CHAPTER VII
ONE AFTERNOON IN AUTUMN
The lumbering old stage-coach that left Belmar one morning in autumnwas bowling along at a merry rate, for the road was good, the gradeslightly down-hill, and the September afternoon that was drawing to aclose cool and bracing.
The day dawned bright and sunshiny, but the sky had become overcast,and Bill Lenman, who had driven the stage for twenty-odd years,declared that a storm was brewing, and was sure to overtake him beforehe could reach the little country town of Piketon, which was theterminus of his journey.
A railway line had been opened from this bright, wide-awake place,and, though the only public means of conveyance between Piketon andBelmar was the stage, its days were almost numbered, for the line wasbranching and spreading in nearly every direction.
Bill had picked up and set down passengers, on the long run, untilnow, as the day was closing, he had but a single companion, who sat onthe seat directly behind him, and kept up a continuous run ofquestions and answers.
This gentleman's appearance suggested one of the most verdant ofcountrymen that ever passed beyond sight of his parent's home. He wasfully six feet tall, with bright, twinkling-gray eyes, a long peakednose, home-made clothing, and an honest, out-spoken manner which couldnot fail to command confidence anywhere.
He had made known his name to every person that had ridden fiveminutes in the coach, as Ethan Durrell, born in New England, and on atour of pleasure. He had never before been far from the old homestead,but had worked hard all his life, and had some money saved up, and hisparents consented to let him enjoy his vacation in his own way.
"You see, I could have got to Piketon by the railroad," he said,leaning forward over the back of Lenman's seat and peeringgood-naturedly into his face, "but consarn the railroads! I don'tthink they ever oughter been allowed. I read in the _WeeklyBugle_, just afore I left home, that somewhere out West a cow goton the track and wouldn't get off! No, sir, _wouldn't get off_,till the engine run into her and throwed her off the track, andlikewise throwed itself off, and some of the folks on board comemighty nigh getting hurt."
The driver was naturally prejudiced against railways, and was glad toagree with Ethan's sentiments.
"Yas," he said, as he nipped a fly off the ear of the near horse, by aswing of his long lash, "there ought to be a law agin them railroads;what's the use of folks being in such a hurry, that they want to ridea mile a minute! What good does it do 'em? Why aint they content toset in a coach like this and admire the country as they ride throughit?"
"Them's been my sentiments ever since I knowed anything," replied theNew Englander, with enthusiasm, "but it looks as everbody is foolsexcept us, Bill, eh?" laughed Ethan, reaching over and chucking thedriver in the side; "leastways, as we can't bender 'em from doing asthey please, why, we won't try."
"I guess you're 'bout right," growled Bill, who could not see thestage-coach approaching its last run without a feeling ofdissatisfaction, if not sadness.
"Helloa!" exclaimed Ethan, in a low voice, "I guess you're going tohave a couple more passengers."
"It looks that way; yes, they want to ride."
The coach had reached the bottom of the hill, and was rumbling towardthe small, wooden bridge, beyond which the woods stretched on bothsides of the highway, when two large boys climbed over the fence and,walking to the side of the road, indicated that they wished to takepassage in the coach.
These young men were our old friends, Tom Wagstaff and Jim McGovern,and they were dressed in sporting costume, each carrying a fine rifle,revolver, and hunting-knife. Although they had not yet executed theirplan of a campaign against the aborigines of the West, they were on ahunting jaunt, and were returning, without having met with muchsuccess.
The young men had hardly taken their seats in the stage when Wagstaffproduced a flask and invited the driver and Ethan Durrell to join himand his friend. The invitation being declined, McGovern drew forth apackage of cigarettes, and he and Tom soon filled the interior of thecoach with the nauseating odor. But for the thorough ventilation,Ethan declared he would have been made ill.
Tom and Jim were not long in finding a subject for amusement in theperson of the New Englander. He was as eager as they to talk, andBill, sitting in front with the lines in hand, turned sideway andgrinned as he strove not to lose a word of the conversation.
"Are you going to Piketon?" asked Ethan, when the young men werefairly seated in the stage.
"That's the town we started for," replied Wagstaff.
"Ever been there before?"
"No; we're on our way to visit our friend, Bob Budd; we live in NewYork, and Bob spent several weeks down there last spring, when we madehis acquaintance. Bob is a mighty good fellow, and we promised to comeout and spend our vacation with him, though it's rather late in theseason for a vacation. I say, driver, do you know Bob?"
"Oh! yes," replied Lenman, looking back in the faces of the young men;"I've knowed him ever since he was a little chit; he lives with hisUncle Jim now--rich old chap--and lets Bob do just as he pleases 'bouteverything."
"That's the right kind of uncle to have," remarked Jim; "I wouldn'tmind owning one of them myself. Bob wrote us that he was going to campout near a big mill-pond and some mountains; of course, driver, youknow the place."
"I was born and reared in this part of the country; I don't know theexact spot where Bob means to make his camp, but I've no doubt you'llenjoy yourselves."
"It won't be our fault if we don't," said Tom, with a laugh; "that'show we came to leave the governor, without asking permission or sayinggood-bye."
"I hope you didn't run away from home, boys," said Ethan, in a grievedmanner.
"No, we didn't run away," said Jim, "we _walked_."
Ethan Durrell checked the reproof he was about to utter, and the youngmen laughed.
"You'll be sorry for it some day," remarked the New Englander, "youmay depend on that."
"Did you ever try it?" asked Wagstaff.
"I did once, but I didn't get fur; the old gentleman overtook me ahalf-mile down the road; he had a big hickory in one hand and with theother he grabbed me by the nape of the neck; well," added thegentleman, with a sigh, "I guess there's no need of saying anythingmore."
"He must have had a father like Billy Waylett," remarked Jim, aside tohis companion, both of whom laughed at the story of their new friend,"he wasn't as lucky as we."
The reader has already learned considerable about these two young men.They were wayward, disobedient, and fond of forbidden pleasures. Itwas the intention of their parents to place them in school thatautumn, but while arrangements were under way the couple stealthilyleft home, first providing themselves with fine hunting outfits, andstarted for Piketon, with the intention of spending a couple of weeksin the woods.
They did not not make their plans known to Billy Waylett, who was sucha willing companion several years before. Billy still lived in Ashtonand could have been easily reached, but they knew that he would notonly reject their proposal, but, as likely as not, acquaint theirparents with it.
The unwise indulgence of Mr. Wagstaff and Mr. McGovern was producingits inevitable fruit. They had had much trouble with their boys, buthoped as they grew older, and finished sowing their wild oats, theywould settle down into sedate, studious men, and that the end of alltheir parents' worriment would soon come.
Among the undesirable acquaintances made by Jim and Tom was Bob Budd,who, as they intimated, spent several weeks in the city of New York.He was a native of Piketon, which was becoming altogether too slow forhim. He chafed under the restraints of so small a country town, andwrote them glowing accounts of the good times they would have togetherin the camp in the woods. He urged them to come at once, now that thehunting season was at hand.
Tom and Jim were captivated by his radiant pictures, and determined toaccept his invitation, whether their parents consented or not. Thenear approach of the time set for their entrance at the high schoolmade the prospect in that direction
too distasteful to be faced.
While they were still hesitating, with vivid recollections of thedismal failure of their earlier years, another letter came from BobBudd. He told them he had not only selected the spot for their camp,but that the tent was up, and it was well stocked with refreshments ofboth a solid and liquid nature. He had painted a big sign, which wassuspended to the ridge-pole and bore the legend,
"CAMP OF THE PIKETON RANGERS."
This was not only ornamental, but served as a warning to alltrespassers.
"Everything is ready," wrote Bob, "and every day's delay is just somuch taken from the sport and enjoyment that await you. Come at once,boys, and you'll never regret it."
The Campers Out; Or, The Right Path and the Wrong Page 7