Joe the Hotel Boy; Or, Winning out by Pluck. Alger Horatio Jr.
the two men talked in such low tones that only an occasional word could be caught by the two boys.
“They surely must be rascals,” remarked Ned, in a whisper. “I’m half of a mind to have them locked up.”
“That’s easier said than done,” answered Joe. “Besides, we haven’t any positive proofs against them.”
The wind was now rising, and it soon blew so furiously that the two boys were forced to seek the shelter of the woodshed, since they did not deem it wise to enter the lodge so long as the two men were inside. They waited in the shed for fully half an hour, when, as suddenly as it had begun, the storm let up and the sun began to peep forth from between the scattering clouds.
“Now we can go home if we wish,” said Joe. “But for my part, I’d like to stay and see what those men do, and where they go to.”
“Yes, let us stay by all means,” answered the rich youth.
They waited a few minutes longer and then Ned suggested that they look into the window of the lodge once more. The hermit’s boy was willing, and they approached the larger building with caution.
Much to their astonishment the two strangers had disappeared.
“Hullo! what do you make of that?” cried Ned, in amazement.
“Perhaps they are in one of the other rooms,” suggested Joe.
At the risk of being caught, they entered the lodge and looked into one room after another. Every apartment was vacant, and they now saw that the fire in the fireplace had been stamped out.
“They must have left while we were in the woodshed,” said Ned.
“Maybe they are out on the lake,” answered the hermit’s boy, and he ran down to the water’s edge, followed by his companion. But though they looked in every direction, not a craft of any kind was to be seen.
“Joe, they didn’t take to the water, consequently they must have left by one of the mountain paths.”
“That is true, and if they did they’ll have no nice time in getting through. All the bushes are sopping wet, and the mud is very slippery in places.”
They walked to the rear of the lodge and soon found the footprints of the two strangers. They led through the bushes and were lost at a small brook that ran into the lake.
“There is no use of our trying to follow this any further,” said Joe. “You’ll get your clothing covered with water and mud.”
“I don’t intend to follow,” answered Ned. “Just the same, I should like to know more about those fellows.”
“I wish I had seen their faces.”
“Yes, it’s a pity we didn’t get a better look at them. But I’d know their voices.”
By the time they gave up the hunt the sun was shining brightly. Both walked to where the boat had been left, and Joe turned the craft over so that the water might run out. Then he mopped off the seats as best he could.
Ned wanted to go directly home, and he and Joe rowed the craft in the direction of Riverside. As they passed along the lake shore the hermit’s boy noted that several trees had been struck by lightning.
“I’m glad the lightning didn’t strike the lodge while we were there,” said he.
“It was certainly a severe storm while it lasted, Joe. By the way, shall I say anything about those two men?”
“Perhaps it won’t do any harm to tell your father, Ned.”
“Very well, I’ll do it.”
Soon Riverside was reached, and having paid for the fish and the outing, Ned Talmadge walked in the direction of his residence. Joe shoved off from the tiny dock and struck out for his home. He did not dream of the calamity that awaited him there.
CHAPTER III
A HOME IN RUINS
As Joe rowed toward his home on the mountain side, a good mile from Riverside, he could not help but think of the two mysterious men and of what they had said.
“They were certainly rascals,” he mused. “And from their talk they must have come from New York and are now going to try some game in Philadelphia.”
The hermit’s boy was tired out by the day’s outing, yet he pulled a fairly quick stroke and it was not long before he reached the dock at which he and Hiram Bodley were in the habit of leaving their boat. He cleaned the craft out, hid the oars in the usual place, and then, with his fishing lines in one hand and a good sized fish in the other, started up the trail leading to the place that he called home.
“What a place to come to, alongside of the one Ned lives in,” he said to himself. “I suppose the Talmadges think this is a regular hovel. I wish we could afford something better,—or at least live in town. It’s lonesome here with nobody but old Uncle Hiram around.”
As Joe neared the cabin something seemed to come over him and, for some reason he could not understand, he felt very much depressed in spirits. He quickened his pace, until a turn of the trail brought the homestead into view.
A cry of alarm broke from his lips and with good reason. The little shelter had stood close to a large hemlock tree. The lightning had struck the tree, causing it to topple ever. In falling, it had landed fairly and squarely upon the cabin, smashing it completely. One corner of the cabin was in ashes, but the heavy rain had probably extinguished the conflagration.
“Uncle Hiram!” cried the boy, as soon as he recovered from his amazement. “Uncle Hiram, where are you?”
There was no answer to this call and for the moment Joe’s heart seemed to stop beating. Was the old hermit under that pile of ruins? If so it was more than likely he was dead.
Dropping his fish and his lines, the youth sprang to the front of the cabin. The door had fallen to the ground and before him was a mass of wreckage with a small hollow near the bottom. He dropped on his knees and peered inside.
“Uncle Hiram!” he called again.
There was no answer, and he listened with bated breath. Then he fancied he heard a groan, coming from the rear of what was left of the cabin. He ran around to that point and pulled aside some boards and a broken window sash.
“Uncle Hiram, are you here?”
“Joe!” came in a low voice, full of pain. The man tried to say more but could not.
Hauling aside some more boards, Joe now beheld the hermit, lying flat on his back, with a heavy beam resting on his chest. He was also suffering from a cut on the forehead and from a broken ankle.
“This is too bad, Uncle Hiram!” he said, in a trembling voice. “I’ll get you out just as soon as I can.”
“Be—be careful, Joe—I—I—my ribs must be broken,” gasped the hermit.
“I’ll be careful,” answered the boy, and began to pull aside one board after another. Then he tugged away at the beam but could not budge it.
“Raise it up Joe—it—is—crushing the life ou—out of me,” said the hermit faintly.
“I’ll pry it up,” answered the boy, and ran off to get a block of wood. Then he procured a stout pole and with this raised the heavy beam several inches.
“Can you crawl out, Uncle Hiram?”
There was no answer, and Joe saw that the man had fainted from exhaustion. Fixing the pole so it could not slip, he caught hold of the hermit and dragged him to a place of safety.
Joe had never had to care for a hurt person before and he scarcely knew how to proceed. He laid the hermit on the grass and washed his face with water. Soon Hiram Bodley opened his eyes once more.
“My chest!” he groaned. “All of my ribs must be broken! And my ankle is broken, too!” And he groaned again.
“I had better get a doctor, Uncle Hiram.”
“A