The Bungalow Boys in the Great Northwest

“A new explosive!” echoed Mr. Dacre, in an amazed tone; “well, what does he expect to do with that?”

“Sell it to the government, I guess,” chuckled Tom. “I’ll bet, though, it won’t be as effective as that electric juice we turned into the handrail of the dear old Omoo off Don Lopez’s island.”

“I think it would have to be pretty powerful to equal the effects of that, indeed,” laughed Mr. Dacre, rising and thrusting the letter which had interested him so much into a side pocket of his loose linen jacket. He reached for his hat.

“Well, let’s be starting before it gets really warm. By the way, boys, as we go along I’ve something to talk to you about. But first I want to ask you a question. I want you to answer it honestly. Aren’t you getting a bit tired of your bungalow?”

Tom and Jack exchanged glances. As we know, the bungalow and the estate surrounding it, was their “legacy” from their uncle, and not for worlds would they have admitted that they were getting a little tired of the pleasant monotony of their lives there. But being ingenuous lads they had not been able to conceal it – as has been hinted, in fact.

Tom and Jack exchanged glances. As we know, the bungalow and the estate surrounding it, was their “legacy” from their uncle, and not for worlds would they have admitted that they were getting a little tired of the pleasant monotony of their lives there. But being ingenuous lads they had not been able to conceal it – as has been hinted, in fact.

“Come,” said Mr. Dacre, a quizzical smile playing about the corners of his firm, yet kind, mouth. “Speak out; haven’t you exchanged views about the monotony of perfect plain sailing, or something of that sort?”

“Why, uncle, you must be a wizard!” exclaimed Tom. “Have you overheard us?”

Then both lads burst into a laugh, seeing how they had betrayed themselves.

“There, there,” chuckled Mr. Dacre, “you’d never do for diplomats – too honest,” he murmured, half to himself; “but, as Jasper would say – being as how you have given yourselves away, I have something to propose to you.”

“Hurray!” shouted Jack, capering about, “a trip? I’ll bet the hole out of a doughnut it’s a trip!”

“And you would win that bet,” cried Mr. Dacre, drawing out the letter from his pocket. “In the mail to-day there came a letter from a man from whom I have not heard for some time – a good many years, in fact.”

A cloud passed over Mr. Dacre’s face. They could see that for a moment he was back in the old painful past. But it passed as rapidly as a shadow on the surface of the rippling lake.

“My friend has a ranch in Washington State,” he went on, while the boys, with parted lips and sparkling eyes, fairly drank in his words. “It appears that he read in the papers about our adventures in the tropics. This letter is the result. He informs me that if I am anxious to make an investment with a part of the treasure of the lost galleon, that no better opportunity offers than the timber and fruit country of Washington. He says that he imagines that I must be anxious for rest anyhow, and, to make a long story short, he extends to me and to my two celebrated nephews” – the boys blushed – “a hearty invitation to visit him, renew old friendship, and take a look at the country. What do you say, boys – shall we go?”

Tom drew a long breath.

“Say, ever since I read that book on the Great Northwest of our country I’ve longed to get out there. Jack and I have talked it over many a time.”

Here Jack nodded vigorously.

“Will we go, uncle? Well,” Tom paused as he cast about for a fitting phrase, “well,” he burst out, “if we don’t, your Bungalow Boys will be Grumble-oh! boys.”

“Then I will write him this afternoon that we will come,” said Mr. Dacre soberly, though it was easy to see that he was almost as pleased as the lads at their decision. As for the boys, they joined in a wild half-war-dance, half-waltz that didn’t end till Jack was almost waltzed into the lake – not that in his frame of mind he would have cared.

At this stage of the proceedings an inky-black countenance, crowned with a tightly curling crop of grayish wool, projected from a rear door of the bungalow. It was Jasper – former servant of Dr. Parsons, but now attached to the Bungalow Boys’ uncle.

“Fo’ de lan’s sake!” he cried, throwing up his hands in consternation. “Dem boys done be actin’ up lak dey was two crazy pertatur bugs. Misto Dacon” (Dacre was beyond Jasper), “Mr. Dacon, sah, does I git dat meat o’ does we dine on flap jacks an’ bacum?”

“You get the meat,” laughed Mr. Dacre, regarding with intense amusement the tragic mien of his colored servitor. “Come, boys, give Jasper your fish – just to ease his mind – and insure the safety of Mrs. Bijur’s chickens – and then let’s hurry on our errand. There’s a lot to do before we start for The Great Northwest.”

“The great northwest!” echoed Tom, picking up the now despised string of bass. “If there are any two finer words in the geographies, I’ve never heard them.”

CHAPTER II.

A “BLOW-UP.”

All the way to Mrs. Bijur’s – along the well-remembered trail, with its alder clumps fringing the crystal-clear Sawmill Creek and the big pool where of yore lurked Jumbo, and into which Tom had taken a header on one memorable occasion – there was naturally only one topic of conversation, the coming trip, of course. By the time they reached the former lumber camp, and the place which had more recently been the headquarters of the Trulliber gang, the boys had crossed and recrossed the continent at least half a dozen times, and the geography and animal and vegetable history of the State of Washington been thoroughly discussed. The trim buildings, now painted white, with red roofs and green shutters and doors, presented a violent contrast to the ramshackle collection of structures in which the Trullibers had squatted.

The barn in which Tom lay a prisoner, while in the next room he had heard Dan Dark and the others plotting, was now painted a vivid red, and a neat tin roof glittered above its contents of spicy-smelling hay and well-fed, sleek cows and horses. Josiah Bijur had left his widow a snug little fortune and, with true Maine thrift, she had spent it to the best advantage. Already she had more applications for boarders than her place would hold. If she could have persuaded the boys she would have liked to rent their bungalow for the overflow. But the fancy rent she offered had no allurement for them. Their share of the treasure of the galleon had made them two very independent lads.

Hamish Boggs, Mrs. Bijur’s hired man, was clambering off a load of hay as the party from the bungalow came in sight. He had just hauled it in from the mountain meadow, not far, by the way, from the foot of the cliff where Tom took that memorable slide after his imprisonment in the cave, which came near proving his grave.

Going to the rear of the wagon, which was halted on the steep grade in front of the house, he placed two big stones under each of the rear wheels.

“Don’t want the wagon to go rolling down the hill, eh, Hamish?” said Mr. Dacre, as they came up.

“No, sir,” responded Hamish emphatically; “there’s a deep pool in the creek at the bottom of this grade and if ther old wagin ever started a-runnin’ daown it – wall, by chowder, she’d take er bath whether she needed one er not.”

So saying, he proceeded to unhitch the horses and lead them toward the barn.

“Why don’t you drag the load in under the mow?” asked Tom, not quite seeing the object of leaving the load stalled in front of the house.

“Wall, yer see,” drawled Hamish, “thet mow’s got quite a sight of grass inter it naow. By chowder, ef I tried ter put this load in on top, it might raise the roof ofen it, so I’m gon’ ter shift it back a bit.”

At this juncture Mrs. Bijur appeared – a thin, sharp-featured woman in a blue calico dress, with a sunbonnet to match.

“Wall, land o’ goodness, ef it ain’t Mister Dacre,” she cried. “Wall, dear suz, what brings you here? Hamish, yer better ’tend to thet sick caow afore you put in yer hay. Do it right arter you’ve got them horses put up.”

“And leave ther hay out thar, mum?” asked Hamish.

“Yes, of course. Nobody ain’t goin’ ter steal it, be they? Go on with yer. Mr. Dacre, come in. Hev a glass of buttermilk. Dear suz! if I ain’t run off my mortal leags, an’ – oh, you air a sniffin’, too, be yer?”

She broke off her torrent of talk as she noticed Mr. Dacre sniffing with a critical nose. The atmosphere was, in fact, impregnated with a very queer odor.

“Guess some senile egg must have gone off and died round here,” said Tom, with a snicker to Jack.

“It’s that perfusser,” explained Mrs. Bijur. “I tole him that he’d hev ter stop experimentin’ ef it was goin’ ter smell us out o’ house an’ home this er way. Awful, ain’t it?”

“Well, it is rather strong,” admitted Mr. Dacre, as they took seats in the stuffy parlor, with its wax fruit under their glass covers, the imitation lace tidies on the backs of the stiff chairs, and the noisy, eight-day clock ticking away like a trip-hammer.

“What ever is the professor doing?” he inquired.

“’Sperimentin’,” sniffed Mrs. Bijur, smoothing out her apron.

“Must be experimenting with cold-storage eggs,” put in Tom.

“No,” rejoined Mrs. Bijur gravely, “it’s some sort of a ’splosive. I tell you, Mister Dacre, I’m terrible skeered. Reely I be. S’pose thet stuff ’ud go off? We’d all be blown up in our beds.”

“Unless you happened to be awake, ma’am,” answered Mr. Dacre.

“Ah, but he don’t ’speriment only at night,” was the rejoinder. “He’s off all day huntin’ bugs and nasty crawly things. It’s only at night he works at it, an’ I tell yer, I’ve got my hands full with them Soopendyke children. They’re allers a-tryin’ to git inter the perfusser’s laboratory – he calls it. If they ever did, dear knows what ’ud happen. The perfusser says that ef any one who didn’t understand that stuff was to meddle with it, it might blow up.”

“Good gracious!” exclaimed Mr. Dacre, with mock anxiety. “I hope the young Soopendykes are all safely accounted for.”

“I dunno. There’s no telling whar them young varmints will git ter,” was the reply. “They’re every place all ter oncet, and no place long tergither. Tother day I cotched one tryin’ ter git inter the laboratory. Crawlin’ over ther roof, he was, and goin’ ter drop inter ther window by a water pipe. Seems ter me thet they are just achin’ ter blow themselves up, and – Good land! Look at ’em now!”