  The little plateau above the Glen was a pleasant place enough—a smooth, shadowy stretch of greensward marked here and there with the remains of more than one Lenape campfire. Here the trailers paused only long enough to cast off their blanket-packs, and then raced in a body for the steep, twining path leading down the wall carved out in past ages by the running stream at its foot. “Now for a swim!” was the cry as, helter-skelter, the boys scrambled down the path that zigzagged through the underbrush. Dirk paused at the bottom of the cleft, and falling slightly behind the others, searched for the pot-holes that Ugly Brown had described. There they were—smooth shafts of varying widths, sunken into the rocky floor over which the stream trickled softly. Taking a stick, Dirk probed one of them, and found at the bottom a few water-worn stones whose action had drilled, in the course of many decades, a deep hole in solid granite. “The biggest hole of all is under the falls,” Brick Ryan shouted from below him. “Come on, my son—all the other guys are gettin’ wet already!” He disappeared from sight at a turn in the path leading down-stream, from whence Dirk could hear the boisterous shouts of his comrades rising above the splashing roar of falling water. None the less, he did not hasten, for the wonders of the Glen were too many to be hastily passed over. He walked slowly, gazing at the many-colored flowers and unknown trees that arched the stream. Several hundred yards down, the path wound about a steep drop over which the water boiled and bubbled—a miniature Niagara. From his place, Dirk could look directly down into a seething basin hollowed in the rock. Below this fell away the bed of the stream in an incline of sheeted, mossy shale, upon which sprawled the naked forms of the trailers. Wild Willie Sanders, with ear-splitting yells, was coasting down the slide head first, and landed in the broad pool below like a noisy otter. Spray from the falls sprinkled Dirk’s face, and he hurried to strip off his dusty garments and join in the fun. As he took his place on the slide, the rills of water from the side of the falls were so icy that he cried out. “Brr-r-r! Boy, talk about cold!” “Get warmed up swimming down here in the pool,” advised Sagamore Carrigan, who was floating about in the crystal water beneath the slide. “Then you won’t feel it!” Dirk watched Spaghetti Megaro, who was plunging a long pole into the great pot-hole directly underneath the falls. The pole sank out of sight, and shortly after shot into the air, to be caught by the Italian lad. “That’s plenty deep, you bet!” grinned Megaro. “They call this one the Devil’s Cauldron. Some shower-bath if you get in this tub! Once when I was here, Wally Rawn got in and tried to dive down to bottom—but he didn’t find no bottom, not at all. He got out plenty quick.” Dirk hastily removed himself from the brink of the treacherous-looking hole, and joined the divers who plunged into the pebble-bottomed pool below. The swim period was short, not only because the hikers were hungry, but because the water was so chill that too long exposure might be dangerous to health. After a brisk rub-down the trailers, glowing with vim, donned their cast-off clothes and started for the plateau above, where Cowboy Platt was already building a small cooking-fire for the noonday meal. Lingering behind alone, Dirk dressed slowly, pausing now and then to watch the flight of a bird, or to mark some strange formation of rock along the walls of the Glen. At last he picked up his dripping towel and started up the path to rejoin his friends. When he came once more to the bend directly above the falls, he paused for a last look at the impressive sight. As he stared down at the racing waters, a clump of star-shaped flowers on a tough-leafed bush caught his eye. He had never seen such strange bright blossoms before, but Sagamore Carrigan could tell him all about them. It struck him that it would be a good thing to get some and take them with him to the others. Spreading his feet firmly on the slippery path, he reached down to snatch the plant from its perch in a crevice in the rocky cliff. It was too far. He knelt, and dropping one leg over to balance himself, made a second attempt. Still the nodding flowers were a tantalizingly few inches from the tips of his fingers. Tossing his head with annoyance, he made a swift swoop. As his hand touched the fringe of the bush, he felt the earth beneath his weight stir and slip. In sudden terror, he dropped the fragment of the bush and dug in the toes of his heavy shoes, painfully trying to scramble back to safety. He grunted with the effort; but inch by inch the treacherous loose dirt gave way. A fearful glance over his shoulder, and he shut his eyes, dizzied by the hissing rush of the leaping rapids beneath his kicking legs. A rattle of stones; and then, with a despairing shriek, he plunged backward into the foaming falls! The breath was knocked from his chest as he struck the seething surface of the giant pot-hole—the Devil’s Cauldron! Down, down he sank, freezing water filling his nose and open mouth and shutting off all chance of summoning help. The sunshine was far above him, seen dimly through a glassy green froth, and the roar of the rattling falls was drumming in his ears. Desperately he kicked his leaden feet and fought his way upward, the blood hammering in his veins. One outstretched arm caught at the slippery edge of the hole and clung fiercely. Upon his unsheltered head, battering drops fell like hailstones. He had barely time to suck in a mouthful of air when the force of the spinning current tore his handhold loose, and again he dropped into the Cauldron’s depths. This time he felt weaker, chilled by the glacial stream and beaten by its pounding force. It was dark now. Dimly he wondered if they would ever find his body in that bottomless well.... An unseen hand was gripping him by the hair, hauling him upward toward light and life. Again the bullets of water struck his face and throat, but strong arms were about his shoulders. His chest scraped against the jagged margin of the pool; like a sodden bag of meal, he was pulled out of the clutch of that grim torrent. He gasped, spat, and rolled over on his back. Somewhere above him, a bird was whistling. He opened one eye. Bending over him, with a serious look on his freckled face, was Brick Ryan. “Are you alive, my lad? Gorries, say you’re all right!” Dirk choked, and tried to sit up, but fell back weakly. “I—I’m safe! It was horrible, down there——” “Now, don’t try to talk. Take it easy for a minute. There, that better? Gee, you sure must have had a bad time of it! I was comin’ along down the creek to see what was keepin’ you, and heard you yell.” “I was—trying to get some of those flowers up there, and slipped.” Above him, through his moist eyelashes, he saw the coveted blossoms swaying slightly in the midday breeze. “Huh! Well, that’s called rhododendron, and it’s against the law to pick it in this state! If you’re feelin’ better, I’ll help you up to camp, and we’ll dry out your duds.” Fearing that delay might bring severe consequences, Dirk crawled to his feet, and shivering in his sodden garments, allowed himself to be led up-stream, leaning heavily upon the lad who had pulled him from that deadly bath. At the foot of the path leading to the camping place, he turned and faced his friend. “Brick,” he said soberly, “you’ve saved my life. I—I can’t put it in words, but if ever there’s anything——” The red-haired boy grinned and patted his arm. “Forget it!” he muttered gruffly. “You’d have done the same if it had been me.” “But all the same——” “Come on, old son, before you freeze to death. Climb, my lad!” At the summit, the rest of the trailers were lying about on their packs, and there was a brisk smell of wood-smoke and frying bacon in the air. Mr. Carrigan leaped to his feet as he saw the two boys, and without asking for any explanation, had Dirk’s dripping garments stripped off in short order, and after a rough rub-down he was stowed between a pair of warm blankets and told to rest. Dirk had been living in the open for more than a week now, and long before his wet clothes were dried before the fire, he felt none the worse for the mishap that might so easily have taken his life. The councilor brewed him a cup of warm, heartening soup that brought his strength back quickly; and when an hour had passed he convinced the man that he was himself again and ready to travel. “We don’t have far to go now,” announced Sagamore Carrigan. “It’s only a couple miles to the river and Skinner’s Ferry, where the canoes are; and from there we can paddle to Kittahannock Lodge in no time—that’s where we stop for the night.” Once more the hikers put their blanket-rolls over their shoulders and set out, following the dirt road that led westward from the Glen toward the river. The councilor now had a hard time to keep them together, so anxious were they to reach the ferry where the canoes waited for them; but he held them to the same steady pace. Dirk was forced to admit to himself that he was tired now, and he was glad when they crossed a stone bridge over a creek and came in sight of the ferry. An unpainted, low frame building with a roof of “shakes,” or shingles split with an ax, lay beside a rude wharf at which was moored a flat-bottomed scow. Such was the ancient Skinner’s Ferry that dated back to Revolutionary days. On the wharf lay the three Lenape canoes, ready for their voyage into the wilderness. There was now no thought of restraining the eager lads, and Dirk, with the rest, broke into a run that ended on the narrow wharf. An old and bent ferryman came from the house to announce that the equipment brought from camp on the wagon awaited them within. Now began a busy half-hour of packing and launching the light craft. It was settled that Dirk and Brick Ryan would handle the Sachem, in which would be stowed the cooking outfit, rations, and odds and ends of camp outfit, while the other members of the party divided into two crews of three campers each to manage the Red Fox and the Whiffenpoof. When the equipment had all been stowed inside the rubber tarpaulins and lashed firmly to the thwarts, so that it would not be wet or lost in case of an upset, Dirk and his partner each took an end of their vessel and dropped it overside into the sheltered water below the wharf. As Dirk climbed into his place at the bow, he took care to make sure that his first misadventure with his canoe at Lenape should not be repeated; and in the wake of the other two craft, they shoved forth into the stream, shouted a farewell to the bent ferryman, and began paddling swiftly. Mr. Carrigan, in the stern of the Red Fox, led the way, with Megaro at the bow paddle and Ugly Brown riding amidships. At a distance of a few lengths followed the Whiffenpoof, carrying Cowboy Platt, Saunders, and Steve Link. Dirk dipped and pulled his paddle in fast time, for their course lay diagonally across the current, which at this place rippled whitely over its stony bed. “Make for the point!” shouted the councilor. “That’s Kittahannock Lodge, where we sleep tonight!” Ahead the broad river made a turn, and at the bend a tall white flagpole rose from a clump of trees, tinged with sunset gold. Dirk gave it a glance, and bent to his straining task, while Brick fulfilled the delicate job of keeping the light vessel on its path. On flew the Sachem, as if glad to be afloat and bearing her owner farther and farther toward the northern wilds. Once Dirk paused momentarily to catch his breath. He looked back to the shore that they were leaving. A road wound along the edge of the river, above the ferry, and along it crawled a small automobile with a plume of dust rising behind it. Dirk saw it only for a moment before it disappeared from sight behind a low hill. But he was sure, as he turned again to his paddling, that the car was a blue sedan, and that he knew the slight figure of the man that hunched over the wheel. It was the mysterious fisherman they had surprised on the shore of Lake Lenape some days before. |
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