Frank Merriwell's Cruise Part 39

The big Yale man crashed into the woods and came upon his friend, who was stooping to pick up a dead squirrel.

"I rather think this fellow made the rustling that seemed to come from the grave," said Merry. "I was deceived by my ears, that is all. As I ran in under the trees here I could not resist the temptation to take a shot at him, for he was running, too. Now," he slowly added, gazing sadly at the dead squirrel, "I wish I had not fired."

"Oh, it's nothing but a squirrel," said Bruce. "If I could make such a shot as that I'd be proud of it."

"I am not proud, only sorry," said Frank, as he gently placed the squirrel on a soft bed of moss. "Look at the little fellow, Bruce! A few moments ago he was full of life, happy and free; now he is dead, killed by a cruel brute of a man! I didn't think I'd hit him, but that is no excuse. I ought not to have tried. Somewhere he has a home, a nest, a mate, perhaps little ones. He'll never return to his soft nest, never again will he scamper through the woods, leaping from bough to bough, playing hide-and-seek through the brush and the leaves. He is dead, and I killed him. Bruce, this one thoughtless, hasty act of mine lies like a sore weight on my conscience. I'll not forget it in a week. It will trouble me--it will haunt me."

Frank's voice was rather husky with emotion and his handsome face betrayed his deep feeling of sorrow, and Bruce Browning, who was not cruel or hard-hearted, but who would have killed a squirrel and never given it a second thought, now began to realize that there might be something wrong in the act.

"Oh, it's nothing to make a fuss over," he said, quickly.

"Yes, it is," declared Frank, sincerely. "That little squirrel never harmed me, but I murdered him. He was one of G.o.d's creatures, and I had no right to lift my hand against him. I feel like a brute, a wretch, a murderer!"

Then Frank knelt down on the moss beside the dead squirrel.

"Oh, little squirrel!" he said, his voice breaking into a sob; "how much I would give could I restore your life to you! But I have killed you, and all my regret and sorrow over the act will not bring you back to scamper and frolic through the woods."

To his astonishment, Bruce felt a misty blur come over his eyes, and there was a choking sensation in his throat.

"Come away, Merry--come and leave it!" he exclaimed, thickly. "Don't be a fool!"

"No," said Frank, "I can't leave him this way."

He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped the squirrel in it, doing so with such gentleness that Bruce wondered more and more. Then he searched about till he found a thin, flat rock that was about a foot long and four inches wide. With that rock Merriwell scooped a grave in the ground. That grave he lined with soft bits of moss, and then he took the squirrel, wrapped in the handkerchief shroud, and placed it in the grave. The earth was thrown in on the little body, and heaped up in a mound till it was a tiny model of the grave in the glade above. Then Frank thrust the flat rock into the ground as a headstone, and a tear dropped silently down.

Browning had turned away. The big fellow had been taught a lesson he would not soon forget, and more than ever he admired and respected Frank Merriwell, who could be as brave as a lion or as gentle as a dove.

"Come."

Frank had arisen. Bruce followed him from the spot.

They did not climb the rise and again enter the glade that contained the mysterious grave, but Frank led the way down through the woods till they came out to the rocky sh.o.r.e of the island, along which ran the path they had left some time before. Now they struck into this path and followed it round the island.

Not a word pa.s.sed between them till they came to the old granite quarry.

There on their right the bluff of rock rose nearly a hundred feet in the air, with cedars growing away up on the heights. There were drill marks on the face of the rock. A weed-grown railroad ran into the quarry, and on the track sat a flat car, loaded with granite.

"By jingoes!" exclaimed Browning. "It's plain enough there was some business done here some time."

Frank looked at the face of the broad wall of granite.

"I wonder why they ceased quarrying it?" he speculated.

"I suppose the fishermen would say it was because the island was haunted."

"More likely because the granite was not of the best quality. Now that stone does not look to me as if it is first cla.s.s. It seems to me it is poor granite, and that is why the quarry was abandoned."

"Guess you are right," nodded Bruce.

They walked along the track which led out of the quarry and down toward some sagging sheds, in which they could see other flat cars.

When the sheds were reached, they turned to the right and saw at a distance a house. Beyond the house was a large square building with many windows. Not far from the car sheds was an old wharf.

"There is the house where the boss must have lived," said Merry; "and beyond it is the boarding house for the laborers."

"Let's go look them over," said Bruce, who seemed remarkably energetic for him.

So they walked over to the house. It was securely locked, and the windows were fastened down. Near the house was a well, from which they drew water and took a drink from an old dipper that hung on a rusty nail driven into the curb.

From the house a path led down toward the boarding house. They walked down there and could look down into a beautiful little cove close at hand.

"Why didn't we run in there and anchor, instead of anchoring away round back of the island?" said Bruce.

"Simply because no one mentioned this cove, and I did hear Bold Island harbor mentioned," answered Frank.

In the distance they could see three or four white sails. Far away beyond a group of islands rose a trail of smoke that told some small steamer was pa.s.sing. A gull was circling over the cove, and a black crow cawed dismally from the top branch of a tall spruce.

For all that the sun was in the sky, there was something oppressively lonely and deserted about Devil Island.

"Let's try the doors here," suggested Bruce.

The front door was fastened, but they found a back door that they were able to force open, as the nails that held it had rusted in the rotten wood till they readily bent before the pressure.

"I don't know as we have any right to go in here," said Frank.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Bruce. "The place is deserted."

"Somebody owns it."

"According to the yarns of the fishermen, it is owned by a monster with blazing face and black holes for eyes."

"None of them told of seeing the monster anywhere around this building.

He was seen in the woods or on the other side of the island."

"I think we'll see him here just as quick as anywhere," grinned Bruce, who had thrown off the uncanny feeling that had possessed him as they stood beside the grave in the woods.

"Those stories were not told for nothing," declared Frank.

"Why were they told?"

"I don't know--not yet."

"But you have an idea?"

"Yes."

"What is it?"

"I rather fancy somebody wishes to keep people away from this island for some reason."