The Bungalow Boys in the Great Northwest. Goldfrap John Henry
of course. Nobody ain’t goin’ ter steal it, be they? Go on with yer. Mr. Dacre, come in. Hev a glass of buttermilk. Dear suz! if I ain’t run off my mortal leags, an’ – oh, you air a sniffin’, too, be yer?”
She broke off her torrent of talk as she noticed Mr. Dacre sniffing with a critical nose. The atmosphere was, in fact, impregnated with a very queer odor.
“Guess some senile egg must have gone off and died round here,” said Tom, with a snicker to Jack.
“It’s that perfusser,” explained Mrs. Bijur. “I tole him that he’d hev ter stop experimentin’ ef it was goin’ ter smell us out o’ house an’ home this er way. Awful, ain’t it?”
“Well, it is rather strong,” admitted Mr. Dacre, as they took seats in the stuffy parlor, with its wax fruit under their glass covers, the imitation lace tidies on the backs of the stiff chairs, and the noisy, eight-day clock ticking away like a trip-hammer.
“What ever is the professor doing?” he inquired.
“’Sperimentin’,” sniffed Mrs. Bijur, smoothing out her apron.
“Must be experimenting with cold-storage eggs,” put in Tom.
“No,” rejoined Mrs. Bijur gravely, “it’s some sort of a ’splosive. I tell you, Mister Dacre, I’m terrible skeered. Reely I be. S’pose thet stuff ’ud go off? We’d all be blown up in our beds.”
“Unless you happened to be awake, ma’am,” answered Mr. Dacre.
“Ah, but he don’t ’speriment only at night,” was the rejoinder. “He’s off all day huntin’ bugs and nasty crawly things. It’s only at night he works at it, an’ I tell yer, I’ve got my hands full with them Soopendyke children. They’re allers a-tryin’ to git inter the perfusser’s laboratory – he calls it. If they ever did, dear knows what ’ud happen. The perfusser says that ef any one who didn’t understand that stuff was to meddle with it, it might blow up.”
“Good gracious!” exclaimed Mr. Dacre, with mock anxiety. “I hope the young Soopendykes are all safely accounted for.”
“I dunno. There’s no telling whar them young varmints will git ter,” was the reply. “They’re every place all ter oncet, and no place long tergither. Tother day I cotched one tryin’ ter git inter the laboratory. Crawlin’ over ther roof, he was, and goin’ ter drop inter ther window by a water pipe. Seems ter me thet they are just achin’ ter blow themselves up, and – Good land! Look at ’em now!”
The widow rushed to the window and shook her fist at four young Soopendykes who were disporting themselves in the hay wagon, leaping about among the fragrant stuff, and pitching it at one another, to the great detriment of Hamish’s neat load.
“Where is Mrs. Soopendyke?” inquired Mr. Dacre, as the widow finished shooing – or imagined she had done so – the invading youngsters from their play.
“Lyin’ down with a headache,” was the rejoinder. “Poor woman, them young ’uns be a handful, an’ no mistake.”
As Mrs. Bijur seemed inclined to enlarge on her troubles, Mr. Dacre lost no time, as soon as he could do so, in explaining his errand.
“Meat!” exclaimed Mrs. Bijur. “Good land, go daown cellar and help yourself. The boys can give me some of those nice fresh fish in trade some time. No, you won’t pay me, Mr. Dacre. Dear suz, ain’t we neighbors, and – Land o’ Gosh-en!”
The last words came from the good lady in a perfect shriek. And well they might, for her speech had been interrupted by a heavy sound that shook the house to its foundations.
Bo-o-o-o-m!
“Good heavens!” cried Mr. Dacre, rushing out of the door, followed by the boys. “An explosion!”
“That thar dratted explosive soup of the perfusser’s has gone off at last!” shrieked the widow, following them in most undignified haste. As they emerged from the house, a shrill cry rang out:
“Ma-ma! Oh, ma-ma!”
“Just as I thought, it’s one of them Soopendykes!” cried Mrs. Bijur. “Good land! Look at that!”
She indicated the extension of the house, a low one-storied structure, jutting out from the rear. It was in this that the professor had set up his “laboratory,” as Mrs. Bijur called it. Her exclamation was justified.
A large hole, some three feet six inches in diameter, gaped in the once orderly tin roof. Through the aperture thus disclosed, yellow smoke was pouring in a malodorous cloud, while, on a refuse pile not far away, the eldest Soopendyke, Van Peyster, aged twelve, was picking himself up with an injured expression. His Fauntleroy suit, with clean lace cuffs and collar – fresh that morning – was in blackened shreds. His long yellow curls were singed to a dismal resemblance to their former ideal of mother’s beauty. Master Van Peyster Soopendyke was indeed a melancholy object, but he seemed unhurt, as he advanced toward them with howls of:
“I didn’t mean ter! I didn’t mean ter!”
“You young catamount!” shrilled the widow. “What in the name of time hev yer bin a-doin’ of?”
“Boo-hoo! I jes’ was foolin’ with that stuff of the professor’s an’ it went off!” howled the Soopendyke youngster, while the boys likewise exploded into shouts of laughter. In the meantime, Mr. Dacre had burst in the locked door and discovered that, beyond wrecking the laboratory, the explosion had not done much harm. He had just finished his examination when Mrs. Soopendyke, her hair falling in disorder and her ample form hastily dressed, came rushing out.
“My boy! My boy!” she cried, in agonized tones. “Van Peyster, my darling, where are you hurt; are you – ”
The good lady had proceeded as far as this when her eyes fell on the smoke-blackened, ragged object, which had been blown through the roof by the force of the explosion. Luckily, his having landed on the rubbish pile had saved his limbs. But Master Soopendyke, as has been said, was an alarming object for a fond parent’s eye to light upon.
“Oh, Van Peyster!” screamed his mother. “Great heavens – ”
“Aw, keep still, maw. I ain’t hurt,” announced the dutiful son.
“Oh, thank heaven for that! Come to my arms, my darling! My joy! Come – ”
Mrs. Soopendyke was proceeding to hurl herself upon her offspring, who was about to elude her, when from the front of the house came an appalling shriek.
“It’s Courtney!” screamed out the unhappy lady. “Oh, merciful heavens! What is happening now?”
CHAPTER III.
AN INVOLUNTARY HAY-RIDE
Louder and louder came the shrieks and cries, and the party, all of them considerably alarmed, rushed around to the front of the house to perceive what this new uproar might mean. They beheld a sight that made Mrs. Soopendyke begin to cry out in real earnest.
One of her family had, in a playful mood, removed the stones which held Hamish’s hay wagon stationary on the steep grade. As a natural result, it began to slide backward down the hill. But what had thrilled the good lady with horror, and the others with not a little alarm, was the sight of three other young Soopendykes, including the baby, on the top of the load. It was from them and from Master Courtney Soopendyke, who perceived too late the mischief he had done by removing the stones, that the ear-piercing yells proceeded.
“Oh, save them! Oh, save my bee-yoot-i-ful children!” screamed Mrs. Soopendyke, wringing her hands, as the ponderous wagon, with its screaming load of children, began to glide off more and more rapidly.
“Great Scott!” shouted Mr. Dacre. “That deep hole in the creek is at the bottom of the hill!”
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” shrilled Mrs. Soopendyke, and fainted just in time to fall into the arms of Hamish, who came running round from the barn.
“Help! Fire! Murder! Send for the fire department!”