The Boy Scouts' Mountain Camp

“The other man!” cried Rob, suddenly recalling the bearded man’s companion, and perceiving, likewise, for the first time since Merritt’s adventure, that the fellow had vanished.

“He’s gone!” cried half a dozen voices.

In the same instant, they became aware that the bearded man had also vanished in the excitement. Almost simultaneously, Major Dangerfield put in an unexpected appearance. He was out of breath, as if from running.

“Is this the police station?” he demanded of Si, and, receiving a nod from that stupefied official, he hastened on:

“I wish to report the loss of a pocketbook. I must have dropped it on Main Street. Has it been found?”

“It wuz found all right,” grunted Si, “but – it’s bin lost agin.”

“Corporal Crawford here, found it, sir,” struck in Rob, seeing the major’s evident agitation at Si’s not over-lucid explanation, “but while he still had it in his hand, a man – a rough-looking customer – demanded to see it. As soon as Merritt told him of the initials on it, he – ”

“Tried to seize it,” exclaimed the major excitedly.

“Why, yes,” rejoined Rob, wondering inwardly how the major guessed so accurately what had occurred, “there was a scuffle, and in it the man who had attacked Merritt must, in some way, have found a chance to pass the pocketbook to his companion.”

“Was the man who first inquired about the book a big, bearded man, with sun-burned face and rather shabby clothes?” inquired the major.

Rob’s astonishment increased. Evidently this was no ordinary case of ruffianism. It would seem now that the men were known to the major, and had some strong object in taking the book.

The boy nodded in reply to the major’s question.

“Do you mind stepping aside with me a few minutes, my lad? I’d like to ask you some questions,” continued the retired officer.

He and Rob conversed privately for some moments. Then the major strode off, after authorizing Si to offer a reward of five hundred dollars for the return of the wallet.

“He asked me to thank all you fellows for the aid you gave in trying to hold the man,” said Rob when he rejoined his comrades, “he added that it would not be forgotten.”

Nor was it, for it may be said here, that a few days later a fine launch, named Eagle, was delivered at Hampton harbor with a card from the major, begging the Eagle Patrol to accept it as their official craft. But we are anticipating a little.

As Rob walked away with Merritt, Tubby and Hiram, the lanky youth spoke up:

“It beats creation what there could have been in that wallet to upset him so,” he commented; “he doesn’t look like a man who’s easily excited, either.”

“Well, whatever it was,” rejoined Rob, “we are likely to learn this evening. I rather think the major has some work on hand for us.”

“Hooray! some action at last,” cried Merritt enthusiastically.

“Haven’t had enough to-day, eh?” inquired Tubby sarcastically. “I should think that seeing a runaway auto stopped, being knocked down and plunged into a mystery, would – ”

“Never mind him, Merritt; the heat’s sent the fat to his head,” laughed Rob.

“I was going to say,” he continued, “that Major Dangerfield has invited us to the house this evening to hear something interesting.”

“All four of us?”

“Yes. I rather think then we shall learn some more about that wallet.”

Soon after, the boys, following some talk concerning patrol matters, separated. Each went to his home to await, with what patience he might, the coming of evening, when it appeared likely that some light would be shed on what, to them, seemed an interesting puzzle. Rob, on his return home, found that the major had motored on to his friend’s with his daughter, but he had promised to return in time to keep his appointment.

CHAPTER III

THE MAJOR EXPLAINS

“Well,” began the major, “I suppose you are all naturally curious concerning that wallet of mine.”

The four lads nodded attentively.

“I must admit we are,” volunteered Rob.

They were gathered in the library of Mr. Blake’s home. The banker was seated in his own pet chair, while the major stood with his back to a bookcase, a group of eager-eyed Boy Scouts surrounding him.

“In the first place,” continued the major, “I think you would better all sit down. The story is a somewhat lengthy one.”

The boys obeyed, and the major began:

“I shall have to take you back more than a century,” he said, “to the days when the first settlers located adjacent to the south banks of Lake Champlain. Among the colonists were my ancestors, Chisholm Dangerfield and his family. Chisholm Dangerfield was the eldest son of the Dangerfield family, of Chester, England. He had been left an ample fortune, but having squandered it, decided, like many others in a similar case, to emigrate to the new country.

“On arrival here, he and his family went up the river to Albany, and there, hearing of new settlements along the lake, decided to take up land there. They went most of the way by water, being much harassed by Indians on the journey. But without any serious mishaps, they finally arrived at their destination, and, in course of time, established a flourishing farm. But Chisholm Dangerfield had a younger brother, a harum-scarum sort of youth, to whom, nevertheless, he was much attached. When quite young, this lad had run away to sea, and little had been heard of him since that time.

“But while his family had remained in ignorance of his whereabouts, he had joined a band of West Indian pirates, and in course of time amassed a considerable fortune. Then a desire to reform came over him, and he sought his English relatives. They would have nothing to do with him, despite his wealth, and in a fit of rage he left England to seek his brother – the only being who ever really cared for him. In due time he arrived at the farm with quite a retinue of friendly Indians and carriers.

“He was warmly welcomed. Possibly his money and wealth had something to do with it. I don’t know anything about that, however. At any rate, for some years, he lived there, till one day he fell ill. His constitution was undermined by the reckless, wild life he had led, and he died not long after. He left all his gold and jewels to his brother.

“Indians were many and hostile in those days, so in order to be secure in case of an attack, the elder brother had no sooner buried his kin with due reverence, and received his legacy, than he decided to secrete the entire amount of the old pirate’s treasure in a cave in a remote part of the Adirondacks.”

“Gee!” exclaimed Tubby, who was hugging his knees, while his eyes showed round as saucers in his fat cheeks.

“Did the Indians get it?” asked Hiram.

“Wait a minute, and you shall hear,” continued the major. “Well, as I said, the treasure was buried in a cave so securely hidden that nobody would be able to find it again, except by a miracle, or by aid of the chart of the spot, which Chisholm Dangerfield carefully made. A few nights after that, a tribe went on the warpath, landed in canoes near to the Dangerfield farm, and massacred every soul on the place but one – a young boy named Roger Dangerfield, who escaped.

“This Roger Dangerfield was my great-great-grandfather. With him, when he fled from the burning ruins, he took a paper his father had thrust into his hands just before the Indian attack came. All this he wrote in his diary, which did not come into my hands till recently. Well, Roger Dangerfield, left to his own resources, proved so able a youth that he was, before very long, a prosperous merchant in Albany. But in the meantime he made several expeditions to the mountains to try to find the hidden wealth.

“I should have told you that the paper was in cipher, and a very elaborate one, so that it had never been completely worked out. This, no doubt, accounts for Roger Dangerfield’s failure.

“Well, in course of time, the cipher became a family relic along with Roger Dangerfield’s diary. His descendants moved to Virginia, where I was born. I recollect, as a youngster, being enthralled by the story of the old piratical Dangerfield’s hidden gold, and resolving that when I grew up I would find it. We had, in our employ at that time, a butler named Jarley. I was an only child, and he was my confidant. I naturally told him about the cipher and what its unraveling would mean.

“This happened when I was about eighteen and home on a vacation. Jarley seemed much interested, but after both he and I had puzzled in vain over the cipher, we gave it up. When I came home on my next vacation, I learned that Jarley had left. His mother and father had died, he declared, and he was required at his home in Maine. Well, I thought no more of the matter, and forming new acquaintances in our neighborhood, which was rapidly settling, I soon forgot Jarley. But one day a notion seized me to look at the cipher and the diary again.

“But when I came to look for them, they had gone. Nor did any search result in my finding them. It at once flashed across my mind that Jarley might have taken them. So fixed an idea did this become, that I visited the place in Maine to which he said he had gone, only to find that he had removed soon after his return from Virginia. However, pursuing the trail, I found that he – or a man resembling him – had visited the spot on the lake where the old-time house had stood, and had made a mysterious expedition into the mountains. The spot was at that time known as Dangerfield, and was quite a flourishing little town, with a pulp mill and a few other local industries. In that quiet community they recollected the mysterious visitor well.

“However, as I learned, Jarley had left the town without paying his guides or the man from whom he had hired the horses, I concluded that the expedition had not been successful. Then I advertised for the man, but without success. Then I was appointed to West Point, and for a long time I thought no more of the matter. In fact, for years it lay dormant in my mind, with occasional flashes of memory; then I would advertise for Jarley or his heirs, but without success.

“The last time I advertised was about a year ago. After six months’ silence I received a letter, asking me to call at an address near the Erie Basin in Brooklyn, if I was interested in the long-lost Jarley. All my enthusiasm once more at fever heat, I set out for the place. The address at which I was to call I found to be a squalid sailors’ boarding-house. On inquiring there for James Jarley, the name signed to the letter, I was conducted into a dirty room, where lay a rough-looking sailor, evidently just recovering from the effects of a debauch.

“So dulled was his mind, that it was some time before I could explain my errand, but finally he understood. He frankly told me he was out for money, and wanted to know how much I would give him for some papers he had which his father – our old butler, it transpired – had left him. His father, he said, had told him that if ever he wanted to make money with them he was to seek out a Major Dangerfield, who would be likely to pay him well for them.