ESTABLISHING FRIENDLY RELATIONS.

Heedless of the blazing lightning, the crashing thunder and the drenching downpour, Stone and Crane remained exposed upon the shore and besieged by anxiety concerning what was taking place a short distance away upon the lake. Through the blinding rain swirl they finally perceived a dark object approaching, and, running swiftly, they reached the beach just as the wind and waves hurled upon it the canoe containing Springer and Piper.

“Where’s Grant?” cried Stone, aghast. “What made you desert him?”

“Yes, why didn’t yeou stick by, confaound ye?” snarled Crane, snatching the paddle as Phil staggered up beyond the reach of the water. “Yeou’ve got a lot of sand, ain’t ye?”

Sleuth floundered forth, gasping, and he grabbed Sile’s arm as the latter seemed about to put off in the canoe in the face of that terrific gale.

“What are you going to do?” asked Piper.

“Leggo!” rasped the excited fellow. “I’m goin’ aout there after Rod.”

“No need of it,” was the assurance. “He’s all right.”

“Grant’s all right,” substantiated Springer. “He got Simpson to the boat, and they’re both hanging fuf-fast to it. Rod told us to get ashore as quick as we could before the canoe swamped. We cuc-couldn’t hold the old thing against the wind, and she was taking in water.”

It was no easy matter, however, to satisfy Crane; but finally, by their united efforts, Phil and Sleuth succeeded in preventing him from attempting to put out in the canoe, which was now more than half full of water.

“You couldn’t do it, anyhow,” declared Piper. “Look how the waves beat in here. You’d be swamped in half a minute.”

“What are we goin’ to do?” demanded Sile feverishly. “Be we goin’ to stand araound here and let them hang to that upsot bo’t?”

“The wind should drive them right in here,” said Stone. “There they are—there they are now!”

Like the canoe, the drifting boat was first seen through the blanketing rain as a black splotch on the water. In a few moments, however, they could discern the heads of the two lads who clung to it, and their shouts were answered by a reassuring call from Grant.

When the boat had drifted nearer Rod came wading forth from the lake, assisting Simpson, who seemed rather weak and limp. Heedless of lightning or thunder, the waiting boys stood in that downpour of rain and cheered heartily. The canoe had been carried beyond the clutch of the waves, and the beach was left free for the reception of the drifting boat, which was also drawn up securely as soon as it floated within reach.

Speechless, Simpson stumbled at Rodney’s heels as the Texan made for the tent, the front flaps of which, with commendable foresight, had been closed and buttoned by Stone and Crane. So well had the tent been pitched and guyed that it had withstood the sweep of the wind practically unmoved, and, releasing the lower button of the flap, the boys crawled inside, one after another. With the exception of Simpson, who stretched himself out, exhausted, they sat around upon the ground, a sorry-looking but triumphant bunch.

The wind howled around the tent and crashed together the limbs of the trees; through the woods it roared, with a sound scarcely less awesome than that of the almost incessant volleying of the thunder. Upon the canvas shelter the rain beat in torrents, but the structure demonstrated its quality by shedding the downfall in a wonderfully effective manner. The good judgment of Rodney in locating the camp-site upon a spot where the water would flow away in all directions was made evident by the fact that no trickling rivulets seeped into the tent.

Until the thunder and lightning began perceptibly to abate the boys wasted few words in conversation. After a time, however, to the satisfaction of all, it became evident that the storm was passing.

Simpson sat up and surveyed Rodney. “I guess,” he said slowly, “I’d sartain been drowned if you hadn’t give me a hand.”

“You don’t swim?”

“Nope; never learned how.”

“You should. Every fellow ought to know how to swim.”

“Guess that’s right, but I never had no chance.”

“Chance? What do you want? Here’s a whole lake of water to learn in.”

“But how’s a feller goin’ to learn if he ain’t got nobody to show him?”

“So that’s the trouble. Well, look here; if you want to learn and you’ll take the trouble to come around every day while we’re camping here, I’ll agree to do my best to teach you.”

“That’s generous, considerin’ our fuss about you fellers fishin’ in that brook,” said Simpson. “You must be the right sort, arter all.”

“What the dud-dickens were you doing out there in that boat?” questioned Springer. “That’s what I’d like to know.”

He was not the only one who felt curiosity concerning that point.

“Why,” answered Simpson, “I was comin’ back after deliverin’ some pertaters, onions and other truck to Mr. Granger. We keep him supplied with garden stuff. He’s good pay, and prompt.”

“Oh, I see,” nodded Rodney. “But you seemed to be making for this camp.”

“I was. I saw the storm comin’, and this was the nearest shelter; so, for all of our row, I thought I’d take a chance that you’d let me crawl under kiver here. Kinder nervy, wasn’t it?” he concluded, with a grin.

“Oh, I think we’d let you in,” said Stone.

“But why didn’t you dud-douse your sail when you saw the wind coming?” asked Phil. “If you’d pulled it down and used your oars, you’d bub-been all right.”

“Didn’t have any oars, nothing but a paddle, and I was using that to steer with. This is the first time I ever tried a sail. You see, it was pretty hard work paddlin’ that punt across the lake and back, so I decided to rig up a sail to help along. I thought I’d make shore before the wind hit me hard enough to do any damage. Bad judgment, I own up.”

“It was,” agreed the Texan. “How often do you carry garden stuff across to Granger?”

“Oh, two or three times a week.”

“What do you know about him?” questioned Piper, his interest seeming suddenly sharpened. “He was over here to call on us yesterday. What’s he doing around here?”

“Rusticating for his health, and writing.”

“Writing?”

“Yep.”

“What’s he writing?”

“Stories. Don’t you know about it? He’s one of them fellers that write stories for the papers and magazines. Funny sort of business to get paid for, ain’t it? But he says he gets paid, and he always has plenty of money.”

“Ah!” breathed Sleuth. “The mystery of Mr. Granger is solved. Now I understand why it is that he possesses such a vivid imagination and is so remarkably clever in spinning yarns and filling in the little details and touches. A writer of fiction, eh? Ha, ha, Mr. Granger; you’re found out.”

“But,” reminded Springer, suddenly recalling their experience upon Spirit Island, which had temporarily been forgotten because of the exciting adventure that had followed, “it doesn’t seem to me that there was much fiction abub-bout some of the stuff he tut-told us. Say, Simp, do people around here say that Spirit Island is haunted?”

“Oh, they tell such things,” answered the farmer’s son; “but I guess it’s all bosh. Granger has talked to me about it some. He seems to have an idee in his noddle that there’s really ghosts on that island. One day I saw some of the stuff he’d writ about it. Say, you know he don’t do his writin’ with a pen; no, sir, he has one of them new-fangled thingamajigs that prints the words jest as fast as he can pound ’em off with his fingers. Did you fellers ever know that folks got paid for makin’ up lies and writin’ ’em off for the papers? Don’t seem right, when other people have to work to get their money.” There was something like resentment in his manner.

“Every man to his trade,” laughed Grant. “The old shower is practically over, fellows. I hope the sun comes out good and warm, so we can dry our clothes comfortably.”

The thunder was still grumbling in the east, like the muttering of a fractious giant gradually falling asleep, and a few raindrops mingled with the dripping from the trees that continued to patter upon the tent. Beyond the mountains the sky was brightening, and soon a ray of sunshine burst through the dispersing clouds.

In a few minutes, the rain having ceased entirely, the boys opened the front of the tent and came forth to find the world looking bright and beautiful after its invigorating bath. Once more the lake was smiling in the sunlight, and the woods seemed to have taken on a fresher green, while the air, that had been heavy and humid before the storm, was clear and light and warm, without being depressing.

Their wet, clinging clothing was uncomfortable, but, fortunately, all of the campers had brought extra underclothes, and it would not be so difficult upon this sunny afternoon to dry their outer garments.

Simpson’s boat lay unharmed upon the sandy beach, and the paddle was found not far away, where it had been tossed by the waves. They helped him unstep the mast, for the sail would be of little use to him in making his way along that shore; and, besides, as he somewhat sheepishly confessed, he was practically cured of a desire to seek further experience in the art of sailing such a craft.

“I’ve got enough,” he admitted. “This kind of a rig ain’t no good against the wind, and it’s rather dangerous sailing her with the wind, when there is any wind to speak of.”

“Look here,” proposed Crane, “why can’t yeou bring us garden truck, same as you do Granger? We’ve made arrangements for that Dutchman, Duckelstein, to send us milk, butter and aigs, but there ain’t no need to give him a monopoly of all aour business. Besides, I’ve got a score to settle with his fat-headed boy, and mebbe after that’s over we won’t even get the stuff we’ve contracted for.” As he spoke he involuntarily touched his eye, which was still swollen, although the bandage had been removed.

“Cal’late I can fetch ye anything you want,” answered Simpson promptly. “And, considerin’ what you’ve done for me, I’ll furnish truck at a rock-bottom figger; won’t charge ye a cent more for the stuff than we can get by haulin’ it into town.”

“That sure is generous,” laughed Grant, though the farmer’s son could not comprehend why he seemed amused. “We brought only a few vegetables, and they are already practically used up. We need potatoes, onions and beans.”

“We’ve got some rippin’ good green peas,” said Simpson. “I guess some of them wouldn’t go bad.”

“Bring us a mess.”

“And beans—don’t yeou forget the beans,” cautioned Crane. “By hokey! I’m hungry for good baked beans.”

“We haven’t a pot to bake them in,” reminded Stone.

But Simpson immediately assured them that he felt certain he could supply them with a beanpot, which they might return when they were through with it.

“Leave it to me,” he said; “I’ll fetch what you want, and mebbe I’ll be able to get round with the stuff tonight. So long.”

After pushing out from the shore he paused and turned, apparently struck by a thought.

“Say,” he grinned, “jest you fellers go ahead and fish the brook over yonder all you blame please. I don’t cal’late nobody will bother ye no more.”

“Much obliged,” laughed Grant.