The Launch Boys' Adventures in Northern Waters by Edward Sylvester Ellis (best fiction novels of all time .txt) 📕

lantern in the house, he could not carry an ordinary light in the breeze, and the search would be hopeless.

"I'll get up as soon as it is light," he said, "and hunt till I find it."

Trying to gain hope from this decision, he knelt at the side of his bed to say his prayers, which he never omitted. His petition was longer than usual and I need not tell you what its chief if not its whole burden was.

Despite the depressing weight upon his spirits, Jim fell asleep and remained so for several hours, though his slumber was tortured by dreams of his knife. Sometimes it was tiny as a pin and then bigger than himself, but it always slipped from his grasp when he reached out to seize it.

Suddenly he awoke. It took a minute or two to recall his situation, but soon the startling truth came back to him. He had lost his knife, and, remembering his resolve before going to sleep, he bounded out of bed, certain that day not only had dawned but that it had been light for some time. He soon discovered, however, that what he took for the glow of the rising sun came from the moon, whose vivid illumination made the mistake natural.

"I never seen it so bright," he said, stepping to the window and peering out.

And then as if by inspiration he whispered:

"It's the right time to hunt for my knife."

He did not know what time it was nor did he care to know. There was so much moongleam in his room that he easily dressed without any artificial light. Then, too, the night was mild and his covering scanty. Shirt and trousers were his only garments. He left his straw hat where he had "hung" it on the floor in one corner beside his shoes and stockings. The chief cause for now going barefoot was that his steps would be lighter, though as a rule he saved his shoes for Sunday and his trips to and from the store.

He knew his father was a light sleeper, and if awakened would probably forbid him to go out before morning. So Jim opened his bedroom door so softly that not the slightest noise was caused. He went down the stairs as if he were a real burglar in rubber shoes. He stopped several times with a faster beating heart, for although he had never known the steps to squeak before they now did so with such loudness that he was sure his father heard him. But the snoring continued unbroken and Jim reached the door, where he stealthily slid back the bolt and reversed the key, without causing any betraying sound.

This side of the house was in shadow, and he stood for a minute or two on the small, covered porch looking out upon the highway or main street. Not a soul was in sight, nor did he see a twinkle of light from any of the windows. It cannot be said that Jim felt any fear, nor did he reflect upon the risk caused by leaving the door unlocked behind him. He was thinking only of that loved knife.

He had walked to and from the store so many times that he knew every step taken earlier in the evening. It was impossible to go wrong, and he was quite confident of finding the knife unless the brilliant moonlight had disclosed it to some late passerby.

Jim always crossed the street at a certain point, the post office being on the other side, so he trod in his own footsteps, which would have worn a path long before but for those of others, including horses and wagons. He walked slowly, scanning every inch of the ground and clay pavement in front of him, but when he drew near the well-remembered building he had not caught sight of the prize. He was within a few paces of the steps of the porch of the store, when he was suddenly startled by a gruff voice:

"Hello, there! Where you going?"

He turned his head as a man stepped from under the small elm behind him. Both being on the same level the slouch hat only partially hid the grim face and big mustache. Jim would have been more scared had he not caught sight an instant before of his knife lying at the foot of the steps of the porch. He sprang forward, caught it up and then faced the stranger, who had stepped into the street.

"I'm looking fur my knife that I dropped and I've found it too!" he replied gleefully, holding up the cool, shiny implement. "Gee! aint I lucky?"

"Well, you get out of here as quick as you can. Go back home and stay there till morning. Do ye hear me?"

"Yaws; I'm going."

A strange discovery had come to Jim the instant before. As he stooped to seize his property, his eyes were at the same height as the bottom of the door leading into the store. It was only for a second or two, but in that brief space he saw a faint glimmer through the crevice, which he knew was caused by a light within. With a shrewdness that no one would have expected from him he said nothing of his discovery to the man who had accosted him.

"Mind what I told you!" added the stranger, "and don't show your nose outside your house before morning. Understand?"

"Yaws; I don't want to, 'cause I've got my knife. Hooray!"

"Shut up! Off with you!"

"Yaws;" and Jim broke into a trot which he kept up until he reached his own porch. In his exuberance of spirits, he was careless and awoke his father. He came into the hall and roared out a demand for an explanation, which his son gave in a few hurried words.

"Hooh!" exclaimed his parent; "there's robbers in the post office and I think I'll take a hand as soon as I can get hold of my shotgun."

Which may serve to explain how it was that Gerald Buxton became involved in the incidents that speedily followed.


CHAPTER XVIII

A CLEVER TRICK

At the foot of the rear stairs in the home of Widow Friestone was an ordinary door latched at night, but without any lock. When Mike Murphy was groping about in the blank darkness, where nothing was familiar, he did not know, as has been said, of the steepness of the steps. Thus he placed his shoe upon vacancy, and, unable to check himself, bumped to the bottom, striking every step on the route, and banging against the door with such force that the latch gave away, it flew open, and he sprawled on his hands and knees, still grasping the rifle with which he had set out to hunt for burglars. He was not hurt, and bounded like a rubber ball to his feet.

An amazing scene confronted him. A young man, his face covered with a mask, had just drawn back the ponderous door of the safe, and by the light of a small dark lantern in his left hand was trying to unlock one of the inner compartments, with a bunch of small keys held in his right. It was at this instant that the racket followed by the crash which burst open the door paralyzed him for the moment. He straightened up and stared through the holes of his mask at the apparition that had descended upon him like a thunderbolt, in helpless amazement.

If he was terrified, Mike Murphy was not. Forgetful of his shillaleh in the shape of the Springfield, he made a leap at the fellow.

"S'render, ye spalpeen!" he shouted. The criminal answered by viciously hurling the lantern into the face of his assailant, and in the act, the mask somehow or other was disarranged and slipped from its place. It was only a passing glimpse that Mike caught of him, but it identified him as one of the young men who had attacked Alvin Landon some nights before while passing through the stretch of woods near his home.

The throwing of the lamp was the best thing the burglar could have done, for it caught the Irish youth fairly between the eyes and dazed him for an invaluable second or two. Instant to seize his advantage, the criminal made a leap through the rear window, which he had left open for that purpose, and sped like a deer across the back yard of the premises. Mike was at his heels and shouted:

"Stop! stop! or I'll blow ye into smithereens! I've got a double barreled cannon wid me, and if ye want to save yer life, s'render before I touch her off!"

Perhaps if the fugitive had not been in so wild a panic he would have given himself up, for no man willingly invites the discharge of a deadly weapon a few paces behind him. But the youth was bent on escape if the feat were possible and ran with the vigor of desperation.

Less than a hundred yards over the garden beds and grass took the fellow to the paling boundary over which he leaped like a greyhound. Mike would have done the same, but feared it was too much for him. Moreover, his short legs could not carry him as fast as those of the fleeing one. The pursuer rested a hand on the palings and went over without trouble. By that time the fugitive was a goodly distance off in the act of clearing a second fence. In dread lest he should get away, Mike called:

"Have sinse, ye lunkhead! I don't want to kill ye, but hanged if I don't, if ye fail to lay down yer arms."

The appeal like all that had preceded it was unheeded. The burglar must have taken heart from the fact that his pursuer had already held his fire so long. Running with unusual speed, he took advantage of the shadow offered by several back buildings and continued steadily to gain. When he made a quick turn and whisked out of sight, the exasperated Mike dropped to a rapid walk.

"Arrah, now, if this owld gun was only in shape! there wouldn't be any sich race as this, as Brian O'Donovan said--phwat's that?"

When within twenty feet of a small barn, a burly man stepped out of the gloom and with a large gun levelled gruffly commanded:

"Throw up your arms or I'll let moonlight through you!"

"I don't see any room for argyment, as Jed Mitchell said whin----"

"Up with your hands! and drop that gun!" thundered the other, and Mike let the old rifle fall to his feet and reached up as if trying to hold the moon in place. Which incident requires an explanation.

Gerald Buxton, the father of Jim, had no sooner heard the story of his boy than he decided, as had been related, that something was wrong at the post office. He had read of the many robberies in southern Maine during the preceding summer, else he might not have been so quick to reach a conclusion. He woke his wife, told her his belief and then took down his shotgun from over the deer's antlers in the kitchen. Both barrels were always loaded, but to make sure of no lack of ammunition, he put a number of extra shells loaded with heavy shot into his pockets.

"Remember," he said impressively to his son, "to stay home and not show your nose outside the door while I'm gone."

"Yaws, sir," meekly replied Jim, who three minutes later, unseen