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Bob the Castaway

<h3 id="id00008" style="margin-top: 3em">BOB THE CASTAWAY</h3> Or, The Wreck of the Eagle By <h5 id="id00011">FRANK V. WEBSTER</h5> <h1 id="id00021" style="margin-top: 5em">CHAPTER I</h1> <h5 id="id00022">BOB MAKES TROUBLE</h5> "Bob! Bob!" called a woman in loud tones, as she came to the kitchen door, her arms, with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, covered with flour. "Bob, I want you to go to the store for me. I need some more lard for this pie-crust." There was no answer, and the woman looked across the big yard at one side of the cottage. "Where can that boy be?" Mrs. Henderson murmured. "I saw him here a little while ago. He's never around when I want him. I shouldn't be surprised but what he was planning some joke. Oh, dear! I wish he was more steady, and wasn't always up to some mischief. Still, he's a good boy at heart, and perhaps he'll grow better when he gets older." She rubbed her left cheek with the back of her hand, leaving a big patch of flour under one eye. Then she called once more. "Bob! Bob Henderson! Where are you? I want you to go to the store." "Here I am, mother. Were you calling me?" asked a boy, emerging from behind a big apple tree. He was not a bad-looking lad, even if his nose did turn up a bit, though his hair was tinged with red, and his face covered with freckles. His blue eyes, however, seemed to sparkle with mischief. "Did I call you?" repeated Mrs. Henderson. "I'm hoarse after the way I had to shout—and you within hearing distance all the while! Why didn't you answer me?" "I guess I was so busy thinking, mom, that I didn't hear you." "Thinking? More likely thinking of some trick! What's that you've got?" "Nothing," and Bob tried to stuff pieces of paper into a basket that was already filled to overflowing. "Yes, 'tis too something. You're making some more of those paper snappers that the teacher kept you in after school for the other night. Bob, can't you settle down and not be always up to some trick?" "I wasn't making these for myself, mom, honest I wasn't," expostulated Bob, with an innocent look that did not seem in accord with the mischief in his blue eyes. "I was making 'em for Jimmy Smith." "Yes, and Jimmy Smith would pop 'em off in school, and when he got caught he'd say you gave 'em to him, and you'd both be kept in. Oh, Bob, I don't know what will happen to you next!" "Why, I wasn't doing anything, honest I wasn't, mom. Oh, how funny you look with that patch of flour on your cheek! Just like a clown in a circus, only he has white stuff all over his face." "Well, I must say, Bob Henderson, you're not very complimentary to your mother, telling her she looks like a circus clown." "I didn't say you did, mom. You only look like half a clown." "That's just as bad." Bob took advantage of this little diversion to hide the paper snappers behind the tree while his mother was wiping the flour off her face. The snappers were oblong pieces of stout wrapping paper, folded in such a way that when swung through the air they went off like a bag blown up and crushed between the hands. Bob was an expert in their manufacture. "Come," went on Mrs. Henderson, when she was satisfied that her face was no longer adorned with flour, "I want you to go to the store for some lard. Tell Mr. Hodge you want the best. Here's the money." "All right, mom, I'll go right away. Do you want anything else?" Now Bob usually made more of a protest than this when asked to go to the store, which was at the other end of the village of Moreville, where he lived. He generally wanted to stay at his play, or was on the point of going off with some boy of his acquaintance. But this time he prepared to go without making any complaint, and had his mother not been so preoccupied thinking of her housework, she might have suspected that the lad had some mischief afoot—some scheme that he wanted to carry out, and which going to the store would further. "No, I guess the lard is all I need now," she said. "Now do hurry, Bob. Don't stop on the way, for I want to get these pies baked before supper." "I'll hurry, mom." There was a curious smile on Bob's face, and as he got his hat from the ground before setting off on the errand he looked in his pocket to see if he had a certain long, stout piece of cord. "I guess that will do the trick," murmured the boy to himself. "Oh, yes, I'll hurry back all right! Guess I'll have to if I don't want Bill Hodge to catch me." There was a cunning look on Bob's face, and the twinkle in his eyes increased as he set off down the village street. "I hope he doesn't get into mischief," murmured Mrs. Henderson, as she went back to her work in the kitchen. "If he wasn't such an honest boy, I would be more worried than I am about him. But I guess he will outgrow it," she added hopefully. Bob Henderson, who is to be the hero of our Story, was the only son of Mr. and Mrs. Enos Henderson. They lived in Moreville, a thriving New England town, and Bob's father was employed in a large woolen mill in the place. Bob attended the local school, and he was a sort of leader among a certain class of boys. They were all manly chaps, but perhaps were inclined more to mischief than they should be. And none of them was any more inclined that way than Bob. He was rather wild, and some of the things he did were unkind and harmful to those on whom he played jokes. Bob was always the first to acknowledge he had been in the wrong, and when it was pointed out to him that he had not done what was right he always apologized. Only this was always after the mischief had been done, and he was just as ready half an hour later to indulge in another prank. Nearly every one in Moreville knew Bob, some to their sorrow. But in spite of his tricks he was well liked, even though some nervous women predicted that he would land in jail before he got to be much older. It was a pleasant afternoon in June, and Bob had not been home from school long when his mother sent him after the lard. As it happened, this just suited the youth's purpose, for he contemplated putting into operation a trick he had long planned against William Hodge, the proprietor of the village grocery store. So Bob trudged along, whistling a merry tune and jingling in his pocket the money his mother had given him. "He'll be as mad as hops," he murmured, "but it can't do much harm. He'll turn it off before much runs out." This may seem rather a puzzle to my young readers, but if you have patience you will soon understand what Bob meant, though I hope none of you will follow his example. As Bob walked along he met another lad about his own age. "Hello, Bob," greeted Ted Neefus. "Where you goin'?" "Store." "What store?" "Bill Hodge's." "What fer?" "Lard." "Want me t' go 'long?" "If you want to," and there was a half smile on Bob's face. Ted knew the meaning of that smile. He had more than once been associated with Bob in his tricks. "Kin I watch ye?" he asked eagerly. "What for?" asked Bob with an air of assumed indignation. "What do you think I'm going to do?" "Oh, that's all right," returned Ted. "I won't say anythin'. Let me watch, will yer?" "I don't s'pose I can stop you," replied Bob, with an appearance of lofty virtue. "The street's public property. I haven't any right to say you shan't stand in front of Bill's store until I come out. You can if you want to." "Maybe I won't then!" exclaimed Ted. "Better not walk along with me," advised Bob. "Folks might think we were up to something." "That's so. Like when we burned some feathers under the church when they were having prayer meeting." "Don't speak so loud," cautioned Bob. "You'll give things away." Thus admonished, Ted took a position well to his chum's rear. Meanwhile Bob continued on and was soon at the grocery store. "Good-afternoon, Mr. Hodge," he said politely. "Arternoon," replied Mr. Hodge, for he was not fond of boys, least of all Bob Henderson. "What d' you want?" He had an air as if he was saying: "Now none of your tricks, you young rapscallion! If you play any jokes on me you'll smart for it!" "Mother wants a pound of lard—the best lard, Mr. Hodge," said Bob. "I don't keep any but the best." "Then I want a pound. It's a fine day, isn't it?" "I don't see nothin' the matter with it. 'Tain't rainin' anyhow. Now don't you upset anything while I go fer the lard. I have t' keep it down cellar, it's so hot up here." Bob knew this. In fact, he counted on it for what he was about to do. No sooner had the storekeeper started down the cellar stairs than Bob pulled from his pocket a long, stout piece of cord. He quickly fastened one end of it to the spigot of a molasses barrel, which stood about half way back in the store. Then he ran the cord forward and across the doorway, about six inches from the floor, and fastened the other end to a barrel of flour as a sort of anchor. By this time Mr. Hodge was coming upstairs with the lard in a thin wooden dish, a piece of paper being over the top. Bob stood near the counter piling the scale weights up in a regular pyramid. "Here, let them alone," growled the storekeeper. "Fust thing you know they'll fall an' mebby crack." "I wouldn't have that happen," said Bob earnestly, but with a lurking smile on his lips. "How much is the lard, Mr. Hodge?" "Fourteen cents. It's gone up." "Something else will be going down soon," murmured Bob. He paid over the money, took the lard and started out. As soon as he reached the front stoop of the store he gave a hasty look around. He saw Ted dodging behind a tree across the street. Suddenly Bob opened his mouth and let out a yell like that which an Indian might have given when on the warpath. It was a shriek as if some one had been hurt. Then he jumped off the porch and hid underneath it, one end being open. An instant later Mr. Hodge, thinking some accident had happened, rushed to the front door of his store. But just as he reached it he went down in a heap, tripped by the string Bob had stretched across the opening. The storekeeper was more surprised than hurt, for he was quite stout and his fat protected him. As he got up, muttering vengeance on whatever had upset him, he went to the door to look out. There was not a person in sight. "It must have been that pesky Bob Henderson!" he exclaimed. "He's always yellin' an' shoutin'." He turned back into the store, rubbing his shins. As he did so he uttered an exclamation of dismay. And well he might, for the spigot of the molasses barrel was wide open, and the sticky brown fluid was running all over the floor. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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