The Rival Campers Ashore: or, The Mystery of the Mill

"You don't look stuck up," he ventured. "You look first rate."

He felt the colour come into his cheeks as he said it. It was the first time in his life that he had ever complimented a girl. They were passing a dingy little store, with its windows filled with farming tools, odds and ends of household stuff and some fishing tackle, and he thought it a good chance to get away.

"Got an errand in here," he said. "Good-bye."

Some ten minutes later he emerged, looked sharply up the road and pursued his journey. He had gone scarcely a rod or two, however, when the girl's voice brought him to a halt, much taken aback. She was seated by the stream, close to the water.

"I thought you'd be along," she said. "I've been watching the pickerel. There's one sunning himself close to the top of water now, just by the lily pads. See me hit him."

She picked up a stone as she spoke, and threw it with surprising ease and accuracy. It struck the water about six inches from the dark object to which she had pointed. Henry Burns's chagrin at this second meeting was lost in admiration.

"Good shot!" he exclaimed. "How'd you know 'twas a pickerel?"

"Oh I catch 'em," she answered. "And once in a while I show one to Benny Ellison so he can shoot it. I don't like him much, though. He's mean and – fat."

Henry Burns chuckled.

"He can't help that," he said.

"No, but he's always stuffing himself with candy and things," said the girl. "And he won't ever give you any. I like people that give away things once in a while, don't you?"

Henry Burns came the nearest to blushing that he ever had, as he answered that he guessed he did. There was something in the girl's voice and manner and in her beaming countenance, telling of her happiness in the possession of her new finery – though she had feared the ordeal of wearing it to school, perhaps because of the contrast it made to her usual garment – that he felt a queer feeling in his throat. But relief was at hand for him in his embarrassment, for the path that led down to the camp was in sight, and he bade her good-bye.

He struck off along the path, through the bushes and thin growth of woods; but had gone only a little way when the sound of voices, one sharp and angry, made him pause. He retraced his steps, hurrying as he recognized the voice of Bess Thornton, the tone of which indicated grief.

He emerged into the road in time to see the girl scramble out of a clump of brakes and burdock plants by the roadside, the tears standing in her eyes as she picked the burs from the latter out of the new dress. Just in front of her, noting her distress with satisfaction, stood Benny Ellison.

"That's what you get for being so proud," he said bluntly. "You needn't get so mad, though. I was only in fun."

The girl's eyes blazed, angrily; but it was not the Bess Thornton of every day that now faced the youth. Some of her fearlessness and dash seemed to have departed, with the taking off of the old dress.

"Let me past," she said, stepping forward; but the boy blocked her way.

"Let me look at the new dress," he demanded. "Where'd you get so much?"

He caught her by an arm, as she attempted to brush past him. Greatly to his surprise, however, he felt his hand cast off and, at the same time, he was nearly upset by a vigorous push. The youth who had done this, apparently not the least excited, stood facing him as he recovered himself.

"Let the girl alone," said Henry Burns. "Let her go past."

One could hardly have noted a trace of anger in his voice, but there was a warning in his eye that Benny Ellison might have heeded. The latter, however, was no longer in a mood to stop at any warning. His flabby face reddened and his fist clenched.

"You'll not stop me!" he cried, taking a step toward the girl. "I'll push both of you in there, if you don't get out."

"Just try it," said Henry Burns, quietly.

Benny Ellison, larger and heavier than the youth who thus dared him, hesitated only a moment. Then he rushed at Henry Burns and they clinched. The struggle seemed over before it had hardly begun, however, for the next moment Benny Ellison found himself lying on his back in the road, with Henry Burns firmly holding him there.

"Let me up!" he cried, squirming and kicking. "You don't dare let me up."

By way of answer, Henry Burns relinquished his hold and allowed his antagonist to regain his feet. Again Benny Ellison, wild with anger, made a rush for Henry Burns, aiming a blow at him as he came on. Dodging it, and without deigning to attempt to return it, Henry Burns closed with him once more, and they reeled together to and fro for a moment.

If Benny Ellison had but known it, he had met with one whom Tom Harris and Bob White, who prided themselves on their athletics, and even stalwart Jack Harvey, had often found to be their match in wrestling. Slight in build, but with well-knit muscles, Henry Burns was surprisingly strong. And, above all, he never lost his head.

The contest this time was a moment more prolonged; but again Benny Ellison felt his feet going from under him, and again he went down – but this time harder – to the ground. He lay for a moment, with the breath knocked out of him.

"Want another?" inquired Henry Burns, calmly. He had not even offered to strike a blow.

Benny Ellison, picking himself up slowly from the dust, hesitated a moment; then backed away.

"I'll have it out with you again some time," he muttered. "I'll get square with you for this."

Henry Burns's eyes twinkled.

"Why not now?" he asked.

Benny Ellison made no reply, but went on up the road.

Bess Thornton's face, radiant with delight as Henry Burns turned to her, suddenly clouded.

"Guess I'll have to look out now," she said. "He'll give it to me, if he catches me."

Henry Burns's face wore an expression of mingled perplexity and embarrassment. Then, as one resolved to see the thing through, he replied, "Come on, I'll get you home all right."

CHAPTER XI

COL. WITHAM GETS THE MILL

It was the evening before the glorious Fourth of July, and Tim Reardon was dragging an iron cannon along the street, by a small rope. It was a curious, clumsy piece of iron-mongery, about a foot and a half long, with a heavily moulded barrel mounted on a block of wood that ran on four wheels; a product of the local machine shop, designed for the purpose of being indestructible rather than for show.

Tim Reardon, smudgy-faced, but wearing an expression of deep satisfaction, paused for a moment before a gate where stood a boy somewhat younger than himself, who eyed the cannon admiringly.

"Hello, Willie," said Tim. "Comin' out, ain't yer?"

The boy shook his head, disconsolately.

"What's the matter?"

"Can't," said the boy. "Father won't let me."

Tim looked at him pityingly.

"Won't let you come out the night before the Fourth!" he exclaimed. "Gee! I'd like to see anybody stop me. What's he 'fraid of?"

"He isn't afraid," replied the boy. "He's mad because they make so much noise he can't sleep. He says they haven't any right to fire off guns and things on the Fourth."

"Hm!" sniffed Tim. "Henry Burns says you have, and I guess he knows. He's read all about it. He says there was a man named Adams who was a president once, and he said everybody ought to make all the noise they could; get out and fire guns, and blow horns, and beat on pans and yell like everything, and build bonfires and fire off firecrackers."

"Did he?" said the boy. "And did he say anything about getting out the night before?"