The first southward bound train that left Bridgeport took our five friends with it. Their destination was Hillsboro’, a little town in Garrett county, in the extreme western end of Maryland, next to West Virginia. It was here that Hopkins lived, in a country famed for its game, and for the number and fighting qualities of its trout. Curtis had an idea that trout did not amount to much outside of Maine; but after he had broken his fine lance-wood rod in a battle with a Blackwater fish, he was obliged to acknowledge his error.
The Baltimore and Ohio Railroad took them to Hillsboro’ without any mishap, and there they passed a portion of their vacation in the most agreeable manner. Mr. Hopkins was a fat, jolly old gentleman, a thorough-going fox-hunter in spite of his years, and when the boys had seen him ride to the hounds, and noted the ease with which he took all the fences and brush-heaps that came in his way, they ceased to wonder where their fat crony got his skill in horsemanship. He would have been glad to keep the visitors there forever, for he took a great liking to them; but their time was short, their friend Egan had a claim upon them, and after a few weeks of good, solid enjoyment, which they fully appreciated, coming as it did on the heels of a long siege of study and drill, they bade the old fox-hunter good-by, and set out for the Eastern Shore.
We have told in the first chapter that Egan’s guests were most cordially received by his father and mother; that during the very first night they spent at his home they heard the report of one of the big guns which used to make such havoc among the water-fowl; that the next morning they found the owner of it in a sink-boat on the bay, and that he threatened to do something to Egan if the boy frightened away any more ducks for him. We have also described how Egan and his visitors, after trying in vain to “toll” a flock of canvas-backs within range of their double-barrels by the aid of old Eph’s yellow dog Bogus, accidentally stumbled upon one of the big guns which was hidden in the grass on the shore of Powell’s Island. Enoch, Lester and Jones, who were sailing about in the Firefly, and who had set themselves the task of watching the movements of Egan and his party, saw them when they raised the gun from its place of concealment, and they were present, too, when the police-boat came up and took possession of it. They went back and told the man in the sink-boat what had happened, and after hearing him swear, and extorting from him a sort of half promise that they should be permitted to accompany him the next time he made a night raid upon a flock of ducks, they kept on to Enoch’s home. They roamed about the fields with their guns in their hands until a furious storm arose and drove them into the house; and when darkness came to conceal their movements, they were ready to carry into effect the resolution they had long ago formed—that Egan and his guests should not see any sport on the bay if they could help it. They decided that the first thing on the programme should be to deprive him of his yacht, a beautiful little craft which held a high place in Egan’s estimation, and this they hoped to accomplish with the aid of the elements. They would turn her adrift, and let the wind and the waves make a wreck of her. They succeeded in boarding the yacht, but the negro guard who slept on Mr. Egan’s oyster-boat, which was anchored close by, was on the alert, and the roar of his old musket, the savage yelps and growls of his canine companions, and the whistle of the bullet which he sent altogether too close to Enoch’s head for comfort, were enough to frighten them out of a year’s growth. Enoch, who was in the act of slipping the chain when this unexpected interruption occurred, tumbled into the boat that lay alongside the cutter, caught up an oar, and he and his two friends pulled away for dear life. When the little vessel had been left out of sight in the darkness, he drew in his oar, took off his hat and wiped the big drops of perspiration from his forehead.