The Young Oarsmen of Lakeview. Stratemeyer Edward
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I fancy that’s the end of them,” said Jerry. “I thought they had gone long ago.”
“Da laid for me!” groaned Blumpo. “Wish I dun had a hoss pistol, I would shoot ’em all full of holes!”
Soon the steam launch faded away in the darkness, and a little later found Jerry again on his way home. Of course his folks were proud to think he had won the race.
“My boy, Jerry!” was all Mrs. Upton said, but the way she said it meant a good deal.
It was a week later that the boat club gave a reception, at which Jerry was the lion. He was presented with the silver trophy, and made a neat little speech. There were refreshments and music, and altogether the affair was the most brilliant Lakeview had seen for some time.
Matters moved along slowly for a week after the racing and the reception were over. Jerry worked on the farm, and never was there a more industrious youth.
In the meanwhile Harry Parker made several arrangements for the outing up the lake, in which Jerry and Blumpo were to accompany him.
One day Mr. Upton received a letter from Rockpoint. It was from a friend, and asked if the farmer could send him over at once a load of hay.
“I can’t go very well,” said Mr. Upton. “Supposing you take it over to Mr. Dike, Jerry?”
“I will, sir,” replied Jerry, promptly.
The young oarsman had not been over to Rockpoint since the races, but he thought he could go over and come back without encountering trouble.
The hay was soon loaded on the rick, and then Jerry started off for the other shore. He was compelled to drive nearly to the lower end of the lake to cross on the bridge, consequently it was well on toward the middle of the afternoon when Rockpoint was reached.
He and Mr. Dike put the load in the barn, and after being paid, and partaking of a glass of cold milk and a piece of home-made pie, Jerry, at just six o’clock, started on the return.
It had been a gloomy day, and, consequently, it was already growing dark, although it was midsummer.
But Jerry knew the way well, so he did not mind the darkness. He let the team go their own gait, and took it easy in the rick on a couple of horse blankets.
He was in a sort of day dream, when suddenly, his team was stopped by a couple of boys, who sprang from behind a clump of trees.
The boys wore masks over their faces, and when they spoke, they did their best to disguise their voices.
Jerry sprang up in alarm. At the same time four more boys, also masked, surrounded the hay-rick.
“What’s the meaning of this?” demanded Jerry. “Let go of those horses.”
Instead of replying, the two boys continued to hold the team. The other four leaped into the hay-rick and fell on Jerry. Taken so suddenly, he was at a disadvantage. Hardly could he make a move before one of the boys struck him on the head with a club, dazing him.
Then a rope was brought forth, and Jerry’s hands were tied behind him and he was thrown on the ground.
The boys sent the team on their way, trusting to luck that the horses would find their way home.
“What are you going to do with me?” asked Jerry, when he found himself bound and helpless.
“You’ll soon see, Jerry Upton,” came from the leader, in such a muffled voice that our hero tried in vain to recognize the speaker.
“Make him march!” said another.
“All right, march!”
Into the woods the masked gang hurried Jerry. When he attempted to turn back, they hit him with their sticks and tripped him up.
Finally, when he would go no further, four of the boys picked him up and carried him.
Nearly a quarter of an hour was spent in this manner, and the party reached a little clearing. On three sides were tall trees, and on the fourth a wall of rocks.
“This is the spot,” cried the leader. “Now tie him to a tree and get the stuff out of the cave.”
At once the young oarsman was bound to a tree on the edge of the clearing.
Then two of the boys entered a cave between the rocks.
Soon they came forth with a pot filled with a thick, black liquid and two big pillows.
At once Jerry realized what his captors meant to do. They were going to tar and feather him!
CHAPTER IX.
TAR AND FEATHERS
The prospect was far from pleasant to our hero. In spite of his bravery, he shivered as he saw the gang of masked boys start up a fire over which to heat the tar.
“So you intend to tar and feather me,” he said to the leader.
“You’ve struck it, Jerry Upton.”
“All right, Si Peters, do it, and you shall go to prison, mark my words.”
Jerry had only guessed at the identity of the leader, but he had hit upon the truth.
“Who told you I was” – began Peters, and broke off short. “You’re mistaken,” he went on in his assumed voice.
“I am not mistaken, Si Peters. I know you, and you had best remember what I say.”
“Oh, you’re too fresh, Upton, and we’re going to teach you a lesson,” put in another of the crowd.
“A good coat of tar and feathers is just what your system needs.”
“We’ll paint you up so artistically that, even your own mother won’t know you.”
“Not if I can help it,” muttered Jerry, under his breath.
A great mass of wood had been collected, and this gave a roaring fire and also afforded a good light for the workers.
On each side of the fire a notched stick was driven into the ground. A third stick was laid across the top, just beyond the flames. From this upper stick the pot of tar was suspended by an iron chain.
The heat soon began to tell on the tar. As it softened it could be smelled a long distance off.
“How do you like that smell?” asked Peters of Jerry.
“Oh, it’s a good enough smell,” replied our hero, as coolly as he could.
“Never had a dose of tar before, did you?”
“I haven’t had this dose yet.”
“That’s so, but you soon will have.”
“Maybe not.”
“Oh, you can’t escape us.”
“Not much, he can’t,” put in another, and now Jerry felt sure that the speaker was Wash Crosby.
“We’ll talk about that later, Crosby.”
The masked boy started back and denied his identity. But it was plain to see he was much put out.
“I know you, Peters, Crosby, Banner and Graves,” went on Jerry. “And I’ll discover who you other two fellows are before I leave here, too.”
“Fiddlesticks!” shouted one of the boys by the fire who was stirring the tar.
“Is it getting soft?” asked Crosby.
“Yes.”
“Where is the brush?”
“I’ve got it,” spoke up another, and he held up the stump of an old whitewash brush.
“That’s all right.”
At a signal from Peters the crowd of masked boys withdrew to the side of the fire.
Here a long talk followed. It was so low that Jerry could not hear a word.
Peters was making the crowd solemnly promise that they would not inform upon each other, no matter what happened.
“If