“I do believe,” she exclaimed, “that the will of that horrid Mr. Sadler is like gas. It goes everywhere, even to the tops of the houses and under the beds.” But she did not give up her intention. She tried to detach the chain from the boat, but finding this impossible, she thought of going for Martin. Perhaps he might have a key. This idea, however, she quickly put aside. If he had a key, and gave it to her, she might get him into trouble, and, besides, she did not believe that he would let her go alone, and in any other way she did not wish to go. Standing with her pretty brows knit, and one heel deep in the soft ground into which she had stamped it, she heard approaching footsteps, and turning, saw the bishop. He came forward with a buoyant step.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Dearborn?” he said. “Do you wish to go out on the lake? Do you want some one to row you?”
“Yes and no,” said Margery. “I want to go out in the boat, and I don’t want anybody to row me. But that chain is fastened with an abominable padlock, and I cannot launch the boat.”
“One of your guides is here,” said he. “Perhaps I can get a key from him.”
“No, no,” said Margery, quickly; “he must not know about it. There is a Sadler law against it, and he is employed by Sadler.”
“It is very securely fastened,” said the bishop, examining the lock and chain. “It is the work of the guide Matlack, I have no doubt. But, Miss Dearborn,” said he, with a bright smile, “there is a boat at Camp Roy. That is not locked, and I can bring it here in twenty minutes.”
“No,” said Margery; “I don’t want that boat. I’ve seen it. It is a clumsy old thing, and, besides, it leaks. I want this one. This is just the kind of boat I want to row. It is too bad! If I could get off now there would be nobody to hinder me, for Martin is washing the dinner dishes, or doing something of that kind, and whenever he does house-work he always keeps himself out of sight.”
The bishop examined the stake. It was a stout little tree trunk driven deep into the ground and projecting about five feet above the surface, with the chain so wrapped around it that it was impossible to force it up or down. Seizing the stake near the top, the bishop began to push it backward and forward, and being a man of great strength, he soon loosened it so much that, stooping, he was able to pull it from the ground.
“Hurrah!” exclaimed Margery. “It came up just like pulling a tooth.”
“Yes,” said the radiant bishop, “the good Matlack may be very careful about fastening a boat, but I think I have got the better of him this time; and now I will put the stake, chain and all, in the bow. That is the best way of disposing of them. Are you sure that you prefer going alone? I shall be delighted to row you if you wish me to.”
“Oh no,” said Margery; “I am just wild to row myself, and I want to hurry and get off for fear Martin will be coming down here.”
“Are you sure you understand rowing and the management of a boat?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” she replied, “I can row; of course I can. I will get in, and then you can push off the boat.”
“Allow me,” said the bishop. But before he could reach her to help her, Margery stepped quickly into the boat and was about to seat herself.
“If you will take the seat next to the stern,” said the bishop, holding the boat so that it would be steady, “I think that will be better. Then the weight of the stake in the bow will put the boat on an even keel.”
“All right,” said Margery, accepting his suggestion and seating herself. “Now just wait until I get the oars into the rowlocks, and then you can push me off.”
“Which way do you intend to row?” asked the bishop.
“Oh, I shall go down towards the lower end of the lake, because that way there are more bushes along the banks and Martin will be less apt to see me. If I go the other way I will be in plain sight of the camp, and he may think he ought to do something – fire a gun across my bows to bring me to, maybe, as they do at sea.”
“Hardly,” said the bishop, “but let me advise you not to go very far from the shore, so that if you feel tired you can come in easily, and if you will allow me I will walk down the shore in the direction in which you intend to row.”
“Oh, I am not going to get tired,” said she. “I could row all day. It is splendid to be in a boat all by myself and have the whole management of it. Now please push me off.”
With some reluctance, but with a sincere desire to make the young girl happy, which could not be overcome by prudence – at least by such prudence as he possessed – the bishop, with a strong, steady push, sent the boat well out on the surface of the water.
“That was beautifully done,” Margery called back to him. “Now I have room enough to turn around without any trouble at all.”
She turned the boat about with its bow towards the lower end of the lake, but it was not done without trouble. “I have not rowed for a good while,” she said, “but I am getting used to the oars already. Now then, I’m off,” and she began to pull with a strength which, had it been suitably paired with skill, would have made her an excellent amateur oarswoman. But the place of skill was supplied by enthusiasm and determination. Once or twice an oar slipped from the rowlock and she nearly went over backward, and several times one of the blades got under the water with the flat side up, so that she had difficulty in getting it out. She raised her oars much too high in the air, but she counterbalanced this by sinking them very deep into the water. But she got on, and although her course was somewhat irregular, its general trend was in the direction desired.
The bishop walked along the bank, keeping as near to the water as he could. Sometimes masses of shrubbery shut off all view of the lake, and then there would be an open space where he would stop and watch the boat.
“Please keep near the shore, Miss Dearborn,” he called, “that will be better, I think, and it is certainly more shady and pleasant than farther out.”
“I know what you mean,” cried Margery, pulling away in high good-humor, “you think it is safer near the shore; but I am not going to row very far this time, and after a little while I may pull the boat in and rest for a time before starting back,” and then she rowed on with renewed energy.
The next time the bishop was able to hail the boat, it was at a point where he was obliged to push his way through the bushes in order to see out upon the lake.
“Miss Dearborn,” he called, “I think you are a great deal too far from shore, and you must be getting very tired and hot. Your face is greatly flushed. I will hurry along and see if I can find a good place for you to stop and cool yourself.”
“I am all right,” cried Margery, resting on her oars. “I get along very well, only the boat doesn’t steer properly. I think it is because of the weight of that stick in the bow. I suppose I cannot get rid of it?”
“Oh no!” cried the bishop, in alarm; “please don’t think of it! But if you touch shore at the first open space, I think I can arrange it better for you.”
“Very good,” said she; “you go ahead and find such a place, and I will come in.”
“If you touch shore,” said the bishop to himself, “you don’t go out again in that boat alone! You don’t know how to row at all.”
The bishop ran a hundred yards or more before he found a place at which a boat could be beached. It was not a very good place, but if he could reach out and seize the bow, that would be enough for him. He was strong enough to pull that boat over a paved street.
As he looked out over the water he saw that Margery had progressed considerably since he had seen her last, but she was still farther from shore than before.
“Row straight towards me!” he shouted. “Here is a fine landing-place, cool and shady.”
She looked around and managed to turn the boat’s head in his direction. Then she rowed hard, pulling and splashing, and evidently a little tired. She was strong, but this unusual exercise was a trial to her muscles. Perhaps, too, she felt that the bishop was watching her, and that made her a little nervous, for she could not help being aware that she was not handling the oars as well as when she started out. With a strong pull at her right oar to turn the boat inland, she got her left oar tangled between the water and the boat, so it seemed to her, and lost her hold of it. In a moment it was overboard and floating on the lake.
Leaning over the side of the boat, she made a grasp at the oar, but it was too far for her to reach it; and then, by a spasmodic movement of the other oar, the distance was increased.
The bishop’s face grew pale. As he looked at her he saw that she was moving away from the floating oar, and now he understood why she had progressed so well. There was a considerable current in the lake which had carried her along, and was now moving the heavy boat much faster than it moved the oar. What should he tell her to do? If she could put her single oar out at the stern, she might scull the boat; but he was sure she did not understand sculling, and to try it she would have to stand up, and this would be madness.
She now took the other oar from the rowlock, and was about to rise, when the bishop shouted to her.
“What are you going to do?” he cried.
“I am going to the stern,” she said, “to see if I cannot reach that oar with this one. Perhaps I can pull it in.”
“For Heaven’s sake, don’t do that!” he cried. “Don’t stand up, or the boat will tip, and you will fall overboard.”
“But what can I do?” she called back. “I can’t row with one oar.”
“Try rowing a little on one side, and then on the other,” said he. “Perhaps you can bring in the boat in that way.”
She followed his suggestion, but very awkwardly, and he saw plainly that she was tired. Instead of approaching the shore, the boat continued to float down the lake.
Margery turned again. “Bishop,” she cried, “what shall I do? I must do something, or I can’t get ashore at all.”
She did not look frightened; there was more of annoyance in her expression, as if she thought it impertinent in fate to treat her in this way, and she would not stand it.
“If I had thought of the current,” said the bishop to himself, “I would never have let her go out alone, and she can’t be trusted in that boat another minute longer. She will do something desperate.” So saying, the bishop took off his hat and threw it on the ground. Then he unbuttoned his coat and began to take it off, but he suddenly changed his mind. Even in that wilderness and under these circumstances he must appear respectable, so he buttoned his coat again, hastily took off his shoes, and, without hesitating, walked into the water until it was above his waist, and then calling to Margery that he was coming to her, he began to swim out into the lake. He did not strike out immediately for the boat, but directed his course towards the floating oar. Turning his head frequently towards Margery, he could see that she was sitting perfectly still, watching him, and so he kept on with a good heart.
The bishop was a powerful swimmer, but he found great difficulty in making his way through the water, on account of the extreme tightness of his clothes. It seemed to him that his arms and legs were bandaged in splints, as if he had been under a surgeon’s care; but still he struck out as well as he could, and in time reached the oar. Pushing this before him to the boat, Margery took hold of it.
“You swim splendidly,” said she. “You can climb in right here.”
But the bishop knew better than that, and worked his way round to the stern, and after holding on a little while to get his breath, he managed to clamber into the boat.
“Was the water very cold?” said she.
On his replying that it was, she said she thought so because he seemed stiff.
“Now, Miss Dearborn,” said he, “I have made the stern seat very wet, but I don’t believe you will mind that, and if you will sit here I will take the oars and row you in.”
“Oh, I think I can do that myself,” said Margery. “I am rested now, and I am ever so much obliged to you for getting my oar for me.”
Under almost any circumstances the bishop could smile, and now he smiled at the ridiculousness of the idea of Margery’s rowing that boat back against the current, and with him in it.
“Indeed,” said he, “I must insist. I shall freeze to death if I don’t warm myself by exercise.” So, reaching out his hand, he assisted Margery to the stern, and seating himself in her place, he took the oars, which she had drawn in.
“I don’t see why I could not make the boat go along that way,” said she, as they began to move steadily towards the camp. “I believe I could do it if people would only let me practise by myself; but they always want to show me how, and I hate to have anybody show me how. It is funny,” she continued, “that you seem so very wet all but your collar. That looks as smooth and nice as if it had just come from the laundry.”
The bishop laughed. “That is because it is gutta-percha,” he said, “intended for rough use in camp; but the rest of my habiliments were not intended for wet weather.”
“And you have no hat,” said she. “Doesn’t the sun hurt your head?”
“My head does feel a little warm,” said he, “but I didn’t want to row back to the place where I left my hat. It was not a good landing-place, after all. Besides,” he said to himself, “I never thought of my hat or my shoes.”
CHAPTER XII
THE BISHOP ENGAGES THE ATTENTION OF THE GUIDES
When the boat touched the shore Margery ran to the cabin to assure Mrs. Archibald of her safety, if she had been missed.
The bishop was sticking the stake in the hole from which he had pulled it, when Martin came running to him.
“That’s a pretty piece of business!” cried the young man. “If you wanted to go out in the boat, why didn’t you come to me for the key? You’ve got no right to pull up the stakes we’ve driven down. That’s the same thing as stealing the boat. What’s the matter? Did you tumble overboard? You must be a pretty sort of an oarsman! If the ladies want to go out in the boat, I am here to take them. I’d like you to understand that.”
As has been said before, the bishop could smile under almost any circumstances, and he smiled now, but at the same time his brow wrinkled, which was not common when he smiled.
“I am going down to the shore to get my hat and shoes,” he said, “and I would like you to come along with me. I can’t stand here and talk to you.”
“What do you want?” said Martin.
“Come along and see,” said the bishop; “that is, if you are not afraid.”
That was enough, and the young man walked behind him until they reached the spot where the bishop had taken to the water. Then he stopped, and explained to Martin all that had happened.
“Now,” said he, “what have you got to say?”
Martin, now that he knew that the bishop had plunged into the water for the sake of the beautiful Margery, was more jealously angry than when he had supposed he had merely taken her out to row.
“I haven’t anything to say,” he answered, shortly, “except that parsons had better attend to their own business, if they have any, and let young ladies and boats alone.”
“Oh, that’s all, is it?” said the bishop, and with a quick step forward he clutched the young man’s arm with his right hand, while he seized his belt with the other, and then with a great heave sent him out into the water fully ten feet from the shore. With a splash like a dropped anchor Martin disappeared from view, but soon arose, his head and shoulders above the surface, where he stood for a moment, spluttering and winking and almost dazed.
The bishop stood on the bank and smiled. “Did you fall overboard?” said he. “You must be a pretty sort of a boatman!”
Without replying, Martin began to wade ashore.
“Come on,” said the bishop; “if you can’t get up the bank, I’ll help you.”
But Martin needed no help; he scrambled to the bank, shook himself, and then advanced upon the bishop, fire in his eye and his fist clinched.
“Stop, young man,” said the other. “It would not be fair to you if I did not tell you that I am a boxer and a heavy-weight, and that I threw you into the water because I didn’t want to damage your face and eyes. You were impertinent, but I am satisfied, and the best thing you can do is to go and change your clothes before any one sees you in that plight. You are better off than I am, because I have no clothes with which to make a change.” So saying, he sat down and began to put on his shoes.
Martin stood for a moment and looked at the bishop, he thought of Margery and a possible black eye, and then he walked as fast as he could to his tent to get some dry clothes. He was very wet, he was very hot, he was very angry, and what made him more angry than anything else was a respect for the bishop which was rising in him in spite of all his efforts to keep it down.
When Mr. Archibald and his party came back to camp late in the afternoon, Margery, who had already told her story to Mrs. Archibald, told it to each of the others. Mr. Archibald was greatly moved by the account of the bishop’s bravery. He thoroughly appreciated the danger to which Margery had been exposed. There were doubtless persons who could be trusted so sit quietly in a little boat with only one oar, and to float upon a lake out of sight and sound of human beings until another boat could be secured and brought to the rescue, but Margery was not one of these persons. Her greatest danger had been that she was a child of impulse. He went immediately to Camp Roy to see the bishop and express his gratitude, for no matter how great the foolish good-nature of the man had been, his brave rescue of the girl was all that could be thought of now.
He found the bishop in bed, Mr. Clyde preparing the supper, and Mr. Raybold in a very bad humor.
“It’s the best place for me,” said the bishop, gayly, from under a heavy army blanket. “My bed is something like the carpets in Queen Elizabeth’s time, and this shelter-tent is not one which can be called commodious, but I shall stay here until morning, and then I am sure I shall be none the worse for my dip into the cold lake.”
As Mr. Archibald had seen the black garments of the bishop hanging on a bush as he approached the tent, he was not surprised to find their owner in bed.
“No,” said the bishop, when Mr. Archibald had finished what he had to say, “there is nothing to thank me for. It was a stupid thing to launch a young girl out upon what, by some very natural bit of carelessness, might have become to her the waters of eternity, and it was my very commonplace duty to get her out of the danger into which I had placed her; so this, my dear sir, is really all there is to say about the matter.”
Mr. Archibald differed with him for about ten minutes, and then returned to his camp.
Phil Matlack was also affected by the account of the rescue, and he expressed his feelings to Martin.
“He pulled up the stake, did he?” said Phil. “Well, I’ll make him pull up his stakes, and before he goes I’ve a mind to teach him not to meddle with other people’s affairs.”
“If I were you,” said Martin, “I wouldn’t try to teach him anything.”
“You think he is too stupid to learn?” said Matlack, getting more and more angry at the bishop’s impertinent and inexcusable conduct. “Well, I’ve taught stupid people before this.”
“He’s a bigger man than you are,” said Martin.
Matlack withdrew the knife from the loaf of bread he was cutting, and looked at the young man.
“Bigger?” said he, scornfully. “What’s that got to do with it? A load of hay is bigger than a crow-bar, but I guess the crow-bar would get through the hay without much trouble.”
“You’d better talk about a load of rocks,” said Martin. “I don’t think you’d find it easy to get a crow-bar through them.”
Matlack looked up inquiringly. “Has he been thrashing you?” he asked.
“No, he hasn’t,” said Martin, sharply.
“You didn’t fight him, then?”
“No, I didn’t,” was the answer.
“Why didn’t you? You were here to take charge of this camp and keep things in order. Why didn’t you fight him?”
“I don’t fight that sort of a man,” said Martin, with an air which, if it were not disdainful, was intended to be.
Matlack gazed at him a moment in silence, and then went on cutting the bread. “I don’t understand this thing,” he said to himself. “I must look into it.”
CHAPTER XIII
THE WORLD GOES WRONG WITH MR. RAYBOLD
The next morning Mr. Archibald started out, very early, on a fishing expedition by himself. He was an enthusiastic angler, and had not greatly enjoyed the experience of the day before. He did not object to shooting if there were any legitimate game to shoot, and he liked to tramp through the mountain wilds under the guidance of such a man as Matlack; but to keep company all day with Raybold, who, in the very heart of nature, talked only of the gossip of the town, and who punctuated his small talk by intermittent firing at everything which looked like a bird or suggested the movements of an animal, was not agreeable to him. Clyde was a better fellow, and Mr. Archibald liked him, but he was young and abstracted, and the interest which clings around an abstracted person who is young is often inconsiderable, so he determined for one day at least to leave Sir Cupid to his own devices, for he could not spend all his time defending Margery from amatory dawdle. For this one day he would leave the task to his wife.
That day Mr. Raybold was in a moody mood. Early in the morning he had walked to Sadler’s, his object being to secure from the trunk which he had left there a suit of ordinary summer clothes. He had come to think that perhaps his bicycle attire, although very suitable for this sort of life, failed to make him as attractive in the eyes of youth and beauty as he might be if clothed in more becoming garments. It was the middle of the afternoon before he returned, and as he carried a large package, he went directly to his own camp, and in about half an hour afterwards he came over to Camp Rob dressed in a light suit, which improved his general appearance very much.
In his countenance, however, there was no improvement whatever, for he looked more out of humor than when he had set out, and when he saw that Mrs. Archibald was sitting alone in the shade, reading, and that at a considerable distance Harrison Clyde was seated by Margery, giving her a lesson in drawing upon birch bark, or else taking a lesson from her, his ill-humor increased.
“It is too bad,” said he, taking a seat by Mrs. Archibald without being asked; “everything seems to go wrong out here in these woods. It is an unnatural way to live, anyhow, and I suppose it serves us right. When I went to Sadler’s I found a letter from my sister Corona, who says she would like me to make arrangements for her to come here and camp with us for a time. Now that suits me very well indeed. My sister Corona is a very fine young woman, and I think it would be an excellent thing to have two young ladies here instead of one.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Archibald, “that might be very pleasant. I should be glad for Margery to have a companion of her own sex.”
“I understand precisely,” said Raybold, nodding his head sagaciously; “of her own sex. Yes, I see your drift, and I agree with you absolutely. There is a little too much of that thing over there, and I don’t wonder you are annoyed.”
“I did not say I was annoyed,” said Mrs. Archibald, rather surprised.
“No,” he answered, “you did not say so, but I can read between the lines, even spoken lines. Now when I heard that my sister wanted to come out here,” he continued, “at first I did not like it, for I thought she might be some sort of a restraint upon me; but when I considered the matter further, I became very much in favor of it, and I sent a telegram by the stage telling her to come immediately, and that everything would be ready for her. My sister has a sufficient income of her own, and she likes to have everything suited to her needs. I am different. I am a man of the world, and although I do not always care to conform to circumstances, I can generally make circumstances conform to me. As Shakespeare says, ‘The world is my pottle, and I stir my spoon.’ You must excuse my quoting, but I cannot help it. My life work is to be upon the stage, and where one’s mind is, there will his words be also.”
