The Bungalow Boys in the Great Northwest, Page 2

  CHAPTER II.

  A "BLOW-UP."

  All the way to Mrs. Bijur's--along the well-remembered trail, with itsalder clumps fringing the crystal-clear Sawmill Creek and the big poolwhere of yore lurked Jumbo, and into which Tom had taken a header on onememorable occasion--there was naturally only one topic of conversation,the coming trip, of course. By the time they reached the former lumbercamp, and the place which had more recently been the headquarters of theTrulliber gang, the boys had crossed and recrossed the continent atleast half a dozen times, and the geography and animal and vegetablehistory of the State of Washington been thoroughly discussed. The trimbuildings, now painted white, with red roofs and green shutters anddoors, presented a violent contrast to the ramshackle collection ofstructures in which the Trullibers had squatted.

  The barn in which Tom lay a prisoner, while in the next room he hadheard Dan Dark and the others plotting, was now painted a vivid red, anda neat tin roof glittered above its contents of spicy-smelling hay andwell-fed, sleek cows and horses. Josiah Bijur had left his widow a snuglittle fortune and, with true Maine thrift, she had spent it to the bestadvantage. Already she had more applications for boarders than her placewould hold. If she could have persuaded the boys she would have liked torent their bungalow for the overflow. But the fancy rent she offered hadno allurement for them. Their share of the treasure of the galleon hadmade them two very independent lads.

  Hamish Boggs, Mrs. Bijur's hired man, was clambering off a load of hayas the party from the bungalow came in sight. He had just hauled it infrom the mountain meadow, not far, by the way, from the foot of thecliff where Tom took that memorable slide after his imprisonment in thecave, which came near proving his grave.

  Going to the rear of the wagon, which was halted on the steep grade infront of the house, he placed two big stones under each of the rearwheels.

  "Don't want the wagon to go rolling down the hill, eh, Hamish?" said Mr.Dacre, as they came up.

  "No, sir," responded Hamish emphatically; "there's a deep pool in thecreek at the bottom of this grade and if ther old wagin ever starteda-runnin' daown it--wall, by chowder, she'd take er bath whether sheneeded one er not."

  So saying, he proceeded to unhitch the horses and lead them toward thebarn.

  "Why don't you drag the load in under the mow?" asked Tom, not quiteseeing the object of leaving the load stalled in front of the house.

  "Wall, yer see," drawled Hamish, "thet mow's got quite a sight of grassinter it naow. By chowder, ef I tried ter put this load in on top, itmight raise the roof ofen it, so I'm gon' ter shift it back a bit."

  At this juncture Mrs. Bijur appeared--a thin, sharp-featured woman in ablue calico dress, with a sunbonnet to match.

  "Wall, land o' goodness, ef it ain't Mister Dacre," she cried. "Wall,dear suz, what brings you here? Hamish, yer better 'tend to thet sickcaow afore you put in yer hay. Do it right arter you've got them horsesput up."

  "And leave ther hay out thar, mum?" asked Hamish.

  "Yes, of course. Nobody ain't goin' ter steal it, be they? Go on withyer. Mr. Dacre, come in. Hev a glass of buttermilk. Dear suz! if I ain'trun off my mortal leags, an'--oh, you air a sniffin', too, be yer?"

  She broke off her torrent of talk as she noticed Mr. Dacre sniffing witha critical nose. The atmosphere was, in fact, impregnated with a veryqueer odor.

  "Guess some senile egg must have gone off and died round here," saidTom, with a snicker to Jack.

  "It's that perfusser," explained Mrs. Bijur. "I tole him that he'd hevter stop experimentin' ef it was goin' ter smell us out o' house an'home this er way. Awful, ain't it?"

  "Well, it is rather strong," admitted Mr. Dacre, as they took seats inthe stuffy parlor, with its wax fruit under their glass covers, theimitation lace tidies on the backs of the stiff chairs, and the noisy,eight-day clock ticking away like a trip-hammer.

  "What ever is the professor doing?" he inquired.

  "'Sperimentin'," sniffed Mrs. Bijur, smoothing out her apron.

  "Must be experimenting with cold-storage eggs," put in Tom.

  "No," rejoined Mrs. Bijur gravely, "it's some sort of a 'splosive. Itell you, Mister Dacre, I'm terrible skeered. Reely I be. S'pose thetstuff 'ud go off? We'd all be blown up in our beds."

  "Unless you happened to be awake, ma'am," answered Mr. Dacre.

  "Ah, but he don't 'speriment only at night," was the rejoinder. "He'soff all day huntin' bugs and nasty crawly things. It's only at night heworks at it, an' I tell yer, I've got my hands full with them Soopendykechildren. They're allers a-tryin' to git inter the perfusser'slaboratory--he calls it. If they ever did, dear knows what 'ud happen.The perfusser says that ef any one who didn't understand that stuff wasto meddle with it, it might blow up."

  "Good gracious!" exclaimed Mr. Dacre, with mock anxiety. "I hope theyoung Soopendykes are all safely accounted for."

  "I dunno. There's no telling whar them young varmints will git ter," wasthe reply. "They're every place all ter oncet, and no place longtergither. Tother day I cotched one tryin' ter git inter the laboratory.Crawlin' over ther roof, he was, and goin' ter drop inter ther window bya water pipe. Seems ter me thet they are just achin' ter blow themselvesup, and----Good land! Look at 'em now!"

  The widow rushed to the window and shook her fist at four youngSoopendykes who were disporting themselves in the hay wagon, leapingabout among the fragrant stuff, and pitching it at one another, to thegreat detriment of Hamish's neat load.

  "Where is Mrs. Soopendyke?" inquired Mr. Dacre, as the widow finishedshooing--or imagined she had done so--the invading youngsters from theirplay.

  "Lyin' down with a headache," was the rejoinder. "Poor woman, them young'uns be a handful, an' no mistake."

  As Mrs. Bijur seemed inclined to enlarge on her troubles, Mr. Dacre lostno time, as soon as he could do so, in explaining his errand.

  "Meat!" exclaimed Mrs. Bijur. "Good land, go daown cellar and helpyourself. The boys can give me some of those nice fresh fish in tradesome time. No, you won't pay me, Mr. Dacre. Dear suz, ain't weneighbors, and---- Land o' Gosh-en!"

  The last words came from the good lady in a perfect shriek. And wellthey might, for her speech had been interrupted by a heavy sound thatshook the house to its foundations.

  Bo-o-o-o-m!

  "Good heavens!" cried Mr. Dacre, rushing out of the door, followed bythe boys. "An explosion!"

  "That thar dratted explosive soup of the perfusser's has gone off atlast!" shrieked the widow, following them in most undignified haste. Asthey emerged from the house, a shrill cry rang out:

  "Ma-ma! Oh, ma-ma!"

  "Just as I thought, it's one of them Soopendykes!" cried Mrs. Bijur."Good land! Look at that!"

  She indicated the extension of the house, a low one-storied structure,jutting out from the rear. It was in this that the professor had set uphis "laboratory," as Mrs. Bijur called it. Her exclamation wasjustified.

  A large hole, some three feet six inches in diameter, gaped in the onceorderly tin roof. Through the aperture thus disclosed, yellow smoke waspouring in a malodorous cloud, while, on a refuse pile not far away, theeldest Soopendyke, Van Peyster, aged twelve, was picking himself up withan injured expression. His Fauntleroy suit, with clean lace cuffs andcollar--fresh that morning--was in blackened shreds. His long yellowcurls were singed to a dismal resemblance to their former ideal ofmother's beauty. Master Van Peyster Soopendyke was indeed a melancholyobject, but he seemed unhurt, as he advanced toward them with howls of:

  "I didn't mean ter! I didn't mean ter!"

  "You young catamount!" shrilled the widow. "What in the name of time hevyer bin a-doin' of?"

  "Boo-hoo! I jes' was foolin' with that stuff of the professor's an' itwent off!" howled the Soopendyke youngster, while the boys likewiseexploded into shouts of laughter. In the meantime, Mr. Dacre had burstin the locked door and discovered that, beyond wrecking the laboratory,the explosion had not done much harm.
He had just finished hisexamination when Mrs. Soopendyke, her hair falling in disorder and herample form hastily dressed, came rushing out.

  "My boy! My boy!" she cried, in agonized tones. "Van Peyster, mydarling, where are you hurt; are you----"

  The good lady had proceeded as far as this when her eyes fell on thesmoke-blackened, ragged object, which had been blown through the roof bythe force of the explosion. Luckily, his having landed on the rubbishpile had saved his limbs. But Master Soopendyke, as has been said, wasan alarming object for a fond parent's eye to light upon.

  "Oh, Van Peyster!" screamed his mother. "Great heavens----"

  "Aw, keep still, maw. I ain't hurt," announced the dutiful son.

  "Oh, thank heaven for that! Come to my arms, my darling! My joy!Come----"

  Mrs. Soopendyke was proceeding to hurl herself upon her offspring, whowas about to elude her, when from the front of the house came anappalling shriek.

  "It's Courtney!" screamed out the unhappy lady. "Oh, merciful heavens!What is happening now?"