T.C. Bridges

The Secret of Smoking Swamp

Warsaw 2019

Contents

I. THE NEW CHUM

II. THE START FOR THE SWAMP

III. NOT ALL HONEYNOT ALL HONEY

IV. BILL TAKES A HAND

V. THE PILOT AND THE RATTLER

VI. TROUBLE!

VII. A VISIT FROM THE SHERIFF

VIII. FITZ BUYS A HORSE

IX. BAD NEWS

X. JACKO AND BUD TAKE A HAND

XI. HUNG UP!

XII. FIRE!

XIII. BATTLE BEGINS

XIV. WHEN THE WIND CHANGED

XV. CHASED!

XVI. JOSH ROGERS TO THE RESCUE

XVII. THE BLOW FALLS

XVIII. PURSUIT

XIX. THE MESSAGE

XX. THE SECOND CHASE

XXI. THE SECOND DAY

XXII. UNDER THE SMOKE PALL

XXIII. TRAPPED!

XXIV. ANY SIGN OF SAUNDERS?

XXV. BUD OBEYS ORDERS

XXVI. THE STRANGE SCENT

XXVII. A DOUBLE DISAPPOINTMENT

XXVIII. THE STORM BREAKS

XXIX. THE SAVING OF MARY

I. THE NEW CHUM

BUD HARTER laid his hoe against an orange tree, and reaching up to the big bucket of water which hung from a branch, filled the tin dipper and took a long drink.

Another boy who was working close by, looked up with a smile. “Leave some for me, Bud,” he said.

“There’s plenty,” said Bud, filling the dipper again. “Say, Jacko, Pete’s got the dogs all right for to-night.”

“Good business!” declared Stan Jackson as he wiped the perspiration from his brown face. “Then we’ll start the minute after supper.”

“We’ll start as soon as we can get off,” replied Bud. “But I guess we’ll have to wait for the new chum.”

Stan whistled. “Phew, I’d forgotten the chap was coming this evening. I wonder what sort he is?”

Before the other could reply there was a loud crashing in the scrub which rimmed the orange grove.

“Stodge, I bet,” said Bud dryly.

Next moment a plump youth of about sixteen, with a round pink face and big baby-blue eyes, came plunging down upon them. In his hurry he never saw the bucket and banged right into it, with the natural result that it tipped and discharged its whole contents over his head and shoulders.

“Ugh! Ah!” he panted and pulled up short, looking reproachfully at the other two who roared with laughter. “Did you do that?”

“No, old son,” chuckled Bud. “You did it yourself, and now you can just go to the well, and bring us another bucketful.”

“All right, but not now,” answered the boy, mopping himself with a large red cotton handkerchief. “There isn’t time. He’s coming.”

“Who’s coming?”

“The new chap. There’s a buggy in sight down by the lake.”

Jacko dropped his hoe. “Come on, Bud,” he said.

Jacko and Bud made a dead heat of it down to the lake shore. Stodge panted a long way behind.

The grove faced upon a good-sized lake, and the road, a narrow sandy track, ran along the east side of it. Up this road was coming a double buggy drawn by a pair of fine Kentucky horses and driven by a negro.

“Some do, eh, Jacko?” said Bud as he watched the approaching vehicle.

Jacko grinned. “He’s certainly doing it in style. But Bill said he had cash.”

“Cash ain’t everything,” said Bud, a serious look crossing his keen face. “I’d a sight sooner he was a good sort.”

“You’re right, Bud. We’re very happy as we are,” answered Jacko. “But there’s Pete opening the gate. Let’s go and greet the newest addition to Picton’s Pups.”

The buggy drove in and pulled up. As its occupant got out Bud and Jacko fairly gasped. The new-comer, a tall dark boy, was got up in beautiful clean white drill with a white silk collar and a pale blue tie. On his head was a snowy pith helmet, with a large puggaree hanging down his back. He wore beautifully polished brown boots–and gloves.

“Is this–ah–Mr. Picton’s place, my lad?” he demanded, addressing Bud.

Bud was an American, and it took a lot to upset him.

“This–ah–is Mr. Picton’s place, my lord,” he replied, with a perfect imitation of the other’s manner.

The latter looked at him sharply. Bud, of course, was in working kit, consisting of an ancient flannel shirt, an absolutely ragged pair of trousers and an old felt hat. The new arrival took him for one of the helps, and unable to believe that he would dare to chaff him, went on graciously: “Will you–er–tell him that Mr. Fitzgordon has arrived and will be glad to see him?”

Bud winked at Jacko. “Come right along. I’ll lead you to him,” he said.

Mr. Fitzgordon came. He was a tall, well-built fellow, rather older than either of the others. He had quite good features and would have been good-looking but for his abominably conceited air.

Bud led him up a path through the scrub. Jacko followed and Stodge, while Pete Russ, the quaint little negro, who was man-of- all-work on the place, came behind. Pete’s eyes were fairly bulging, and there was a look of intense expectancy on his shiny black face.

They passed the house, a big, one-storey wooden building. Behind it was a row of stabling and barns.

“Mr. Picton,” sang out Bud. “Mr. Fitzgordon is right here.”

A tall young man of about twenty-two, who was perched high on a rough scaffolding against the barn, looked round. He had a paint pot in one hand and a brush in the other. His clothes were no better than Bud’s or Jacko’s, and his sleeves were rolled back over his elbows, showing great, brown muscular arms.

When he saw the wonderful apparition in white drill, a flicker of amused surprise crossed his face. But he recovered in a moment.

“How d’ye do?” he said genially. “You’re early. Didn’t expect you before six. Wait a minute and I’ll come down.”

Fitzgordon made no answer. He merely stared. Bud and Jacko watching him were nearly bursting, yet their faces were as solemn as two mud turtles.

Bill Picton laid his paint pot on the scaffolding and came cautiously down the very dicky ladder.

“Had a good journey?” he asked, as he extended his hand.

Fitzgordon never moved. He looked as if he could not believe his eyes. “Are you Mr. Picton?” he asked at last.

“I am. What’s the matter?”

“I–er–thought you would be–er–older.”

Bill Picton’s eyes twinkled. “Time will remedy that. Anyhow I’m old enough to run this show. Ask Jackson there–or Harter.”

Fitz turned a vacant stare on Bud and Jacko. “Are they your pupils?” he asked blankly.

“Of course they are, and very good ones, too. You must remember we come here to work, and you can’t work in white drill. But never mind that for the present. Come to the house, and I’ll show you your room.”

“Fitz is a peach from Peachville,” whispered Bud to Jacko as they followed.

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