The Launch Boys' Adventures in Northern Waters

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

  CHAPTER VI

  A WARM RECEPTION

  "I have me eye on the right place, as Father Mickle said whin he wintinto the saloon to pull out Jim Gerrigan by the nape of his neck."

  Mike Murphy pointed to a small, faded yellow house which stood at the topof a gentle slope on their right. It was a hundred yards from the riverand a faintly marked, winding path led from it down to the bank. Thesurrounding land showed meagre cultivation, and the looks were anythingbut inviting.

  On the little porch sat a big man with grizzled whiskers, smoking abrier-wood pipe, his beamlike legs crossed and his arms folded as hemoodily watched the launch.

  "It strikes me as a poor promise," remarked Alvin, who, nevertheless,asked Chester to steer to the shore to see whether a landing could bereadily made. The prospect was good, as a shaky framework had evidentlybeen placed there for use, though no small boat was near.

  Chester brought the _Deerfoot_ alongside with the skill that the owner ofthe launch would have shown. Alvin sprang lightly upon the structure,which sagged under his weight, caught the rope tossed to him by Chester,and fastened it around one of the rickety supports. The boat was madefast.

  "I'll walk up to the house and have a talk with the gintleman," saidMike, stepping carefully out upon the boards. "Do I look hungry?" heasked of Alvin, who replied:

  "You always have that expression."

  "I'm glad to hear it, fur I wish to impriss the gintleman that that's mycondition. I'll assoom a weak, hisitating walk. Do ye abide here aginstme return and repoort."

  Detective Calvert retained his seat and lighted another cigar. Chestersat with his hand idly resting on the wheel. Alvin kept his place on thetiny dock, and all three watched Mike Murphy. They smiled, for thestooping shoulders of the Irish youth and his feeble gait were those of aman of four-score. The huge stranger sat like a statue, slowly puffinghis pipe, his glowering eyes fixed on the approaching lad.

  With each advancing step, Mike's doubts increased. The nearer he came tothe stranger, the more forbidding he appeared. Had the lad followed hisinclination he would have turned back, but he knew his friends werewatching him. Besides which, he was really hungry.

  He had passed half the distance between the boat and the house,scrutinizing the scowling fellow all the time, when the latter made hisfirst movement. He uncrossed his huge legs, took the pipe from betweenhis lips and emitted a low whistle.

  "He must be so cheered at sight of me that he is obleeged to giveexprission to his feelings--Begorra!"

  Around the end of the house dashed a mongrel dog, and halting abruptlywith pricked ears, glanced at his master to hear his command. The caninewas of moderate size, black and white in color, one eye wrapped about byan inky splash of hair that made him look as if the organ was inmourning.

  Holding the pipe away from his lips, the man pointed the stem towardMike, who had paused, and said to his dog:

  "Sick him, Nick! Sick him!"

  And the dog proceeded to "go for" the caller. Had the latter run away,the brute would have been at his heels, nipping and biting at each step.But Mike had no thought of retreating. He was filled with anger at hisinhospitable reception and gave his whole attention to the animal, whichwith a muttered growl charged full speed at him.

  Mike noticed that a collar with projecting spikes encircled the stumpyneck, and never was one of his breed more eager to bury his teeth in avictim's anatomy.

  "This is going to be a shindy sure, as Micky Rooney said when he tackledfive p'licemen--and I haven't even a shillaleh in hand."

  Mike coolly braced himself for the shock, not yielding an inch norturning his gaze from his foe. It was no longer a doddering old man whofaced the stranger, but a sturdy youth, muscular, brave and always eagerfor the fray.

  Nothing could surpass the skill with which the first assault wasrepelled. At the exact moment Mike launched his shoe, the toe of whichcaught Nick under the jaw and caused him to turn a backward somersault.He uttered several yelps, but the blow added if possible to his rage.

  The dog was so bewildered for the moment that he lost his sense ofdirection, and made a dash toward the porch where his master was watchingproceedings.

  "Sick him, Nick! Sick him!" he called, pointing his finger at the lad.

  Nick impetuously obeyed orders, and at the critical moment Mike launcheda second kick, which, however, was not delivered with the mathematicalexactness of the first. It landed in the canine's neck and drove him backseveral paces, but he kept his balance, and came on again with the sameheadlong fierceness as before.

  It was at this juncture that Stockham Calvert flung away his cigar,sprang from his chair and with one bound landed beside Alvin Landon.

  "I don't intend that Mike shall get into trouble."

  As he spoke, he laid his hand on his hip pocket where reposed hisrevolver.

  "It looks as if it's the dog that is in trouble," replied Alvin, hischeek tingling with pride at sight of the bravery of his comrade.

  "If he had to fight only one brute I shouldn't fear, but there are twoagainst him. When Mike is through with the dog he will have to face hismaster. I shall be ready to give him help."

  "You don't mean to shoot the fellow?" said the alarmed Captain.

  "It won't be necessary," was the quiet response.

  The next exploit of Mike was brilliant. He did not kick at the dog, forthat only deferred the decisive assault, but as the mongrel rose in air,he side-stepped with admirable quickness, gripped him by the baggy skinat the back of his neck, and, slipping his hand under the spiky collar,held him fast. The brute snarled, writhed, snapped his jaws and strovedesperately to insert his teeth into some part of his captor, who heldhim off so firmly that he could do no harm.

  Mike now turned and began walking hurriedly toward the launch, with thesquirming captive still in his iron grip.

  The infuriated owner sprang from his seat and leaped down the steps.

  "Drop that dog!" he shouted, striding after Mike, who called back:

  "I'll drop him as soon as I raich the river."

  Afraid of being checked, the youth broke into a trot, and an instantlater was at the landing, the yelping mongrel still firmly gripped. Backand forth Mike swung him as if he were the huge bob of a pendulum, andthen let go. He curved over the launch, like an elongated doughnut, anddropped into the current with a splash. But all quadrupeds swim the firsttime they enter the water. In an instant, the brute came to the surface,and working all his legs vigorously, came smoothly around the stern ofthe launch, and headed for Mike with the purpose of renewing the attack.

  The man, who had dropped his pipe and strode down the walk, was over sixfeet in height, of large frame, and manifestly the possessor of greatmuscular strength. Although he knew his dog had suffered no harm and wassafe, he was enraged over his maltreatment and resolute to wreakvengeance upon the author of the insult.

  Mike read his purpose, poised himself and put up his fists.

  "Now for the next dog and it's mesilf that is ready fur him."

  It would give me pleasure to tell how Mike Murphy vanquished the giantwho attacked him, but such a statement would be as untrue as absurd. Youhave read of the dude who daintily slipped off his kid gloves, adjustedhis eyeglasses, and proceeded to chastise an obstreperous cowboy; buttake it from me that no such thing ever occurred, except in stories.Nature governs through rigid laws, and two and two will always make four.It might have been creditable to the courage of the Irish youth thus toengage in a bout with a man who would have quickly beaten him to theearth, but it would have shown very poor judgment. Had they clashed therecould have been only one end to the encounter.

  But they did not clash. Several paces separated the two, when StockhamCalvert, his thin gray coat buttoned around his trim form, steppedquickly between them, and, looking sharply into the face of the savagestranger, said in a voice that showed not the least agitation:

  "Stop! he's my friend!"

  He raised one hand, palm outward by way of emphasis of h
is warning words.

  "Who are you?" demanded the other, stopping short, his eyes flaming abovehis shaggy beard and under his straw hat, like an animal glaring througha thicket.

  "Come on and you'll learn!" was the reply in the same even tones, asCalvert assumed the posture of a trained pugilist.

  Now it is proper to say of this man that he had been the champion boxerin college, and in his New York club he was easily the master of everyone with whom he had donned the gloves. Though of only average size andstature and inclined to thinness, his muscles were of steel, he had thequickness of a cat, and had been told more than once, that if he wouldenter the "magic circle" he would hold his own with the best in theprofession. But, like all gentlemen who are masters of the manly art, hedisliked personal encounters, and many a time had submitted to insultingwords and even the accusation of timidity, rather than to call his ironfists and superb skill into play. You might have been in his company formonths without suspecting his attainments in that respect. His businessrequired that he should always carry a revolver, and when he placed hishand on his hip at sight of Mike Murphy's personal danger, the action wasinstinctive, but he instantly gave up all thought of using so deadly aweapon. He was certain there was no necessity for it; he had no moredoubt of his mastery of the bulky brute, who was equally confident, thanhe had of his ability to handle any one of the three lads who were hiscompanions.