Fred Craven was a famous rifle-shot, and although he was a “towny,” he was superior in all manner of backwoods accomplishments to any boy of his age in the settlement—even to Walter and Eugene, who lived in the woods, and who had handled shot-guns and rifles all their lives. He was an enthusiastic and persevering sportsman, and boasted that he never came back from a hunt empty-handed. When the Club went out on their shooting excursions, Featherweight always strayed off by himself; and when he met his companions again at night, he had more game to show than any of them, sometimes beating all the rest of the Club put together. He thought almost as much of his pony as he did of any of his friends, and took great delight in training Flyaway, his favorite hound. [167]
Flyaway was a remarkable dog in the estimation of his young master, although he did not stand very high in the opinion of the rest of the Club. He would hunt a covey of quails with as much skill as any old setter, would bring ducks out of the water as well as a spaniel, and fight a bear as bravely as any dog in Mr. Gaylord’s pack; but he had never hunted wild hogs, and Featherweight was anxious to see what work he would make at it. While the line was being formed that morning, and the boys and the negroes were about to advance toward the old bee-tree to attack the hogs which made their harboring-place there, Walter, who was a very prudent and cautious fellow, and seldom got into trouble, and who knew that Featherweight was sometimes disposed to be a little too reckless for his own good, thought it best to give him a word of advice.
“Now, Fred,” said he, “wild hogs are things not to be fooled with, and if I were in your place I wouldn’t put too much dependence on that animal there,” pointing rather contemptuously at Flyaway. “He is a very good turkey and deer dog, but when he presumes to hunt such game as this[168] we are after now, he is getting above his business. A full grown wild hog is a terrible fighter.”
“Having hunted them a few times in my life, I am not ignorant of that fact,” replied Featherweight, assuming an air of importance that always made the Club laugh, and speaking with as much dignity as so jolly a little fellow could command. “While I entertain the very highest respect for your opinions in general, and acknowledge that you are a good judge of horses, and a passable hand at hunting small game, such as squirrels and quails, I must be allowed to remark that I think you know nothing whatever about dogs. ‘That animal,’ as you are pleased to call Flyaway, has no superior in this parish.”
“Well,” returned Walter, with a laugh, “keep close to us, and if you get into a scrape we can lend you a hand.”
But Featherweight, being plucky and independent, did not see fit to follow this advice. He kept his hound close at his side while the line was moving toward the old bee-tree, and when the hogs were started he picked out the one that he thought was the largest and ordered Flyaway to catch it. The hound sprang forward at the word, and in an[169] instant both he and the hog were out of sight in the cane.
Featherweight’s pony had so often shown his heels to the other horses owned by the Club, that his master had become vain of his speed, and boasted that he could not be beaten by anything; but distancing a horse on a smooth road, or over a level field, where there were no greater obstructions than logs and low fences to be encountered, was one thing, and running a race with a wild hog through a thick woods, the hog having nearly a hundred yards the start, was another. The animal made astonishing headway, and for a long time the boy could not come within sight of him. The noise he occasioned in running through the cane, and the angry yelps now and then uttered by the hound, guided the young hunter in the pursuit; but although he urged his pony forward by voice, whip and spur, he could not lessen the distance between them.
“I never knew before that a hog could run so,” soliloquized Featherweight; “and I never thought either that Flyaway was a coward. He is keeping within sight of that hog all the time, but he won’t catch him. Rex would have had him by the ear[170] long ago. Hi! hi! Why don’t you take hold of him there?”
The hound replied with a short, quick bark, and a commotion in the bushes told the young hunter that he was doing his best to obey the command. Featherweight yelled encouragingly and urged on his horse, which with a few more jumps brought his rider to the scene of the conflict—or, rather, to the spot where it had taken place; for when Featherweight reached it the struggle was over. Flyaway was a badly-whipped dog, and the wild hog was out of sight.
“Now just look at that!” exclaimed the boy, indignantly, gazing after his hound which was retreating precipitately through the cane, with his sides bleeding from several ugly-looking wounds made by the long teeth of the wild hog. “That puts an end to your hunting for a month or two, my fine fellow; perhaps for ever. I’ll capture that hog now if I have to follow him for a week. I’ll try to tire him out and ride him down; and if I can’t do that, I’ll head him off and turn him back toward the old bee-tree, so that some of the other dogs can have a chance at him.”
Featherweight, knowing that his wounded favorite[171] would make the best of his way to Mr. Gaylord’s house, and that when he arrived there he would receive every attention from Uncle Jim, the old negro who had charge of the hounds, once more put spurs to his pony and dashed through the cane in hot pursuit of the hog. He did not follow directly after him, but gradually turned off to the left of the trail, hoping to pass him and compel him to turn back in the direction from which he had come.
How long the chase continued Featherweight could not have told. The rapid pace soon began to tell upon the pony, which showed a desire to settle down into a slow gallop; but the hog went ahead as swiftly as ever. As the boy had eyes and ears for nothing except the game he was pursuing, he did not know in what direction he was going or where he was, until he discovered an opening through the trees in front of him, and came suddenly upon the bank of the cove where the smugglers’ schooner was hidden. He thought he must be close upon the hog now, for, just as he drew rein, he heard a rustling among the bushes a little distance off; but had he investigated the manner, he would have found that the noise was not occasioned by the wild hog, but by Bayard Bell and his[172] cousins, who were concealed behind a log, watching his movements.
The sight of a schooner hidden away among the bushes in that lonely place was a most unexpected one to the eyes of the young hunter, and speedily drove all thought of the game out of his mind. He could not account for her presence there, and the longer he looked at her the more he wondered, and the more surprised he became. He ran his eye all over the vessel, noting the fine points about her that had so deeply interested Bayard Bell, but he could not discover anything that looked familiar, and he was finally obliged to conclude that he never had seen her before.
“I’ve lost the hog,” said Featherweight to himself, gazing all around him to see if there were any of the crew of the vessel in sight, “but I’ve found a schooner. Who owns her? Who brought her here? Where are the men who belong to her, and why is she hidden away in this cove? I can’t see any one about her,” he added, seizing a branch above his head and standing erect in his saddle to obtain a view of her deck. “Yes, sir; she’s deserted, and here’s her yawl lying on the shore.[173] Now, that’s lucky. I’ll just step aboard and examine into things a little.”
As Featherweight said this he hitched his pony to a limb of the tree, sprang to the ground, and in a few seconds more was pushing the yawl through the bushes toward the schooner. Had he gone around the stern and looked in at one of the windows—the curtains were raised now—he would have seen that the vessel was not deserted, and that there were four men there engaged in consultation: but he pulled straight toward the bow, and after making the yawl’s painter fast to the bobstay, sprang over the rail and looked about him. He could see no one. He listened, but could hear nothing, for the door leading into the cabin was closed, thus shutting out the sound of the conversation carried on by the captain and his men. Stepping to the forehatch he looked down into the hold, and the first, object that caught his eye was a lighted lantern, standing at the foot of the ladder—the same one Bayard had used during his interview with the prisoner.
“That’s the very thing I need,” said Featherweight, as he descended into the hold. “I will look all over this craft now, and see if I can find[174] something to tell me what she is and where she belongs. Suppose she should prove to be a private yacht, whose owner has come up here with a party of friends to go deer-hunting? If they should return suddenly and find me prowling about, they might not like it. Perhaps it would teach them that it is a good plan to leave a watch on board a vessel.”
The first thing Featherweight noticed when he reached the bottom of the ladder was, that for a vessel the size of the schooner, her hold was very shallow. He could scarcely stand erect in it. He was surprised at this, and he would have been still more surprised if he had known that the floor of the hold was provided with a fore, main and after hatchway, like the deck above, and that they led down into a second hold—the real hold of the vessel, in fact—which was nearly as large as the one in which he was then standing. He learned all about that, however, and about a good many other things, before he got through with the schooner. If he had known all that was to happen to him before he put his foot on shore again, he would have got out of that vessel without the loss of a single instant.
[175]
The hold was empty, and Featherweight did not see anything to attract his attention until he crawled through a narrow passage-way that led around the forecastle to the extreme forward part of the vessel. There he discovered a locker, and the key was in the door. Little dreaming what was on the other side of that door, he turned the key, and holding his lantern above his head looked into the room. He was not easily frightened, but he saw something that made the cold chills creep all over him, and caused him to utter a cry of alarm and stagger back into the hold as if some one had struck him a blow. It was a pale, haggard face which looked at him over the top of a coil of rope. He did not see anything familiar in it, but he recognised the voice which asked in indignant tones:
“Are you ready to answer my question now?”
The sound of the voice quieted Featherweight’s nerves, and after a moment’s hesitation he stepped into the locker and lowered his lantern so that he could obtain a fair view of the face. “It can’t be possible that this—Chase, what in the name of wonder are you doing in this hole?” he asked, as soon[176] as he had satisfied himself as to the identity of the occupant of the locker.
“Fred Craven!” cried the prisoner, in great amazement. “Well, I am beaten, now. I am taken all aback.”
“So am I,” replied Featherweight. “What are you doing here?”
“I didn’t know that you were one of these fellows.”
“What fellows?”
“I should be glad if you would bring me a mouthful to eat, for I am almost famished,” continued Chase, without answering Featherweight’s question. “But first I want to know why you brought me here, and what you intend to do with me?”
“I!” Featherweight almost shouted; “wh............