CHAPTER XVII

MAROONED!

Tim and Harmon watched Pud until the bend of the stream intervened and then, somewhat dejectedly, nosed the skiff to the bank and sat there in silence for a while. As usual, mosquitoes and gnats were numerous and bloodthirsty, but the boys had to an extent become inured to them and only when the pests invited slaughter by attacking their faces did they trouble to combat them. They sat sidewise, their feet on the seats they occupied to keep them out of the inch or two of water that covered the floor of the punt. The position was not extremely comfortable, and after a while Tim announced that he was going to get out onto the bank. Harmon followed, with Pud’s clothing, and tied the painter to a bush. There was a small space bare of shrubbery from which, by leaning forward, they could see the light in the cabin. Tim had just drawn attention to this fact when they heard the sound of the launch’s engine. They became tense as they listened. It stopped, began again. Then it became steady and its sound dwindled.

‘He’s got it,’ exclaimed Tim, ‘but he’s going downstream!’

‘How-come he do that?’ inquired Harmon.

‘Maybe she was headed down and he couldn’t turn her. How’s he going to get back here?’

‘Reckon he goin’ find him a wide place an’ turn her roun’ and shoot back quick!’

‘Yes, and they’ll shoot quick, too!’ said Tim anxiously. ‘Can you hear her now, Harmon?’

‘Yes, she still a-hummin’, but she long ways off.’

They waited. A half-hour passed, an hour. Then they forgot to keep track of time. The sky cleared magically and a million glittering white stars looked down on them. Tim gave up hope at last. ‘They got _him_,’ he concluded sadly. ‘That’s what happened. Maybe they killed him, Harmon!’

‘They mighty mean-lookin’ pair,’ agreed the darky amiably.

‘Well, my gracious goodness!’ exclaimed Tim, outraged. ‘You don’t sound like you cared if they had!’

‘Who ain’ carin’? ’Course I is! Mister Pud’s mighty fine boy. But, shucks, I don’ reckon they really _kill_ him. Maybe they pirate him.’

‘Well, I’d like to know what we’re going to do,’ said Tim despondently. ‘I’m hungry, and it’s getting cold, and my feet are wet――’

‘How-come we don’ build us a fire?’

‘Because they’d see us and come after us.’

‘They ain’ no light there now. I reckon they done gone to bed, Mister Tim. ’Sides, how they goin’ get us? They’s on ’at side of the creek and we’s on this side, an’ they ain’ got no boat, is they?’

‘N-no, maybe not, but they could swim across, couldn’t they? Or they could shoot us!’

But after another ten minutes of shivering discomfort the fact that the cabin no longer showed a light convinced even the cautious Tim that a fire would be permissible.

‘I goin’ build it down in ’at there hollow yonder,’ said Harmon, ‘and no one ain’ goin’ see it nohow.’

Fuel was not easily come by, but after some search Harmon gathered enough to start with. Fortunately, in his position of cook he carried a box of matches in the pocket not sacred to his mouth-organ, and presently from the hollow between two hummocks, a not overly dry place, a cheerful ruddy light sprang. Tim approached it warily, mindful of snakes, of which they had seen many during the last two days. Harmon continued his quest for dry branches while Tim huddled close to the fire and, in its warmth, began to see life less darkly. Harmon joined him finally and they talked of food. Harmon craved a couple of fat pork chops and lots of gravy. Tim’s thoughts dwelt fondly on roast lamb and potatoes roasted whole with the meat. He became almost lyrical in his description of the golden-brown surfaces of those potatoes, and Harmon’s eyes grew large and round as Tim pictured the juice trickling from under the carving knife as it sliced into the lamb!

But there wasn’t much lasting pleasure to be derived from such vain imaginings and presently the conversation swung back to Pud and once more they exchanged theories. It might be, they agreed, that he had captured the boat and was going down until he could get back into Two-Pond Run and ascend that stream to where they were waiting. But Tim feared that such a journey would take Pud to Swamp Hole, and he had little faith in his chum being able to escape from that dread spot with his life――to say nothing of the launch!

‘How-come they so bad in ’at there Swump Hole?’ asked Harmon.

‘I guess they’ve always been that way,’ said Tim. ‘The way I heard it, Harmon, is like this. When they were fighting the Civil War, a long time ago, there were some men around here who didn’t want to fight. So they packed up and went back in River Swamp and hid out there where no one could find them. When folks went after them, they’d hide in the bushes and shoot at ’em, or maybe they’d just get in their boats and sneak around these creeks until the folks that were hunting them got tired and went away again. Well, after a while the war got over and those men just settled down in Swamp Hole and had families and everything, and then, I guess, other folks heard about it and came, too. Anyway, my father says there’s more than fifty families in Swamp Hole, and they don’t send their kids to school or pay taxes or anything like that.’

‘Huh,’ said Harmon, ‘mus’ be mighty ign’nt folkses!’

‘’Course they are. Guess that’s one reason they’re so bad. They’re poor, too, and maybe that’s another reason.’

‘Poor folkses ain’ bad,’ objected Harmon.

‘N-no, but folks that are awfully poor and ignorant, _too_, sometimes are.’

Harmon didn’t challenge that. Instead, he asked: ‘How they live, Mister Tim?’

‘I don’t know. Some of them raise a few things; tobacco, for instance. And they do a lot of fishing.’

Conversation died for a space. Then Harmon asked, ‘When you reckons we goin’ get home again, Mister Tim?’

‘Home!’ said Tim bitterly. ‘Gosh, it doesn’t look as if we’d _ever_ get home!’

‘I’s jus’ ’bliged to be there Monday mornin’, please, sir,’ persisted Harmon anxiously. ‘I’s got me a ’gagement with Mister Tom Pawling to cut his lawn, and Mister Tom’s pow’rful uppity if’n I ain’ keep my ’gagements!’

‘I wish I was at home right now,’ said Tim longingly. ‘My goodness gracious, there isn’t any _sense_ in this! Sitting out here in an old swamp without any supper or any bed! Gosh, I wish I was in my own bed this minute.’

‘Ain’ ’at the truth?’ agreed the other sympathetically. ‘Folkses is always wantin’ be where they ain’. Some time when I’s lyin’ all wrop up warm in my own bed I’s goin’ say to myself, “Lawsey, ’at certainly was one fine ol’ time me an’ Mister Tim have ’at night we was in the swump sittin’ roun’ li’l’ ol’ fire an’ talkin’!” Yes, sir, I’s certainly goin’ say ’at very thing!’

‘Humph,’ grunted Tim with a perceptible lack of enthusiasm. ‘It won’t ever bother me any to be wrapped up warm in my own bed!’ He shivered. ‘And if I ever do get home again,’ he added emphatically, ‘I’ll be satisfied to stay there! Next time Pud Pringle gets me to go on any old cruise with him――_What’s that?_’

Tim broke off to start nervously at the sound of a soft rustling in the bushes behind him. ‘Didn’t you hear it?’ he demanded, looking around apprehensively. ‘Suppose it was a snake?’

‘No, sir, ain’ no snakes traipsin’ roun’ this time o’ night, Mister Tim. They all in bed an’ asleep. Reckon it was a turkle. Lots of turkles in this ol’ swump.’

‘You mean turtles. Anyway, I guess snakes do crawl around at night, because I’ve heard them.’

‘You is?’ Harmon’s tone held doubt. Then: ‘Mister Tim, was I ever tellin’ you ’bout Sawyer Beeson an’ the rattlesnake?’

‘No. Who’s Sawyer Beeson?’

‘He’s a colored man what use’ to work with my pa in the chair fac’ry. He ain’ livin’ roun’ here no more. Please, sir, let me tell you ’bout him an ’at rattlesnake.’

‘Go ahead,’ said Tim, yawning.

Harmon laid a couple of branches on the small fire and hunched himself forward, hugging his bare black knees. ‘This here Sawyer Beeson was a mighty lazy, no-coun’ nigger, Mister Tim. Times he’d work a li’l’ in the fac’ry an’ times he wouldn’ do no work at all. You knows Mister Sam Glendon ’at lives up at the Park? Well, one time this Sawyer Beeson was doin’ some sort o’ work for Mister Glendon up at his house and Mister Glendon he say to Sawyer, “Sawyer, you fotch me a rattlesnake, an’ I pays you five dollars.” “My goodness, Mister Glendon,” Sawyer say, “what you-all wantin’ with a rattlesnake?” “I wants him for a specimens,” Mister Glendon tell him. “You go catch one an’ brung him to me ’live an’ I hands you five dollars.”

‘Well, sir, Sawyer was needin’ five dollars ’bout ’at time an’ so he ponders awhile. And then he goes an’ gets him a gunny sack and cuts him a forked stick and goes lookin’ for Mister Rattlesnake. He clumb up on Coop’s Hill where the water-tower’s at, but he ain’ fin’ no snakes at all. Then he goes on back a piece over roun’ ’at place where the ol’ quarry used to be, an’ after a while he sees him a rattlesnake. Mr. Rattlesnake ain’ doin’ nothin’ at all but ’joyin’ the weather outside his home, an’ he kin’ o’ sleepy, maybe. So Sawyer Beeson he done crup up on ol’ snake an’――bam!――he put ’at forked stick down over his neck! Mister Rattlesnake he twis’ an’ he turn an’ he flip an’ he flop, but ’twan’t no use at all. Then Sawyer he spread out ’at there gunny-sack an’ he say to Mister Rattlesnake, ‘You go on in there ’fore I busts you’ head for you!’ Then he sort o’ eases up on ’at forked stick an’ Mister Rattlesnake he crawls right at ’at gunny-sack! First his head goes an’ then his middle an’ then his tail an’ then his rattles, an’ when his button’s done out o’ sight Sawyer he grabs up the gunny-sack quick by a string what he’s got aroun’ the top of it and he pulls it shut mighty sudden!

‘’Twas a long ways back to town an’ Sawyer he was mighty nigh dead by the time he gets to Mister Sam Glendon’s. ’Cause, you see, Mister Tim, he has to hold ’at there gunny-sack clear away from him, like this, an’ his arms gits powerful tired. He ain’ wantin’ ’at snake to bite him through the sides of ’at bag. No, sir! Lots o’ times he wants to lay ol’ gunny-sack down, but he’s afraid he ain’t got it tied right tight an’ he’s scared to do it. So he keep on a-walkin’, changin’ arms mighty frequent, an’ after a while he ’rives at Mister Glendon’s. “I done fotch ’at snake you asks me for,” he say. “Does I get me ’at five dollars?” “You certainly does,” Mister Glendon say. “Is he a big snake, Sawyer?” “Well, to tell the truth, Mister Sam,” Sawyer tell him, “he ain’ so powerful prodigious, sir, but he’s the weightenes’ snake I ever carries, sir!” So Mister Glendon he gets him a cage and opens it and Sawyer he cuts the string of ’at there gunny-sack an’ he drops it in the cage an’ they waits for Mister Rattlesnake to come out an’ say “Howdy.” But he ain’ show hisself, an’ after a-while Mister Glendon get him a stick an’ poke ol’ bag around. But still Mister Rattlesnake ain’ come out. So Mister Glendon he lifts ’at bag up and shakes it an’ there ain’ no snake there at all! No, sir, ’at ol’ Mister Rattlesnake he jus’ crawl _under_ ’at gunny-sack ’stead of _into_ it, an’ all time Sawyer was pullin’ it tight Mister Rattlesnake was a-lyin’ right there laughin’ at him! Yes, sir, jus’ a-bustin’ his sides, I reckon! Mister Glendon he done give Sawyer two-bits ’stead o’ five dollars, ’cause, he say, the way Sawyer look when he see they ain’ no rattlesnake, an’ he ’members how he nigh wore hisself out carryin’ ’at gunny-sack home, was wuth it!’

Tim, whose eyes had closed more than once during the leisurely narrative, chuckled sleepily. ‘It’s a good story, Harmon,’ he murmured. ‘Guess I’ll just lie down awhile and――’

He didn’t finish the remark. He didn’t need to. He was already asleep. Harmon placed another branch on the flames, looked appraisingly at the slender stock of fuel remaining and shook his head. After a moment his hand stole into his pocket and emerged with his mouth-organ. He viewed it longingly and then glanced at the slumbering Tim. After a period of hesitation he shook his head again, replaced the faithful instrument in his pocket and curled himself up by the fire.