It fell out that on one of those fair August days there came out from Bridgeboro a picnic party of people who were forced to take their nature by the day, and following in the wake of these, as the peanutman follows the circus, there came that trusty rear-guard of all such festive migrations,—­Slats Corbett, the “Two aces” (Jim and Jakie Mattenburg), two of the three O’Connor boys (the other one had mumps), and, yea, even Sweet Caporal himself.

The petrified mud of Bridgeboro was upon their clothes, the dust of it was in the corners of their unwashed eyes. They wore no badges but if they had these should have shown a leaden goat superimposed upon a tomato can, with a tobacco-label ribbon, so suggestive were they of street corners and vacant lots and ash heaps.

It was a singular freak of fate that the destiny of the carefullynurtured Connover Bennett should have been involved with this gallant crew.

The picnic was conducted according to the time-honored formula of such festivities. There were lemonade and cold coffee in milk bottles; there were sandwiches in shoe boxes; there were hard-boiled eggs with accompanying salt in little twists of brown paper; there were olives and hat-pins to extract them with, and there were camel’s hair shawls to “spread on the damp ground.”

The rear-guard did not participate in the sumptuous feast. “A life on the ocean wave” was what they sought, and their investigations of the wooded neighborhood had not gone very far when they made discovery of an object which of all things is dear to the heart of a city boy, and that was a boat.

It was pulled up along the river bank near the picnic grounds, and as a matter of fact, belonged to the scouts. It was used by them in crossing the river to make a short-cut to and from Salmon River Village, instead of following the shore to a point opposite the town where there was a bridge.

“Findings is keepings” is the first law of the hoodlum code, and though the O’Connor boys hung back (partly because they had no right to the boat and more because they were afraid of the water), Sweet Caporal, who balked at nothing save a policeman, led the rest of his intrepid band to the boat and presently they were flopping clumsily about in midstream, much to the amusement of the O’Connor boys and several of the picnickers who clustered at the shore.

There are few sights more ridiculous than the ignorant handling of a boat. Sweet Caporal wielded an oar, Slats Corbett wrestled with another one, Jakie Mattenburg gallantly manned the helm, invariably pulling the tiller-lines the wrong way, while Jim Mattenburg, with a broken and detached thwart, did his best to counteract every effort of his companions. Amid these conflicting activities the boat made no progress and the ineffectual splashing and the contradictory orders which were shouted by the several members of the gallant crew were greeted with derisive hoots from the shore.

Several times an oar slipped its lock and went splashing into the water; once Sweet Caporal himself was capsized by the catching of the unwieldy oar in its lock and tumbled ingloriously backward into the bottom of the boat.

“Pull on the left one!” shouted Jim.

“Nah, pull on de odder one!” cried Slats.

“Both pull together,” sagely suggested someone on the shore, but that was quite impossible.

“Hold de rudder in de middle’, yer gump!” shouted Sweet Caporal.

“If yer want de boat to go to de right, pull on de left rope,” shouted Jim.

“No, de right one,” corrected Sweet Caporal.

So Jakie Mattenburg took a chance with the right rope and whatever good effect that might have had was immediately counteracted by his brother who paddled frantically on the left side with his broken thwart until he lost it in the water.

This loss might have helped matters some if Jakie had not unshipped the rudder altogether, and hauled it aboard like a rebellious fish, by the long tiller-lines.

“Both sit on de same seat,” commanded Sweet Caporal, and Slats and Slats Corbett took his place alongside him, while the boat rocked perilously.

“Now, both pull together!” called one of the laughing watchers.

So they pulled together with such a frantic stroke that one of the oarlocks was lifted from its socket and dropped into the water. The sudden dislodgment of the oar precipitated Slats against one of the Mattenburg boys who thereupon announced that he would man the oar instead. While he was taking his place Sweet Caporal continued to pull frantically, the oar sliding back in its lock and the boat going around in a circle.

“Put dat rudder on,” commanded Sweet Caporal.

“Can’t find no place it fits inter,” said Jakie, reaching under the water at the stern.

“Well, paddle wid it, den,” said Slats.

So Jakie, grasping the rudder by its neck, proceeded to paddle with it off one side until the cross-bar broke and the lines got into a hopeless tangle with his arms.

“What did I tell yer?” shouted Slats.

“Now-one-two-three,” encouraged someone on shore.

Sweet Caporal, holding his oar about two feet from its end so as to lose all its leverage, pulled furiously, the blade only catching the water occasionally, Jim Mattenburg, with no oar-lock at all, improvised one hand into a lock and hauled frantically with the other one, while Jakie Mattenburg bailed the boat, which was now pretty loggy with its weight of water.

“Talk about your Yale Crew!” called one of the watchers.

“The new marine merry-go-round!” shouted another.

“Now-one-two—­”

The sharp crack of a rifle was heard from the woods on the opposite shore from the picnickers; one of the Mattenburg boys was conscious of a quick, short whizzing sound, and then Charlie, the youngest of the O’Connor boys, who was standing close to the shore, slapped his right hand quickly to his left arm, looked about bewildered, then turned suddenly pale and staggered into the arms of one of the picnic party.

“Look—­look,” he said, releasing his hand and affrightedly pointing to a little trickle of blood on his arm. “I’m—­I’m shot—­look—­”

Chapter XVI