The Courage of Captain Plum | Page 2

last moment. In a
sudden revulsion at his weakness he pulled himself together, crumpled
the dirty missive into a ball, and flung it out upon the white rim of
beach.
At this action there came a quick movement in the dense wall of
verdure behind him. Noiselessly the tangle of vines separated and a
head thrust itself out in time to see the bit of paper fall short of the
water's edge. Then the head shot back as swiftly and as silently as a
serpent's. Perhaps Captain Plum heard the gloating chuckle that
followed the movement. If so he thought it only some night bird in the

brush.
"Heigh-ho!" he exclaimed with some return of his old cheer, "it's about
time we were starting!" He jumped to his feet and began brushing the
sand from his clothes. When he had done, he walked out upon the rim
of beach and stretched himself until his arm-bones cracked.
Again the hidden head shot forth from its concealment. A sudden turn
and Captain Plum would certainly have been startled. For it was a
weird object, this spying head; its face dead-white against the dense
green of the verdure, with shocks of long white hair hanging down on
each side, framing between them a pair of eyes that gleamed from
cavernous sockets, like black glowing beads. There was unmistakable
fear, a tense anxiety in those glittering eyes as Captain Plum walked
toward the paper, but when he paused and stretched himself, the sole of
his boot carelessly trampling the discarded letter, the head disappeared
again and there came another satisfied bird-like chuckle from the
gloom of the thicket.
Captain Plum now put on his coat, buttoned it close to conceal the
weapons in his belt, and walked along the narrow water-run that crept
like a white ribbon between the lake and the island wilderness. No
sooner had he disappeared than the bushes and vines behind the rock
were torn asunder and a man wormed his way through them. For an
instant he paused, listening for returning footsteps, and then with
startling agility darted to the beach and seized the crumpled letter.
The person who for the greater part of the afternoon had been spying
upon Captain Plum from the security of the thicket was to all
appearances a very small and a very old man, though there was
something about him that seemed to belie a first guess at his age. His
face was emaciated; his hair was white and hung in straggling masses
on his shoulders; his hooked nose bore apparently the infallible stamp
of extreme age. Yet there was a strange and uncanny strength and
quickness in his movements. There was no stoop to his shoulders. His
head was set squarely. His eyes were as keen as steel. It would have
been impossible to have told whether he was fifty or seventy. Eagerly
he smoothed out the abused missive and evidently succeeded even in

the failing light, in deciphering much of it, for the glimmer of a smile
flashed over his thin features as he thrust the paper into his pocket.
Without a moment's hesitation he set out on the trail of Captain Plum.
A quarter of a mile down the path he overtook the object of his pursuit.
"Ah, how do you do, sir?" he greeted as the younger man turned about
upon hearing his approach. "A mighty fast pace you're setting for an
old man, sir!" He broke into a laugh that was not altogether unpleasant,
and boldly held out a hand. "We've been expecting you, but--not in this
way. I hope there's nothing wrong?"
Captain Plum had accepted the proffered hand. Its coldness and the
singular appearance of the old man who had come like an apparition
chilled him. In a moment, however, it occurred to him that he was a
victim of mistaken identity. As far as he knew there was no one on
Beaver Island who was expecting him. To the best of his knowledge he
was a fool for being there. His crew aboard the sloop had agreed upon
that point with extreme vehemence and, to a man, had attempted to
dissuade him from the mad project upon which he was launching
himself among the Mormons in their island stronghold. All this came to
him while the little old man was looking up into his face, chuckling,
and shaking his hand as if he were one of the most important and most
greatly to be desired personages in the world.
"Hope there's nothing wrong, Cap'n?" he repeated.
"Right as a trivet here, Dad," replied the young man, dropping the cold
hand that still persisted in clinging to his own. "But I guess you've got
the wrong party. Who's expecting me?"
The old man's face wrinkled itself in a