Fighting for fortune or, Making a place for himself
think we can intercept her at Landlock by cutting across the country by
the stage. That is, if the stage has not got started.”
“So you can, Dean. And if the stage has got started you must take a
team. That will do it. Excuse me. This is Marcus Ellison, the son of
Robert Ellison, whose papers I gave you. The boy is anxious about his
father, so he has come to see me. Now you and he can go to Springfield
together.”
Marcus Ellison held out his hand, saying frankly:
“I remember you, Mr. Mercer, if you do not me. I am the boy you saved
from the pummelling of that wharf bully.”
“I am glad to meet you again, and under more pleasant circumstances,
Mr. Ellison.”
“I told Marcus the papers were with you, and now I turn him over to
your care.”
“We will get to Springfield all right, Mr. Montague. I will now hand
the papers and money over to him.”
“You may keep them until we get to Springfield,” said Marcus, who was a
frank, pleasant youth for whom Dean quickly conceived a strong liking.
“I will see that you have them safely. But if Jack’s recovered his
wind, we’ll start again for the stage.”
“Heave ahead, ol’ lad--I mean admiral!” said Jack Carboy, bowing and
scraping in true nautical politeness to his companions. “This ol’
craft’s got its bearings ag’in; square the yards for a fresh breeze.”
Dean, hastily bidding adieu to Mr. Montague, resumed his way, Marcus
keeping close beside him, while old Jack did his level best to keep
along.
The Landlock stage left the stable of an old-time hostelry standing
a little south of the main street running away from the shore, and
thither Dean hastened.
“There’s the stage just starting!” he cried.
Marcus Ellison saw a lumbering vehicle drawn by a pair of horses
coming out of the yard in front of the dilapidated old stable.
“Here, driver! hold up a moment,” shouted Dean.
The grizzled stage driver was in the act of taking his whip from its
socket to swing the long lash in the air, as was his custom, winding
up with a terrific cracking of the lash, for which he was famous, when
Dean’s voice rang on his ears.
The horses seemed to know as well as their master what was wanted, and
they came to an immediate stop, while old Jim Dolittle looked askance
upon the approaching trio.
“We want passage to Landlock, Jim,” explained Dean.
“The hull of you?” asked the driver, as he ran his eye over the
approaching three.
“Yes, Jim. You can take us?”
“Not more’n one on ye. Stage full to running over now.”
From a hasty survey Dean saw that he had four passengers, which left
room for at least three more.
“You surely can take us all, Jim? We must all go.”
“Hang yer ‘musts’! I ain’t obleeged to take more passengers ’n I
wanter.”
“This is a public conveyance and you----”
“Drat the public. I reckon I ain’t obleeged to over-load my hosses jess
co’s’ there’s a public. Get up there, boys! Show a light heel, old
Thunderbolt! Rattle yer hoofs, Spotted Dan!”
Finding that the driver was not inclined to stop for him, Dean Mercer
sprang nimbly upon the crossbar of the whiffle-tree, and the next
moment took a seat beside Jim Dolittle, the old stager.
Marcus Ellison showed that he was not a whit less prompt or nimble than
his companion, for by this time he had gained a perch upon the top of
the vehicle.
In the midst of this scene, which called forth the wondering
exclamations of the regular passengers, to say nothing of the
ejaculations of the old driver, the stentorian call of Jack Carboy
could be heard for half a mile:
“Ahoy! lay to, yer land lubbers.”
“Stop, Jim!” called out Dean smartly. “My friend has got to get to
Landlock with us. You can take us as well as not.”
Seeing that he was dealing with one who would not be stopped, muttering
over something about “hot-headed boys!” the stager pulled up his
horses to wait for the old sailor.
Puffing and snorting his rage over the race he had had, Jack Carboy
soon reached the side of the coach.
“Throw the life line,” he cried. “Blast yer picters, how’s a-one going
to get aboard this craft?”
Jack quickly swung himself upward to a seat beside Dean, when Jim
Dolittle whirled his long blacksnake whip with some avail, the horses
snorted after a manner which was music to his ears, and the old coach
went rattling and bouncing along the country road at a merry pace.
“This seems like business,” declared Dean. “Here we go, Jack.”
Jack Carboy, clinging to his seat with both hands, made no reply.
The road along which the old stage was drawn by the stout horses proved
rough and hilly, so that at times the coach was given fearful jolts.
Occasionally a cry would come from one of those within the vehicle
calling for moderation in speed where the condition of the highway was
worst, but the grim old driver, aroused by the addition of his late
passengers, no doubt, seemed determined to get his revenge, proof of
which was given in his muttered words:
“I’ll gin ’em ’nough on’t. As if I didn’t know when I had load ’nough.”
“Ho! reef yer topsails!” roared Jack, as they thundered down a long,
sharp descent. “By the harpoon o’ Neptune! these seas be the roughest I
ever sailed. Hi!”
They were turning an angle in the road, while the horses were pounding
furiously forward, when the old spring on the off side snapped like
rotten twine, and the body of the coach suddenly lurched in that
direction, as if it was going to collapse entirely.
A chorus of cries from the passengers inside rang above the furious
sounds, while the startled group was thrown into a struggling body of
men and women.
But it fared worst than this with Marcus Ellison, who was riding on top
of the reeling stage. The violence of the mishap caused him to lose his
hold upon the railing of the coach top, and before he could recover
himself he was flung through the air into the dense bushes fringing the
highway.
Seeing his doubled-up form flying through the space, Jack Carboy bawled:
“Hi, there, skipper! man overboard!”
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.”