Dave Porter on Cave Island: or, A Schoolboy's Mysterious Mission

“This is the Southland, true enough,” observed Dave. “Just see how happy those pickaninnies seem to be!”

“Yes, one would almost envy their care-free dispositions,” answered Dunston Porter. “Their manner shows that it doesn’t take money to make one happy.”

They had passed through Richmond and were now on their way to Emporia. It was growing steadily warmer, and by noon all were glad enough to leave the car and go out on the observation platform at the end of the train.

The next stop was at Fayetteville and after that came Charleston. Long before this the snow had disappeared and the fields looked as green as in the fall at home.

“We’ll be at Jacksonville when you wake up in the morning,” said Dunston Porter, as they turned into their berths the second night on the train.

“Good! We can’t get there any too quick for me!” answered Dave.

“You mustn’t expect too much, Dave. You may be bitterly disappointed,” remarked his uncle, gravely.

“Oh, we’ve just got to catch Merwell and Jasniff, Uncle Dunston!”

“Yes, but they may not be guilty. You’ll have to go slow about accusing them.”

“Well, I want to catch them and question them anyway. I can have them detained on the old charge, you know – that is, if they try to get away from me.”

Dave and Phil slept on one side of the car, with Dunston Porter and Roger on the other. As the steam heat was still turned on, it was uncomfortably warm, and as a consequence Dave was rather restless. He tumbled and tossed in his berth, which was the upper one, and wished that the night were over and that they were in Jacksonville.

“Oh, pshaw! I really must get some sleep!” he told himself. “If I don’t, I’ll be as sleepy as an owl to-morrow and not fit to hunt up those rascals. Yes, I must go to sleep,” and he did what he could to settle himself.

He had just closed his eyes when a peculiar noise below him made him start up. Phil was thrashing around wildly.

“What’s the matter, Phil?” he asked, in a low tone.

“Something is in my berth, some animal, or something!” answered the shipowner’s son. “I can’t go to sleep for it. Every time I lie down it begins to move.”

“Maybe it’s a rat.”

“Whoever heard of a rat in a sleeping-car?” snorted Phil.

“Perhaps you were dreaming. I didn’t hear anything,” went on Dave.

“No, I wasn’t dreaming – I heard it as plain as day.”

“Better go to bed and forget it, Phil,” and then Dave lay down again. The shipowner’s son grumbled a little under his breath, then turned off his electric light, and sank on his pillow once more.

Dave remained quiet for several minutes and then sat bolt upright and gave a low cry. There was no mistake about it, something had moved over his feet and given him a slight nip in the toe.

“Phil!” he called, softly. “Did you do that? Come, no fooling now. This is no place for jokes.”

“Do what?”

“Pinch me in the toe.”

“I haven’t touched your toe. How can I from the lower berth?”

“Well, something nipped me.”

“Maybe it’s you who are dreaming this trip, Dave,” returned the shipowner’s son, with pardonable sarcasm.

Dave did not reply, for just then he felt something moving in the blanket. He made a clutch for it. A little squeak followed.

“I’ve got it, Phil!”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know yet – it’s in the blanket.”

“Oh, what a noise!” came from the berth beyond. “Cannot you young men be quiet?” It was a woman who was speaking. She was an elderly person and Dave had noticed, during the day, that she was rather sour-looking.

“Sorry, madam, but I’ve just caught something in my berth,” answered Dave. “I’ll turn up the light and see what it is,” he added, as he held on to the object in the blanket with one hand and turned on the electric illumination with the other.

The cries and talking had awakened half a dozen people and the sleepy porter came down the aisle to find out what was wrong.

“It’s a mouse – a white mouse!” cried Dave, as the little creature was uncovered.

“Wot’s dat, a mouse!” exclaimed the porter. “Nebber heard of sech a t’ing! How did he git yeah?”

“Don’t ask me,” replied Dave. “Ugh! he nipped me in the toe, too!”

“Here’s another one!” roared Phil. “Ran right across my arm! Take that, you little imp!” he added, and bang! one of his shoes hit the woodwork of the car.

“A mouse!” shrieked the elderly woman. “Did you say a mouse, young man?”

“I did – and there is more than one, too,” answered Dave, for he had felt another movement at his feet. He lost no time in scrambling up, and Phil followed.

By this time the whole sleeping-car was in an uproar. Everybody who heard the word “mouse” felt certain one of the creatures must be in his or her berth.

“Porter! porter! save me!” screamed the elderly lady. “Oh, mice, just think of it!” And wrapping her dressing-gown around her, she leaped from her berth and sped for the ladies’ room. Others also got up, including Dunston Porter and Roger.

“What am I going to do with this fellow?” asked Dave, as he held the mouse up in his vest.

“Better throw it out of a window,” suggested his uncle. “Mice in a sleeper! This is certainly the limit!” he muttered. “The railroad company better get a new system of cleaning.”

“Mice!” screamed a young lady. “Oh, I shall die!” she shrieked, and looked ready to faint.

“Shoot ’em, why don’t you?” suggested a fat man, who came forth from his berth wearing a blanket, Indian fashion.

By this time Phil had caught one of the creatures. Both he and Dave started for the rear of the car, to throw the mice off the train.

“Stop! stop! I beg of you, don’t kill those mice!” came suddenly from a tall, thin young man who had been sleeping in a berth at the end of the car. Dave had noticed him during the day and had put him down as a preacher or actor.

“Why not?” asked our hero.

“They are mine, that’s why,” said the man. “I would not have them killed for a thousand dollars!”