Unmindful of the jeers and jibes hurled at their heads, Dean Mercer and Jack Carboy stopped abruptly, as they saw that their efforts were in vain.
The Warrior was already moving steadily down the lake and beyond their recall.
“Shiver my timbers!” yelled Jack, “ye hev shipped without your crew, ye blasted shell o’ a land-locked sea.”
While Jack was greatly disturbed over the disappointment of losing passage on the Warrior, Dean felt his defeat more keenly.
Besides the mortification of having been left behind by what looked like his own negligence, he realized that for two or three reasons it was necessary for them to get to Springfield that evening.
They were expected to bring up the new boat, and to fail at the outset portended failure rather than success in their undertaking.
But of even more importance to Dean was the discharge of the errand intrusted to him by Mr. Montague. In this case a human life was at stake. If he should fail to reach Springfield in season to deliver the papers in his care as they should be, it was possible that an innocent person would suffer for his neglect.
The successful man is he who can act quickly in an emergency. That is the one great secret of success.
Fortunately Dean Mercer was prompt in his decisions. While his companion stormed like a September gale over their disappointment as he watched the old steamer fast disappearing from his sight, Dean recollected that the stage for the lower towns started about the same time as the boat.
“There is another chance for us, Jack!” he cried enthusiastically. “I think we shall be in season to take the stage to Landlock, where we can take the packet to Springfield, providing we can get there before the boat.”
“Avast there, younker--I mean high admiral!” and Jack, instead of completing his sentence, executed a salute in token of his blunder.
Hurried, impatient, excited, Dean Mercer, knowing he had no time to waste if he would accomplish his purpose, darted swiftly along the street, Jack following as best he could.
But the latter soon found himself unequal to the gait set him by his young companion, and, stopping short in his laborious advance, he bellowed at the top of his lungs:
“Ship ahoy! reef yer topsails or this ol’ craft’ll ground!”
Dean Mercer, awakened to what he was doing, quickly came to a standstill, turning an inquiring gaze upon his companion, who was puffing and blowing like a porpoise.
“Shiver (puff) my (puff) toplights (puff), admiral (puff-uff-ff). Ye’ve left (puff) crew, coxswain and man at the wheel (puff) in the weather eye.”
“Pardon me, Jack,” said Dean. “I was so anxious I forgot you could not keep pace with me in this race. The fact is, we have got to hurry or we shall miss the stage.”
“Then let her kite in the wind’s eye, and leave this ol’ craft ahind. Blast my picter, lad--I mean, admiral, axin’ yeh pardin, didn’t I tell ye to h’ist yer jib and kiter? Ol’ Jack’ll foller as soon as he gits his bearings and his ballast in this land-lubbered v’yage.”
“Hello, Dean!” called out a familiar voice at Dean’s elbow, before he could reply. “We’re in luck. But what’s up?”
It was Mr. Montague speaking, and as soon as he could recover his self-composure, Dean saw the boy he had saved from the vengeance of Tim Downey beside the latter.
“Excuse me, Mr. Montague. We have missed the Warrior, and we are on our way to catch the stage for Landlock.”
“Missed the Warrior?” asked the lawyer incredulously. “That’s a pretty go.”
“It is, Mr. Montague. You see, she started before we expected. But I 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:
