CHAPTER V.

AN AMAZING DISCOVERY.

Dean Mercer saw the tumble of his friend with dismay, thinking he would be killed, but the stage driver did not seem to notice the catastrophe. In fact, he seemed to be oblivious of the damage done to the old coach as he continued to let his horses fly down the road at a headlong rate, his only aim appearing to be to keep them along the middle of the highway.

Jack Carboy, however, was very much alive to the situation, and, as the stage thumped along, he stormed out in no uncertain tone for him to stop.

Apparently enjoying the mad gait they were making, the driver paid no heed to the command of the excited seaman. Then Jack awoke to action, and proved himself equal to the occasion in his way.

“Avast there, ye dumbfounded landlubber! I say, a man overboard!”

Still that headlong gait was kept up.

Seizing upon the reins, Jack jerked them from the old stager’s grasp, at the same time yelling:

“Throw over the anchor!”

Putting action to words, the excited sailor, half rising in his seat, tossed the reins out over the dashboard into space.

So well did he calculate that they dropped over a mile stone beside the road, proving a most effective “anchor.” The leather was strong, and the sudden strain upon the bits of the horses brought the animals back upon their haunches, and the next moment horses, passengers and coach were piled in a promiscuous heap.

The vehicle was upset, so the passengers inside were flung into the midst of the débris with fearful force.

The driver was thrown completely under the heels of the horses, while Jack Carboy was a-straddle of the neck of the nigh horse.

Dean Mercer, younger and more nimble, landed squarely upon his feet in the middle of the road, and, though roughly shaken up, he soon found he had received no injuries.

“Port yer helm!” cried Jack. “We’re on the breakers!”

“Easy, there, Jack,” cried Dean, who quickly recovered his self-possession enough to go to the rescue. “Keep their heads down and I will free them from the stage.”

By this time the driver had managed to crawl out of his position, and, having received only a few slight bruises, he lent his aid to the others.

Inside of as many minutes the three had freed the animals, when they staggered to their feet, where they stood trembling and dazed.

“Drat that infernal ijit! Let me get my paw on him,” cried the driver, starting toward Jack Carboy, who had precipitated the catastrophe.

It is difficult to say what would have happened had not Dean sprang between the two.

“This is no time for personal quarrels,” he said. “We must see how it has fared with those inside the coach, Mr. Dolittle.”

Perhaps the latter had begun to realize that he was likely to meet a Tartar in the person of the brawny sailor, who seemed as willing to meet him in a hand-to-hand struggle as he might be, for the driver quickly followed the advice of Dean.

It was soon found that none of the passengers had sustained broken limbs, or any injuries that might prove serious, though two at least had received severe cuts, and all were badly shaken up.

“I think you can attend to them,” said Dean. “I must see what has happened to the boy who was on top of the coach. I am afraid he has been killed.”

Dean was obliged to return over their course nearly a quarter of a mile before he reached the place where Marcus Ellison had been thrown from the top of the stage. He had no trouble in finding the spot, and, parting the bushes growing by the wayside, he discovered the motionless form of the boy lying in their midst.

“He is dead,” he thought, as he broke his way through the undergrowth to the side of the unconscious youth.

“I do not find any evidence of his having been hurt, except his clothes are torn and there are scratches on his face. The bushes must have broken the force of his fall. Ha! he breathes; he lives!”

Dean managed to drag the other out into a small, cleared spot, where he began a hasty examination of him.

Marcus was showing signs of recovering his senses, and in a few minutes he lifted his head and stared around him.

“Where am I?” he murmured.

“Safe,” replied Dean, “and I hope suffering no more serious mishap than sore joints and possibly a headache.”

It proved that the bushes had so broken the momentum of his involuntary plunge from the top of the coach that he had come out of the adventure as well as the others.

Jack was calling to them, so Dean dashed back into the road to answer the summons.

“If you feel like it we had better join them,” said Dean.

“I do. In fact, I shall soon feel as well as ever.”

On their way to rejoin the group about the stage, Dean told Marcus what had taken place.

Mr. Dolittle was examining the coach to see if it was injured so they could not continue their journey, and he finally concluded that if they had a stout stick to place under the body on that side, it would enable the vehicle to carry the party. A small dry sapling was found in the woods, and this was made to answer the purpose required.

While the other men, barring Jack Carboy, whose usefulness was rather questionable at that time, were attending to this work, the driver hitched the horses to the stage, so inside of fifteen minutes they were ready to resume their journey.

If Jim Dolittle had his misgiving of the eccentric old seaman, so did the latter have his misapprehensions of “the ol’ tug without a rudder.”

“Blamed if the fool shall set on the driver’s seat!” muttered the stager.

“Shiver my toplights, if Ol’ Jack Carboy straddles the lookout o’ thet craft,” exclaimed the other.

A compromise was effected by having Jack stand on the step of the near side, which he declared was more “shipshape.”

The balance of the trip to Landlock had to be made at a slow gait; so slow that Dean and Marcus worried lest the _Warrior_ should leave the place before they could get there.

So she would if it had not been that her usual ill fortune followed the _Warrior_.

It proved that sufficient repairs had not been made at Millville so that the packet was two hours late at Landlock, and Dean’s party had over an hour to wait.

Jack fumed and fretted over this suspense, declaring that when they got the new boat to running there would be no such “land-lubberish doings.”

Landlock is most peculiarly situated where a cove of the inland sea known as Lake Seneca cuts into the shore in the shape of a huge heart, high bluffs on the opposing sides overhanging the water. The town, which does not contain more than two thousand inhabitants, lies at the point of the shore line.

When Jack Carboy had seemed to exhaust his vocabulary of invectives against the tardy boat, it came into sight, and with provoking slowness reached the pier.

In the bustle and excitement Dean caught sight of Colonel Darringford and his scapegrace son, the former showing deeply the effects of his potations of liquor and his anger at the delays already made in the passage.

The captain had declared that it would be impossible to continue the trip without further repairs, and he had reluctantly consented to an hour’s stop at Landlock for this purpose.

As Dean’s party went aboard Rodney Darringford stared insolently at them, while Tim Downey, in the background, watched them as a cat watches a mouse it is about to pounce upon.

“Wonder where they picked up that tenderfoot,” he asked aside of Rodney.

“Don’t know. Perhaps he is going to work on the new boat.”

“Mebbe. Say, don’t that miserable top of a Mercer carry a high head, though?”

“Higher’n he will to-morrow, according to my calculations. Say, I have given them stateroom Number 40.”

“The one with the secret opening?” asked Tim, while a look of delight swept over his countenance.

“The same. I do not think I need to tell you what there is for you to do, if you are going to follow this matter up.”

“I am. I’ll take stateroom Number 41,” and the youthful plotter turned away with a wicked smile on his lips.

Keeping far enough away so as not to attract their attention, he watched the three until they went to their quarters, when Tim Downey was not seen again for more than an hour. Then he sought his associate in crime, Rodney Darringford.

The _Warrior_ was again moving laboriously toward her destination, with a fair prospect of finishing the trip in safety.

“Well?” asked Rodney.

“That secret opening just let me overhear and see all they said and done,” said Tim. “That strange kid is the boy of Rob Ellison, whose case has been handled by ol’ Montague at Millville. It seems they hev got hold of some papers that are going to clear the kid’s daddy, and Dean Mercer had ’em, together with a thousand dollars.”

“A thousand dollars?” demanded young Darringford, a look of greed coming into his eyes.

“Yes. Ye jess wait and hol’ yer tongue, fer there’s sumthin bigger’n thet coming. Mercer has handed thet money and ’em papers over to the kid.”

“We must get the money,” affirmed Rodney, unable to remain silent.

“Shet yer jaw,” muttered Tim. “How do you think I’m going to chin so’s to make mysel’ heard with your potato trap rattling all the time.”

This impudent speech succeeded in keeping the other quiet long enough for Tim to say:

“Of course we are going to get it, and a bigger bundle o’ boodle along with it. Now comes the hair-lifting part. Dean Mercer has in his pocket, for I see him put it there a check for eight thousand dollars, with which to pay for that new boat. Jess think o’ thet--eight thousand dollars!”

Tim’s eyes did not show greater expression of greedy anticipation than did Rodney Darringford, as he caught him by the arm, saying in a husky tone:

“Is that all, Tim?”

“As if thet isn’t enough.”

“But did you find out how he is pay over this check and take possession of the boat?”

“He’s to go to Brown, Sewall and Company, and pay over the check in the morning. I think he and that ol’ salt are to stay on the steamer to-night, but the Ellison kid is to go to his stopping place to-night, as soon as we get to Springfield.”

Rodney Darringford was silent for what seemed a long time to Tim Downey. Then he leaped to his feet, saying:

“I have it. Nothing could be easier. We’ll cooper the whole game.”

“I’m fixed for the kid,” remarked Tim, who did not intend that anyone should get ahead of him in schemes redounding to his benefit.

“By jove! no better than I am for Dean Mercer. I once swore the day would come when I would get even with him for his meddling with my affairs, and that day, or rather night, has come.”