted her chum but once – and then involuntarily at a certain occasion long ago – Jess was not going to be behind now. She dove likewise into the storm.

The rain beat upon the two girls in a fashion to almost take their breath away. Never had they been so beaten by the elements.

They staggered, almost fell, clung together, and then bent their heads to the downpour and pressed on. The flickering lantern still illuminated the cook-tent. The awning was dropped and the canvas heaved and slatted against the poles.

The rain made so much noise that they did not hear Liz now. Or else, she had ceased crying out. Laura and Jess pressed forward and – it being but a few yards, after all, to the tent – they burst into the kitchen in a moment more.

“Liz! Liz!” gasped Laura, almost breathless.

There was a noise behind the fluttering canvas partition. Was it the girl in the sleeping part of the tent?

“Oh! somebody’s there!” muttered Jess, clinging to her chum’s hand.

Laura sprang forward and jerked apart the flap. She only feared that something was the matter with Liz.

And there was, apparently. She was crouching down, against the far wall of the tent, her hands over her face, and trembling like a leaf.

Afterward Laura thought over this scene with wonder. Lonesome Liz did not seem like a girl who would be so terribly disturbed about a thunder storm. She had shown no fear when the tempest began and the other girls had scampered for the cabin.

But now she was moaning, and rocking herself to and fro, and it was some moments before they could get a sensible word out of her.

“Oh! oh! oh!” wailed Liz. “I want to go back to town. I don’t like this place a little bit – no, I don’t! Oh, oh!”

“Stop your noise, Liz!” exclaimed Jess, suddenly exasperated. “You can’t go back while it is storming so. And when it stops you won’t want to.”

But Laura was worried. She looked all about the tent. What had the Barnacle barked so about?

Nor was he satisfied now. The storm held up after a time; but the dog kept rushing out and barking as though he had just remembered that there had been a prowler about, and he had not had a chance to chase him.

Laura understood that rain, or wet, killed the scent for dogs and like trailing animals. This that had disturbed the Barnacle must have been a person who had come very close.

They took Liz to the cabin, and left her there after the storm was over and the six Central High girls went to their own tent. But although Laura did not say much about it, she was as dissatisfied as the dog seemed to be.

In the morning she was up earlier than anybody else in the camp. The grass and brush was drenched with the rain. There were puddles here and there. The sun was not yet up and it would take several hours of his best work to dry up the wet places.

Laura had not won her nickname of “Mother Wit” for nothing. She had inventiveness; likewise she had a sane and sensible way of looking at almost any mysterious happening. She did not get scared as Nellie did, or ignore a surprising thing, as Jess did.

Now she was dissatisfied with the outcome of Liz Bean’s “conniption,” as Bobby had termed it the evening before. The maid-of-all-work had shown no fear of thunder and lightning when the tempest began and the other girls were frightened.

Then, why should she wait until the storm was nearly over before showing all the marks of extreme terror? And, in addition, Liz seemed to be fairly speechless about the matter, whereas she was naturally an extremely garrulous person.

“Why did the Barnacle bark so?” demanded Laura, when she stood, shivering, in the gray light of dawn before the cook-tent. “Not just for the fun of hearing his own voice, I am sure.”

The ground before the cook-tent was soft, and trampled by the girls’ own feet. Laura went carefully around to the rear, stepping on firm ground so as to leave no marks.

There was a rear opening to the cook-tent – out of the part Liz had been sleeping in. But these flaps were laced down.

However, there were marks in the soft ground right here – footmarks that could not be mistaken. They were prints of a man’s boot – no girl in the crowd wore such footgear as those that made these marks!

The boot-prints led right from the laced flaps of the tent toward the woods. Laura could see fully a dozen of the marks, all headed that way. The man had come from the inside of the tent, for there were no footprints showing an approach to the tent from this end.

“I knew that girl did not cry because of the thunder and lightning,” was Laura’s decision. “This man burst into the tent while she was alone. And for some reason she is afraid to tell us the truth about him.

“Of course, she hasn’t really told a falsehood. She just let us believe that it was the storm that had scared her.

“Now, who is the man? Is she sheltering him because of fear, or for another reason?

“And what did he want? Why did he come to the tent in the storm? For shelter from the rain? Not probable. I declare!” thought Mother Wit, “this is as puzzling a thing as ever I heard.”

She said nothing to anybody before breakfast about her discoveries. She did not wish to disturb Mrs. Morse, for that lady had come into the woods for a rest from her social duties, and for the writing of a book. Why should she be troubled by a mere mystery?

The detective fever burned hotly in Laura Belding’s veins on this morning. From Jess she could not keep her discovery for long; but she swore her chum to silence.

Then she took Bobby Hargrew into her confidence. Despite the younger girl’s recklessness, she was brave and physically strong.

“We’re going to run down Lizzie’s ‘ha’nt,’ if the Barnacle has a nose,” declared Laura, after the trio had discussed the pros and cons of the affair.

So they loosened the dog, Laura holding him in leash, and slipped away to the woods when none of the other members of the party were watching. Laura knew that the scent would not lie very strong after the pelting rain; but they could follow the trail by sight for a long distance.

It led straight toward the far end of Acorn Island – the end which they and the boys had so carelessly searched the day after the larder had been robbed. Here and there they came upon the print of the unknown man’s boots in the softened soil.

“Gee, Laura!” gasped Bobby. “Suppose he turns on us? We don’t know whether he is a robber or a minister. What will we do when we find him?”

“That depends altogether upon what he looks like,” said Laura. “Now hush, Bobby. The Barnacle is pulling hard; he really smells something.”

“I hope it isn’t another black and white kitten,” chuckled Bobby.

They went down a slope to a small hollow, well sheltered by trees and rocks. There was a faint odor of wood smoke in the air.

“A camp,” whispered Jess, having hard work to keep her teeth from nervously chattering, despite the heat of the day, “Who do you suppose is here?”

“We’ll see,” whispered Laura in return, and slipped the dog’s leash.

The Barnacle ran down into the dale at once. The three girls followed, cautiously parting the branches. They came in sight of the fire.

It was the remains of a late breakfast-fire, without doubt. There was a single figure sitting at one side of the smoldering wood. Barnacle was running about the encampment, snuffing eagerly for broken bits. He paid the figure by the fire no attention, nor did the man look at the dog.

The man stooped, and his face was buried in his hands. He wore a shabby frock coat, and a disreputable hat.

“That’s one of those two fishermen we saw in the canoe,” whispered Jess.

“Wonder if you’re right?” breathed Bobby.

Just then the man raised his head and turned so that the three girls from Central High could see his face. It was unshaven and the man looked altogether like a tramp. But there was no mistaking him for anybody but Professor Dimp, the Latin and history instructor of Central High!