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[Illustration: RALPH FINDS THE STOLEN GUNS.]

                      _FOREST AND STREAM SERIES._

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                           SNAGGED AND SUNK;
                                OR, THE
                     ADVENTURES OF A CANVAS CANOE.




                                   BY
                            HARRY CASTLEMON,

              AUTHOR OF “GUNBOAT SERIES,” “ROCKY MOUNTAIN
                 SERIES,” “SPORTSMAN CLUB SERIES,” ETC.




                              PHILADELPHIA
                         HENRY T. COATES & CO.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                        FAMOUS CASTLEMON BOOKS.

                         ---------------------

=GUNBOAT SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 6 vols. 12mo.

 FRANK THE YOUNG NATURALIST.         FRANK ON A GUNBOAT.
 FRANK IN THE WOODS.                 FRANK BEFORE VICKSBURG.
 FRANK ON THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.     FRANK ON THE PRAIRIE.


=ROCKY MOUNTAIN SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

 FRANK AMONG THE RANCHEROS.          FRANK AT DON CARLOS’ RANCH.
 FRANK IN THE MOUNTAINS.


=SPORTSMAN’S CLUB SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

 THE SPORTSMAN’S CLUB IN THE SADDLE. THE SPORTSMAN’S CLUB AMONG THE
                                     TRAPPERS.

 THE SPORTSMAN’S CLUB AFLOAT.


=FRANK NELSON SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

 SNOWED UP.             THE BOY TRADERS.       FRANK IN THE FORECASTLE.


=BOY TRAPPER SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

  THE BURIED TREASURE.   THE BOY TRAPPER.       THE MAIL-CARRIER.


=ROUGHING IT SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

 GEORGE IN CAMP.        GEORGE AT THE WHEEL.   GEORGE AT THE FORT.


=ROD AND GUN SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

 DON GORDON’S SHOOTING BOX.          ROD AND GUN CLUB.
 THE YOUNG WILD FOWLERS.


=GO-AHEAD SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. l2mo. Cloth.

  TOM NEWCOMBE.          GO-AHEAD.              NO MOSS.


=FOREST AND STREAM SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

 JOE WAYRING.           SNAGGED AND SUNK.      STEEL HORSE.


=WAR SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 5 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

 TRUE TO HIS COLORS.                 RODNEY THE PARTISAN.
 RODNEY THE OVERSEER.                MARCY THE BLOCKADE-RUNNER.
 MARCY THE REFUGEE.


                     _Other Volumes in Preparation._

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                   COPYRIGHT, 1888, BY PORTER & COATES.

                               CONTENTS.

  CHAPTER                                                          PAGE
       I. IN WHICH I BEGIN MY STORY,                                  5
      II. CAPTURED AGAIN,                                            28
     III. IN THE WATCHMAN’S CABIN,                                   52
      IV. A NIGHT ADVENTURE,                                         74
       V. JAKE COYLE’S SILVER MINE,                                  98
      VI. JAKE WORKS HIS MINE,                                      120
     VII. AMONG FRIENDS AGAIN,                                      142
    VIII. JOE WAYRING IN TROUBLE,                                   166
      IX. TOM VISITS THE HATCHERY,                                  192
       X. MORE TROUBLE FOR TOM BIGDEN,                              217
      XI. SAM ON THE TRAIL,                                         242
     XII. ABOUT VARIOUS THINGS,                                     265
    XIII. JOE WAYRING’S PLUCK,                                      289
     XIV. THE GUIDE “SURROUNDS” MATT’S CAMP,                        314
      XV. ON THE RIGHT TRACK AT LAST,                               338
     XVI. AT THE BOTTOM OF THE RIVER,                               363
    XVII. THE EXPERT COLUMBIA,                                      381
   XVIII. CONCLUSION,                                               398

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                            SNAGGED AND SUNK;
                                   OR,
                    THE ADVENTURES OF A CANVAS CANOE.




                               CHAPTER I.
                       IN WHICH I BEGIN MY STORY.

           “Beneath a hemlock grim and dark,
             Where shrub and vine are intertwining,
           Our shanty stands, well roofed with bark,
             On which the cheerful blaze is shining.
           The smoke ascends in spiral wreath;
             With upward curve the sparks are trending;
           The coffee kettle sings beneath
             Where sparks and smoke with leaves are blending.”


  Joe Wayring’s voice rang out loud and clear, and the words of his song
  were repeated by the echoes from a dozen different points among the
  hills by which the camp was surrounded on every side. Joe was putting
  the finishing touches to the roof of a bark shanty; Roy Sheldon, with
  the aid of a double-bladed camp ax, was cutting a supply of hard wood
  to cook the trout he had just cleaned; and Arthur Hastings was sitting
  close by picking browse for the beds. The scene of their camp was a
  spring-hole, located deep in the forest twelve miles from Indian Lake.
  Although it was a noted place for trout, it was seldom visited by the
  guests of the hotels for the simple reason that they did not know that
  there was such a spring-hole in existence, and the guides were much
  too sharp to tell them of it.

  Hotel guides, as a class, are not fond of work, and neither will they
  take a guest very far beyond the sound of their employer’s dinner
  horn. The landlords hire them by the month and the guides get just so
  much money, no matter whether their services are called into
  requisition or not. If business is dull and the guests few in number,
  the guides loaf around the hotel in idleness, and of course the less
  they do the less they are inclined to do. If they are sent out with a
  guest, they take him over grounds that have been hunted and fished
  until there is neither fur, fin, nor feather left, cling closely to
  the water-ways, avoiding even the shortest “carries,” their sole
  object being to earn their wages with the least possible exertion.
  They don’t care whether the guest catches any fish or not. But our
  three friends, Joe Wayring, Roy Sheldon, and Arthur Hastings, were not
  dependent upon the hotel guides for sport during their summer outings.
  Being perfectly familiar with the country for miles around Indian
  Lake, they went wherever their fancy led them, and with no fear of
  getting lost.

                 “And on the stream a light canoe
                   Floats like a freshly fallen feather—
                 A fairy thing that will not do
                   For broader seas and stormy weather.
                 Her sides no thicker than the shell
                   Of Ole Bull’s Cremona fiddle;
                 The man who rides her will do well
                   To part his scalp-lock in the middle,”

  sang Joe, backing off and looking approvingly at his work. “There,
  fellows, that roof is tight, and now it can rain as soon as it
  pleases. With two acres of trout right in front of the door, and a
  camp located so far from the lake that we are not likely to be
  disturbed by any interlopers—what more could three boys who want to be
  lazy ask for?”

  “There’s one thing I would like to ask for,” replied Roy, “and that is
  the assurance that Tom Bigden and his cousins will go back to Mount
  Airy without trying to come any tricks on us. I wonder what brought
  them up here any way?”

  “Why, they came after their rods, of course,” answered Arthur. “You
  know I sent them a despatch stating that their rods were in Mr.
  Hanson’s possession, and that they could get them by refunding the
  money that Hanson had paid Jake Coyle for them.”

  “But they have been loafing around the lake for a whole week, doing
  nothing but holding stolen interviews with Matt Coyle and his boys,”
  said Roy. “I tell you I don’t like the way those worthies put their
  heads together. I believe they are in ca-hoots. If they are not, how
  does it come that Tom and his cousins can see Matt as often as they
  want to, while the guides and landlords, who are so very anxious to
  have him arrested, can not find him or obtain any satisfactory news of
  him?”

  “That’s the very reason they can’t find him—because they want to have
  him arrested, and Matt knows it,” observed Joe. “But why Tom doesn’t
  reveal Matt’s hiding-place to the constable is more than I can
  understand. Did it ever occur to you that perhaps Matt has some sort
  of a hold on those boys, and that they are afraid to go against him?”

  “I have thought of it,” replied Arthur. “I have never been able to get
  it out of my head that Tom acted suspiciously on the day your canvas
  canoe was stolen. He played his part pretty well, but I believed then,
  and I believe now, that he knew that canoe was gone before he came
  back to the beach.”

  “I know Tom didn’t show much enthusiasm when we started after that
  bear, and that he did not go very far from the pond,” assented Joe.
  “It is possible that he saw Matt steal my canoe, and that he made no
  effort to stop him; but I think you are mistaken when you say that
  they are in ca-hoots. I don’t believe they have any thing in common.
  Tom is much too high-toned for that. I know that he has been seen in
  Matt’s company a time or two, but I am of the opinion that they met by
  accident and not by appointment.”

  “But Tom knew the officers were looking for Matt, and what was the
  reason he didn’t tell them that he had seen him?” demanded Arthur.

  “He probably would if he hadn’t thought that we were the ones that
  wanted him arrested,” replied Joe. “Tom and his cousins do not like
  us, and Matt Coyle might steal us poor, and they would never lift a
  hand or say a word to prevent it. But we are safe from them now. Even
  if they knew where to find us, Matt and his boys are much too lazy to
  walk twelve miles through the thick woods just to get into a fight
  with us.”

  Perhaps they were, and perhaps they were not. Time will show.

  If you have read the first volume of the “Forest and Stream Series,”
  you will recollect that the story it contained was told by “Old
  Durability,” Joe Wayring’s Fly-rod. In concluding his interesting
  narrative, Fly-rod said that he would step aside and give place to his
  “accommodating friend,” the Canvas Canoe, who, in the second volume of
  the series, would describe some of the incidents that came under his
  notice while he was a prisoner in the bands of the Indian Lake
  vagabonds, Matt Coyle and his two worthless boys, Jake and Sam. I am
  the Canvas Canoe, at your service, and I am now ready to redeem that
  promise.

  You will remember that the last duty I performed for my master, Joe
  Wayring, was to take him and Fly-rod up to the “little perch hole,”
  leaving Arthur Hastings and Roy Sheldon in the pond to angle for black
  bass. Joe preferred to fish for perch, because he was afraid to trust
  his light tackle in a struggle with so gamey a foe as a bass; but, as
  luck would have it, he struck one the very first cast he made, and got
  into a fight that was enough to make any angler’s nerves thrill with
  excitement.

  The battle lasted half an hour; and when it was over and the fish
  safely landed, Joe discovered that it was growing dark. While he was
  putting Fly-rod away in his case I happened to look up the creek, and
  what should I see there but the most disreputable looking scow I ever
  laid my eyes on? I had never seen him before, but I knew the crew he
  carried, for I had had considerable experience with them. They were
  the squatter and his boys, who, as you know, had sworn vengeance
  against Joe Wayring and his friends, because Joe’s father would not
  permit them to live on his land.

  Matt and his young allies discovered Joe before the latter saw them,
  and made an effort to steal alongside and capture him before he knew
  that there was any danger near; but one of the impatient boys
  carelessly allowed his paddle to rub against the side of the scow, and
  the sound alarmed Joe, who at once took to the water and struck out
  for shore, leaving me to my fate. But I never blamed Joe for that,
  because I knew he could not have done any thing else. He had paid out
  a good deal of rope in order to place himself in the best position for
  casting, and he could not haul it in and raise the anchor before his
  enemies would be upon him.

  “So that’s your game, is it?” shouted the squatter, when he saw Joe
  pulling for the shore with long lusty strokes. “Wal, it suits us I
  reckon. Never mind the boat, Jakey. She’s fast anchored and will stay
  there till we want her. Take after the ’ristocrat whose dad won’t let
  honest folks live onto his land less’n they’ve got a pocketful of
  money to pay him for it. Jest let me get a good whack at him with my
  paddle, an’ he’ll stop, I bet you.”

  Now we know that Matt didn’t tell the truth when he said that Joe
  Wayring’s father would not let any one live on his land except those
  who had money to pay for the privilege. Mr. Wayring was one of the
  most liberal citizens in Mount Airy. Nearly all the men who were
  employed as guides and boatmen by the summer visitors lived in neat
  little cottages that he had built on purpose for them, and for which
  he never charged them a cent of rent; and when Matt Coyle and his
  family came into the lake with a punt load of goods, and took
  possession of one of his lots, and proceeded to erect a shanty upon it
  without asking his permission, Mr. Wayring did not utter one word of
  protest. It is true that he was not very favorably impressed with the
  appearance of the new-comers, but he thought he would give them an
  opportunity to show what they were before he ordered them off his
  grounds. If they proved to be honest, hard-working people they might
  stay and welcome, and he would treat them as well as he treated the
  other inhabitants of “Stumptown.”

  But it turned out that Matt Coyle was neither honest nor hard-working.
  He had once been a hanger-on about the hotels at Indian Lake. He
  called himself an independent guide (neither of the hotels would have
  any thing to do with him), but, truth to tell, he did not do much
  guiding. He gained a precarious subsistence by hunting, trapping,
  fishing, and stealing. It was easier to steal a living than it was to
  earn it by