At the Black Rocks (Musaicum Christmas Specials). Edward A. Rand

      Edward A. Rand

      At the Black Rocks (Musaicum Christmas Specials)

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      2020 OK Publishing

      EAN 4064066384883

      Table of Contents

       I. Was He Worth Saving?

       II. Caught on the Bar

       III. Did the Schooner Come Back?

       IV. What Was He Here For?

       V. The Lighthouse

       VI. Fog

       VII. The Camp at the Nub

       VIII. Visitors

       IX. That Open Book

       X. The Christmas Gift

       XI. At Shipton Again

       XII. On Which Side Victory?

       XIII. What To Do Next

       XIV. Guests at the Lighthouse

       XV. The Storm Gathering

       XVI. The Storm Striking

       XVII. Thomas Trafton, Detective

       XVIII. Into a Trap

       XIX. A Place to Stop

      I.

       Was He Worth Saving?

       Table of Contents

      "I might try," squeaked a diminutive boy, whose dark eyes had an unfortunate twist.

      "Ye-s-s, Bartie," said his grandmother doubtfully, looking out of the window upon the water wrinkled by the rising wind.

      "Wouldn't be much wuss," observed Bartholomew's grandfather, leaning forward in his old red arm-chair and steadily eying a failing fire as if arguing this matter with the embers. Then he added, "You could take the small boat."

      "Yes," said Bart eagerly. "I could scull, you know; and if the doctor wasn't there when I got there, I could tell 'em you didn't feel well, and he might come when he could."

      "That will do, if he don't put it off too long," observed the old man, shaking his head at the fire as if the two had now settled the matter between them. "Yes, you might try."

      Bartie now went out to try. Very soon he wished he had not made the trial. Granny Trafton saw him step into the small boat moored by the shore, and then his wiry little arms began to work an oar in the stern of the boat. "Gran'sir Trafton," as he was called, came also to the window, and looked out upon the diminutive figure wriggling in the little boat.

      "He will get back in an hour," observed Gran'sir Trafton.

      "Ought to be," said Granny Trafton.

      It is a wonder that Bartie ever came back at all. He was the very boy to meet with some kind of an accident. Somehow mishaps came to him readily. If any boy had a tumble, it was likely to be Bartie Trafton. If measles slyly stole into town to be caught by somebody, Bartie Trafton was sure to be one catcher. In a home that was cramped by poverty--his father at sea the greater fraction of the time, and the other fraction at home drunk--this under-sized, timid, shrinking boy seemed as continually destined for trouble as the Hudson for the sea.

      "I don't amount to much," was an idea that burdened his small brain, and the community agreed with him. If the public had seen him sculling Gran'sir Trafton's small boat that day, it would have prophesied ill before very long. The public just then and there upon the river was very limited in quantity. It consisted of two fishermen wearily pulling against tide a boat-load of dried cod-fish, a boy fishing from a rock that projected boldly and heavily into the water, and several boys playing on the deck of an old schooner which was anchored off the shore, and had been reached by means of a raft.

      The fishermen pulled wearily on. The boys on the schooner deck ran and shouted at their play. The young fisherman's line dangled down from the crown of the big shore-rock. The small sculler out in Gran'sir Trafton's small boat busily worked his oar. Bart did not see a black spar-buoy thrusting its big arm out of the water, held up as a kind of menace, in the very course Bart was taking. How could Bart see it? His face was turned up river, and the buoy was in the very opposite quarter, not more than twenty feet from the bow of the boat Bart was working forward with all his small amount of muscle. A person is not likely to see through the back of his head. Closer came the boat to the buoy. Did not its ugly black arm, amid the green, swirling water, tremble as if making an angry, violent threat? Who was this small boy invading the neighbourhood where the buoy reigned as if an outstretched sceptre? On sculled innocent Bartholomew, the threatening arm shaking violently in his very pathway, and suddenly--whack-k! The boat struck, threatened to upset, and did upset--Bart! He could swim. After all the unlucky falls he had had into the water, it would have been strange if he had not learned something about this element; but he had reached a place in the river where the out-going current ran with strength, and took one not landward but seaward. How long could he keep above water--that timid, shrinking face appealing for pity to every spectator? The boys on the deck of the old schooner soon saw the empty dory floating past, and they now caught also the cry for help from the pitiful face of the panting swimmer--a cry that amid their loud play they had not heard before.

      "O Dick," said one of the younger boys, "there's a fellow overboard, and there's his boat! Quick!"

      At this sharp warning every one looked up. Then they rushed to the schooner's rail and looked over. Yes: there was the white face in the water; there was the drifting boat.

      The boy addressed as Dick was the leader of the party. His black, staring eyes, and his profusion of black, curly hair, would have attracted attention anywhere. His eyes now sparkled anew, and he tossed back his bushy curls, exclaiming,--

      "Boys, to the rescue! Attention! Man the Great Emperor."

      "Throw this