Bart Keene's Hunting Days: or, The Darewell Chums in a Winter Camp. Chapman Allen
I know you did this time, but we didn’t have at the school the night we were hiding in the shadow. Are you sure it’s the same man?”
“Of course. I had a good look at him just as he was entering the front door of the school. The moon was as bright as it is to-night, and he had his hat pushed back. Oh, it’s the same fellow all right. Besides, didn’t he run when he found out his face had been seen? I thought there was something suspicious about him when I was shooting against him, but I couldn’t tell what it was. However, he realized that we were after him.”
“I don’t see how that can be,” spoke Frank. “He doesn’t know we’re the fellows who are accused of taking the bracelet, for he is a stranger in town. And, anyway, he doesn’t know that we saw him entering the school – that is providing it’s the same man, Bart.”
“Oh, it’s the same man all right, and I wouldn’t be surprised but that he was suspicious of us. Else why did he hurry away so quickly? I wish we could have caught him.”
“Maybe we’d better notify the police,” suggested Ned.
“No,” declared Bart. “We’ve gotten along so far without their help, and we’ll work this out alone. Besides, the minute we notify the police we’ll have to explain why we didn’t tell about the man before, and that won’t do. No, we’ll keep mum. Let’s look a little farther.”
They continued on down the main street, with short excursions into alleys and side thoroughfares, but all to no purpose. No trace of the man was to be seen, and they returned home tired from their run, and somewhat discouraged.
The chums said nothing to their folks of their experience at the gallery, though Bart’s fame as a shot spread among his school companions, and there was some speculation as to who the stranger might have been.
“Whoever he was, he’s almost as good a shot as you are, Bart,” remarked Sandy Merton. “You ought to arrange for a return match with him.”
“Perhaps I would – if I could find him,” agreed Bart.
“That’s so he did go out rather suddenly,” went on Sandy. “Do you know who he was?”
“No, I wish I did,” murmured Bart, and then he changed the subject, fearing Sandy might ask leading questions.
The police had practically given up looking for the diamond bracelet, and Professor Long made no further references to it, though it was easy to see by his manner that he had not forgotten it. An undefinable air of suspicion hung over the four chums, though Fenn, from the fact that he had not entered the school, was, more or less, exempt. But he would not have it so.
“No,” Stumpy said, “if one of us is guilty we all are – only, as a matter of fact, none of us is. We’ll find that bracelet yet, and the missing turtle, too. If not this fall or winter, we will this spring. I know a new swamp where lots of turtles are, and we’ll have a try at that some day,” he told his chums.
Meanwhile matters at school continued to fill most of the time of the chums. The Darewell institution was a large one, and, of late, a number of secret societies had been formed among the junior and senior students. Sandy Merton was president of one of the junior organizations, known as the “Shamma Shig,” in comic reference to some of the college Greek letter fraternities.
“Why don’t you fellows join our society?” Sandy asked Bart and his chums, one day.
“I’m afraid we’d be ballotted against, and it would spoil our good records,” answered Fenn.
“Get out!” exclaimed Sandy, good-naturedly. “Come on, let me propose your names. We want a bigger membership, and I can guarantee that you’ll get through all right.”
“What about the initiation?” asked Frank. “Some we’ve been through have been pretty stiff.”
“Well, we don’t claim to have the easiest rites in the school, but they’re not so fierce,” replied the president proudly. “I can tip the fellows off, and we can make an exception in your cases, if you like, only – ”
“No, you don’t!” exclaimed Bart, quickly. “We’ll take all that’s coming to us – that is if we join. We’ll think about it.”
The chums talked matters over among themselves that night, and came to the conclusion that it would be a good plan to join the “Shamma Shigs.”
“All right, then, we’ll do it,” concluded Bart. “I’ll let Sandy know, and he can get the goat ready for us to ride.”
The initiation took place three days later, in the afternoon, and was held before a “crowded house” in the barn owned by Sandy’s uncle.
“Here are four worthy and gentle knights, who seek admission to our ranks,” announced Sandy, who was disguised with a sheet, all splashed over with red paint, to represent blood. He had a hickory nut in his mouth, to make his voice sound deep and hoarse, and was supported on either side by one lad in a purple sheet, and another one in yellow, the trio forming the “Mystic Three.”
Bart, Fenn and the others were put through some strenuous exercises, including the riding of a “goat” which was a saw-horse, with knots and bumps of wood nailed here and there on it, to represent bones. They were dipped into the rain-water barrel by means of a rope and pulley, and they were cast from “the terrible height into the awful chasm,” which ordeal consisted merely in being pushed down a space of about three feet, upon some hay, but being blindfolded was supposed to make up for the difference.
Then they had to climb a steep “mountain” which was an old horse tread-mill, geared up unusually high, and finally had to “drink the terrible cup,” which was supposed to be some horrible mixture, but which was really only molasses, ginger and water.
“Now for the final test,” proposed Sandy, to the four. “Are ye ready for the last act, or are ye timid and do ye shrink back from the terrible danger that confronts ye? If so, speak, an’ ye shall be allowed to depart in peace. But, if ye would brave the awful dangers and gloom of the bottomless pit, say the word, an’ then shall ye be true knights of the Shamma Shigs.”
“Go ahead, we’re ready,” replied Bart, irreverently.
“Let her flicker,” added Ned.
“’Tis well – blindfold them,” ordered Sandy, giving his red-spotted robe a shake.
“What, again?” asked Frank.
Sandy did not answer, but thick bandages were put over the eyes of the candidates. Then from sounds that took place in the barn they knew that a horse was being hitched up.
“We’re going to have a ride,” observed Fenn.
“Quiet, Stumpy,” cautioned Bart, in a whisper. “Keep still, and let’s see if we can catch on to what they’re doing.”
A little later their hands and feet were bound, and the candidates were put into a large wagon, and the drive began. It lasted for some time, and, try as they did, Bart and his chums could not imagine in which direction they were being taken. But, as they were familiar with the country for several miles in any point of the compass from Darewell, they were not worried.
“Halt!” Sandy finally ordered, and the creaking, jolting wagon came to a stop.
“Ye have one more chance, candidates,” went on the president, as he touched the foreheads of the four with something cold and clammy – a hand, from the feel of it, but it was only a rubber glove, filled with cracked ice. “One more chance ere ye dare the dangers of the bottomless pit,” went on Sandy. “Wilt withdraw?”
“Naw, let her go,” replied Fenn nonchalantly.
“’Tis well. The bottomless pit awaits ye,” threatened Sandy, and then, one at a time, the four were carefully lowered over the side of the wagon, down into some depths, as they supposed, but in reality only a short distance, so strangely are distances rendered when one is blindfolded.
“Ye are now in the pit, whence there is no escape,” went on Sandy,