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.dt The Boys of Oakdale Academy, by the Morgan Scott - A Project Gutenberg eBook
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.pm illust 01 cover.jpg 486 "Book Cover"
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.pm illust 02 frontis.jpg 462 "HE LANDED HIMSELF THROUGH THE AIR WITH A LONG GRACEFUL LEAP. —Page 31."
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<xl>BOYS</xl> <i><s>of</s></i> <xl>OAKDALE</xl>
<xl>ACADEMY</xl>
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<s>BY</s>
MORGAN SCOTT
<s>AUTHOR OF “BEN STONE AT OAKDALE,” ETC.</s>
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<s><i>With Four Original Illustrations</i></s>
<i>By MARTIN LEWIS</i>
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<s>NEW YORK</s>
HURST AND COMPANY
<s>PUBLISHERS</s>
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<s>Copyright, 1911,</s>
<sc>BY</sc>
HURST & COMPANY
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<l>CONTENTS</l>
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CHAPTER | | PAGE

I. |#A Boy of Mystery:chap01#   |   5
II.|#Playing the Part:chap02#   |   13
III.|#Rod's Wonderful Jump:chap03#  |    26
IV. |#The Fellow Who Refused:chap04#  |    39
V.|#Ambushed:chap05#     | 50
VI.|#The Result of a Practical Joke:chap06#|      61
VII.|#The One Who Laughed Last:chap07#    |  70
VIII.|#The White Feather:chap08#    | 80
IX.|#Moments of Apprehension:chap09# |     88
X.|#Who Told?:chap10#    |  99
XI.|#In Doubt:chap11#     | 110
XII.|#Cold Weather in Texas:chap12# |     118
XIII.|#A Bond of Sympathy:chap13#   |   129
XIV.|#A Narrow Escape:chap14#    |  136
XV.|#When a Grant Fights:chap15# |     150
XVI.|#Independent Rod:chap16#    | 162
XVII.|#The First Snow:chap17#     | 170
XVIII.|#Rabbit Hunting:chap18#   |   179
XIX.|#An Encounter in the Woods:chap19#   |   192
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XX.|#A Sunday Morning Caller:chap20#  |    200
XXI.|#What Sleuth Piper Saw:chap21#    |  208
XXII.|#The Fate of Silver Tongue:chap22#  |    218
XXIII.|#Following the Trail:chap23#     | 229
XXIV.|#The Proof:chap24#    |  239
XXV.|#Settlement Day Draws Near:chap25# |     248
XXVI.|#Grant’s Defiance:chap26#     | 254
XXVII.|#Spotty Refuses to Talk:chap27#|      264
XXVIII.|#Aroused at Last:chap28#    |  274
XXIX.|#The Incriminating Letter:chap29# |     283
XXX.|#The Reason Why:chap30#     | 291
XXXI.|#Something Worth Doing:chap31# |     300
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BOYS OF OAKDALE ACADEMY.
.pm chap 01 I. "A BOY OF MYSTERY."
“He’s a fake,” declared Chipper Cooper positively,
backing up against the steam radiator to
warm himself on the other side. “I’ll bet a hundred
dollars he never was west of Scranton,
Pennsylvania.”

“A hundred dollars,” drawled Sile Crane, grinning.
“Why don’t yeou bate something while
you’re abaout it? Nobody’d bother to take a
measly little wager like that. Now I’ve kinder
got an idee that the new feller really comes from
Texas, jest as he says he does. I guess he ain’t
no fake.”

“Oh, is that so!” retorted Cooper, a bit warmly.
“Well, I’ll talk business to you, Mr. Crane;
I’ll really bet you fifty cents Rodney Grant never
saw the State of Texas in his life. Now put up
or shut up.”
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“I don’t want to bate on it,” said Sile; “but I
guess I’ve got a right to my opinion, and I cal’late
Rod Grant ain’t no fake Westerner.”

“I knew you didn’t have the sand to back your
opinion,” chuckled Chipper. “It’s my idea that
Grant is a fake and you’re no bettor.”

“Awful bad pun, Chipper,” said Chub Tuttle,
a roly-poly, round-faced chap who was munching
peanuts. “I think you’re right, though; I don’t
believe he’s a Texan. Why, he hasn’t a bit of
brogue.”

“Bub-brogue!” stuttered Phil Springer, who
had a slight impediment in his speech. “Texans
don’t have a brogue; they have a dialect—they
talk in the vernacular, you know.”

“Talk in the ver—what?” cried Cooper.
“Where did you get that word, Phil? I don’t
know what it means, but I do know Rod Grant
talks through his hat sometimes. When he tells
about living on a ranch and herding cattle and
breaking bronchos and chasing rustlers and
catching horse thieves, he gives me a cramp.
He certainly can reel off some whoppers.”
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At this point up spoke Billy Piper, commonly
known as “Sleuth” on account of his ambitions
to emulate the great detectives of fiction.

“Of late,” said Billy, “I’ve been shadowing this
mysterious personage who came into our midst
unannounced and unacclaimed and who has been
the cause of extensive speculation and comment.
My deduction is that the before-mentioned mysterious
personage is a big case of bluff, and I
must add that, like my astute comrade, Cooper,
I gravely doubt if he has ever seen the wild and
woolly West. His tales of cowboy life are extremely
preposterous. All cowboys are bow-legged
from excessive riding in the saddle; the
legs of Rod Grant—I should say the before-mentioned
mysterious personage—are as straight as
my own. Westerners wear their hair long;
Grant—the before-mentioned mysterious personage—has
his hair cut like any civilized human
being. Likewise and also, he does not talk as
a true Westerner should. Why, nobody has ever
heard him say ‘galoot’ or ‘varmint’ or any of
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those characteristic words all Westerners scatter
promiscuously through their conversation. Therefore—mark
me, comrades—I brand him as a double-dyed
impostor.”

“Speaking about Grant, I presume?” said Fred
Sage, joining the group by the radiator. “I
think you’re right, Sleuth. Why, I told him only
last night that no one around here believed him
the real thing, because he didn’t look like it, act
like it or talk like it. What do you suppose he
said? He claimed he had to keep on guard all
the time to prevent himself from using cowboy
lingo—said he was sort of ashamed of it and trying
to get out of the habit.”

Berlin Barker, a tall, cold-eyed chap who had
been listening without comment to this conversation,
now ventured to put in a word.

“Fellows like this Grant are more or less amusing,”
he observed. “I’m also inclined to think
him a fraud, and I have good reasons. Didn’t
Captain Eliot try to get him out for football
practice the very day he showed up here at Oakdale
Academy? He looks stout and husky, and
Roger thought he might work in as a substitute;
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but, after watching practice one night, he
wouldn’t even step onto the field. It’s my opinion
the game seemed too rough and rude for this wild
and woolly cow-puncher. If anybody should ask
me, I’d say that he has all the symptoms of a chap
with a yellow streak in him. I don’t believe he
has an ounce of sand in his makeup.”

“Somebody ought to be able to find out if he
really does come from the West,” said Tuttle.
“Why don’t we ask his aunt?”

“Go to the ant, thou sluggard,” chuckled
Cooper. “Nobody else wants to ask her. People
around here know enough to keep away from
Priscilla Kent.”

“Oh, she’s cracked,” stated Piper. “She’s lived
here in Oakdale for the last twenty years, and
nobody has ever been able to find out much of
anything about her. Take a woman who lives
alone with only a pet parrot and a monkey for
companions, and never associates with the neighbors,
and talks like an asylum for the simple-minded,
and you have a proposition too baffling
for solution even by my trained and highly developed
mind. My deduction is——”
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“Here comes Roger!” exclaimed Fred Sage.
“Let’s ask him what he thinks about the fellow.”

It was the hour of the noon intermission at
Oakdale Academy, and, the season being early
November, with the atmosphere biting cold,
Roger Eliot stepped forward to warm his hands
at the radiator, near which hovered the group
who were discussing the new boy. Roger was a
tall, well-built, somewhat grave-looking chap,
whose sober face, however, was occasionally illumined
by a rare smile. The son of Urian Eliot,
one of the wealthiest and most influential men of
the town, Roger, being a natural athlete, was
the recognized leader among the academy boys.

“Hello, fellows,” was his pleasant greeting.
“Talking football?”

“No,” answered Hayden; “we were discussing
that fellow Rodney Grant. We were trying to
size him up, and it seems to be practically the
universal opinion that he’s a fraud. We doubt
if he has ever been west of the Mississippi. What
do you think about it?”
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“Well,” confessed Roger slowly, “I’ll own up
that I don’t know what to, think. Still, I don’t
see any reason why he should lie about himself.”

“Some fellers had rather lie than eat,” observed
Sile Crane.

“Why shouldn’t he lie about himself?” questioned
Cooper. “He’s told some wallopers about
everything else. I never heard a fellow who
could bust the truth into smithereens the way he
can.”

“Oh,” said Eliot, “I know what you mean.
When he first struck Oakdale he didn’t have
much of anything to say, and you fellows kept at
him, asking questions, until I fancy he grew
weary and took a notion to sling off a few big
yarns for his own amusement.”

“Putting aside the question as to whether he
came from the West or not,” said Barker, “I’ve
decided that he’s a quitter—in short, a coward.”

“What makes you think so?” asked Roger.

“Why shouldn’t I think so? Didn’t you try
to get him out for football practice? and didn’t
he refuse after watching us work one night? It
was too husky business for the gentleman who
had punched cows and hunted cattle thieves.
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Why, even Hunk Rollins doesn’t take any stock
in that chap, Eliot, and yesterday Hunk backed
him down completely. Rollins had a chip on his
shoulder and was looking for trouble. He picked
out Grant and loaded him with jibes and insults.
The cow-puncher swallowed them all. Any one
with a particle of grit would have climbed all over
Hunk.”

“Perhaps you may be right, boys,” admitted
Roger; “but don’t forget that you made a blunder
in sizing up Ben Stone when he came here. It
is possible you’re just as far wrong about Rodney
Grant. He——”

“’Sh!” hissed Piper suddenly, as the door
swung open and another boy entered the room.
“Here he comes now!”
.pb
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.pm chap 02 II. "PLAYING THE PART."
For a few moments they stared in dumfounded
silence at the latest arrival. Sile Crane
was the first to speak; a grin broke over his
homely face, and in a suppressed tone he
drawled:

“Great codfish! He’s sartainly come to school
this arternoon all dressed up fit to kill.”

“Oh, ginger!” snickered Chipper Cooper.
“Here’s the real wild and woolly article now.
Just look at it!”

Chub Tuttle snorted, clapping a hand to his
mouth to check the spray of half-munched peanuts
which flew from his lips. “’Scuse me,” he
entreated, as Barker fell back a step, frowning
and producing a handkerchief to brush some of
the peanut crumbs from his coat sleeve.
“Couldn’t help it. Did you ever see such a funny
sight in all your life?”
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Even Roger Eliot could not repress a smile as
he gazed at the new boy in Oakdale who professed
to come from the State of Texas; for
never before had a person thus attired ventured
to cross the threshold of the academy, and in a
moment the eyes of nearly every boy and girl in
the room were focused upon Rodney Grant.

Grant was a well-set-up youngster of sixteen,
somewhat large for his age, and yet not large
enough to be noticeably overgrown. He had
clear, dark brown eyes, which were almost black;
a strong, well-formed, prominent nose; a square,
firm chin; and a mouth which, while in no way
disagreeable, had something about it to give the
impression that the boy could say “no” and stick
to it. In his dark brown hair there was a glint of
red. The short time he had spent as a student at
Oakdale Academy had not yet begun to weaken
perceptibly the deep tan of his cheek and neck.

Set a bit rakishly on the boy’s shapely head
was a battered, wide-brimmed old felt hat that
looked as if it had seen any amount of wear.
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The crown was encircled by a buckled leather
strap, and in front the brim had been turned up
and fastened with a thong. Neither coat nor
vest covered the loose woollen shirt, which had
been left open a bit at the throat. A dark red
handkerchief was knotted about the lad’s neck.
His legs were encased in shiny, soiled, calfskin
chaps, fringed down the outer seams; and these
likewise bore the tokens of much wear. Hanging
loosely from the point of his left hip was a
cartridge-looped belt that supported a pistol holster
dangling low against the upper part of his
right leg. On his feet were tight, thin-soled,
high-heeled boots, to which were attached huge
roweled spurs that clanked with every step he
took.

Calm, serene, without the flicker of a smile
on his face or a symptom of self-consciousness in
his manner, Rod Grant glanced around and then
walked toward the staring lads near the steam
radiator. His high-heeled boots gave him a
somewhat awkward gait.
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“Howdy, gents,” he saluted. “This yere
weather is sure some nipping to-day. If it continues,
it’s right certain she’ll freeze up tight before
long. Out on the Canadian we’d get it this
cold on the front edge of a no’ther.”

Berlin Barker’s lips curled scornfully as he
openly took the measure of the speaker from head
to feet. “On my word,” he sneered, “you’re a
sight. You’re all dressed up, aren’t you?”

“Sure,” was the cheerful answer. “Not knowing
but that I might be invited out to afternoon
tea or some sort of social function, I spent as
much as five minutes adorning my person for
the occasion. I own up I’m a heap more familiar
with the social etiquette of the range,
being generally accustomed to taking my grub
from the tail end of the cook’s wagon; but, when
he sent me East, my old man he says to me, says
he, ‘Rod, when you’re in Rome you must seek
some to emulate the Romans.’ Therefore, being
plenty dutiful, I feel it incumbent to stand up
and meet what’s coming without shying or
bucking.”

“Oh, slush!” snickered Cooper. “Who said he
didn’t talk in the ver—what-do-you-call-it?”
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“I presume,” said Barker, “that he picked up
that line of talk from some cheap Western
novel.”

“You’ve certain got two more guesses coming,
partner,” retorted Grant, still unruffled. “Since
locating on this here section of the range, I’ve
spent the greater part of my time in the right
painful effort to talk pure Bostonese. What has
been the result? You gents hereabouts have acquired
the impression that I’m an impostor, and
therefore all my trouble has gone for naught. I
allow you’ll admit that this must be a heap discouraging
to a person with a naturally retiring
and sensitive nature—that’s me. I now give you
notice that henceforth and hereafter I’m Rodney
Grant of the Star D Ranch, Roberts County,
Texas Panhandle, and any gent who doesn’t approve
of my style is at liberty to segregate himself
from my society.”

Roger Eliot laughed outright, which was unusual
for him.

“That’s plain enough,” he said. “A great
many people find it necessary to play the part in
order to be accepted as the real thing.”
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.pn +1

Grant flashed him a look from those deep
brown eyes; to his surprise, here was a fellow
who seemed to understand.

Barker shrugged his shoulders. “My dear
chap,” he said patronizingly, “I’m afraid you
were rather careless in letting us get onto your
curves. Tell us, how much did that rig-out cost
you? I presume you bought it from some fake
cowboy in a dime museum.”

“I’ve already noticed,” returned Rodney, “that
you’re a presuming sort of a gent. Being of a
forgiving nature, I’ll overlook it and charge it
up to your ignorance.”

Barker flushed with anger. “Cut it out, you
freak!” he exclaimed. “Why, you’re a sight!
Folks around here weren’t born yesterday, and
you can’t fool anybody with your bluff. Next
thing we know you’ll be calling us tenderfeet;
but we’re not so tender we can’t tell the difference
between a fake and the genuine article.”

“I pray thee, be not so harsh, Berlin,” chuckled
Cooper. “Why, we can all see by looking at his
clothes that Mr. Grant is a real, genuine, <i>bona
fide</i> cow-puncher from the Texas Panhandle, just
as he claims to be. At least, he not only looks it,
but he’s slinging the lingo.”
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.pn +1

Sleuth Piper shook his head doubtfully. “He
hasn’t yet said ‘whoop’ or ‘galoot’ or ‘varmint’,”
he muttered.

“Thanks, my friend,” bowed Grant, beaming
on Cooper. “It’s sure a relief to know that at
last I’m making an impression on one person, at
least.”

“Have a peanut,” invited Chub Tuttle. “Can
you shoot a pistol?”

“I’m a rip-roarer with a gun.”

“Know how to throw a lasso?”

“Sure. I can rope and tie a wild steer in
thirty-six seconds. The world’s record is something
like forty-one and a half. But that’s because
I’ve never competed in a public steer-roping
contest.”

“Bah!” sneered Barker. “Did you ever see a
longhorn steer in your life?”

“At least,” returned Grant, gazing fixedly at
him, “I’ve seen a long-eared donkey.”

“Score one for the gent from the Panhandle,”
snickered Cooper.
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.pn +1

“You insolent puppy!” breathed Barker, in a
low, savage voice. “You want to be careful of
your language, or you’ll have a fight on your
hands. Somebody will——”

“I never fight with my fists.”

“No, I don’t suppose you ever fight with anything
but your mouth. You showed the white
feather when Hunk Rollins got after you. It’s
my opinion you’re a big case of blow.”

“Your opinions are of so little value that they
don’t disturb me any at all.”

“Quit it, fellows!” interposed Eliot, stepping
forward to keep them apart in case Barker should
go at Grant. “You know what it means to have
a scrap here, Berlin.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t touch him—here;
but, if he isn’t more civil, I’ll catch him somewhere
and teach him a lesson.”

With which threat Berlin turned disdainfully
and walked away, watched as he departed by the
eyes of Grant, in which there shone a strange
gleam of mingled anger and amusement.
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.pn +1

“Yeou better not git that feller stirred up,
Mr. Cow-puncher,” advised Sile Crane. “He’s
a bad critter when he’s mad. He never forgits
a grudge.”

“I ask you fair and square, gents,” said Grant,
“did I begin it? Didn’t he start the rumpus by
spurring me a plenty with slurs and insults?
Never mind, I won’t fight him anyhow, because,
as I before stated, I don’t fight.”

“How about fighting cattle thieves and Injuns?”
questioned Cooper.

“That’s a heap different. Having a right violent
temper of my own, I reckon it’s best for me
to keep it hobbled constant and regular. Gents,
when I’m riled I’m bad—I sure am. I opine
I’ve caused my old man no end of disturbance
and worry. This yere is the first school I’ve
never been expelled from—and there’s enough
time for that. Last school I attended, the master
allowed it was his duty to give me a ferruling.
It certain was the mistake of his life, for he got
me going some, and I clean lost my head. As a
result, I threw him, traddled him, and lifted his
scalp.”
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.pn +1

“You wha-what?” gasped Phil Springer. “You
don’t mean that you actually sus-scalped a schoolmaster,
do you?”

“Sure. I removed a portion of the gent’s topknot
with my trusty scalping knife. I opine it
was a severe shock to his system, but he recovered
in time, though he remained baldheaded in
a spot as big as the palm of your hand.”

“You must be dangerous,” laughed Cooper. “I
suppose you learned the scalping business that
time you was captured by Injuns. You know
you said you were captured once.”

“Such was the fate which befell me.”

“Tell us abaout it,” urged Crane. “Haow did
yeou escape?”

“By breaking the bonds with which the savages
tied me. I am the possessor of sure enough
amazing strength, which enabled me to accomplish
the seeming impossible. There were three
of the onery redskins. They caught me when I
was sound asleep, and they were taking me to
their tribe for the self-evident purpose of amusing
themselves by burning me at the stake, or
something like that. It was a journey of two
days or more. The first night we camped in a
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.pn +1
dark and lonely valley. My captors regaled
themselves on roast beef cut from one of my
father’s steers which they had stolen, but not a
morsel did they offer me, although I was mighty
near starved to death. When they had eaten
their fill they rolled themselves in their blankets
and slept. There I was, tied hand and foot, and
apparently helpless. I watched the campfire die
down and the stars twinkle forth in the lonely
sky. I knew it was up to me, and so when the
aborigines were securely wrapped in the arms of
Morpheus I proceeded to put forth my energies
to burst my bonds, and finally succeeded.”

“I s’pose yeou sneaked off and took to your
heels then, didn’t ye?” questioned Crane.

“No, indeed, not any. I knew they would
awaken and follow me. I knew there was only
one salvation for me: I must destroy all three
of those red fiends.”

“Did yeou kill ’em?”

“I confess that I did, but never in the history
of the world have redskins died in such a manner.
They laughed themselves to death.”
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.pn +1

“How was that?” asked Tuttle, so interested
that he had forgotten to eat peanuts.

“As they slept I crept upon them, one by one,
seized them, gagged them, bound them all. This
I did to each one in turn, without arousing the
others. Having them securely bound, I meditated
on my future course. It sure seemed some inhuman
to hike off and leave them trussed up to
starve or to be eaten by coyotes. I shuddered a
plenty at the thought of tomahawking or shooting
them. It was a right long time before I
finally hit upon a mode of execution. Finally I
removed their moccasins—stripped their feet
bare. Then from the topknot of the chief I
plucked some feathers. With those very feathers
I proceeded to tickle first one and then another
of the redskins upon the soles of his feet.
In about two jiffys I had all three laughing and
squirming, and the more I tickled them the more
they laughed. I kept it up, gents, until those
redskins laughed themselves to death.”

“Ge-gee!” exploded Phil Springer. “What
a whopper!”
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.pn +1

“Pretty fair,” nodded Roger Eliot—“pretty
fair.”

Prof. Richardson entered. He paused a moment
to peer over his spectacles, and his eyes fell
on Rodney Grant. Slowly an expression of wonderment
crept over the old man’s face.

“What’s this, young man—what’s this?” he
inquired, coming forward and removing his knit
woollen gloves. “What are you doing here in
such a rig?”

“I reckon you’ll pardon me, Professor, but people
around this neck of the woods seem to think
I’m a fake Texan because I don’t look it, and
therefore I took a notion to wear my cowboy
regalia this afternoon.”

The professor shook his head disapprovingly.
“Go home,” he said—“go home at once and
change those clothes for civilized garments. I
certainly shall not approve of your wearing such
a rig while you attend this school.”

“Fate is against me,” murmured Rodney
Grant, as he turned toward the door.
.pb
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.pm chap 03 III. "ROD’S WONDERFUL JUMP."
Prof. Richardson was giving his attention to
the class in physiology when Rod Grant returned
to the academy. The boy from Texas walked
quietly down the center aisle and took his place in
the class. In truth, as he now appeared, there
was nothing about him, save possibly the deep tan
of his cheeks, to give him an appearance different
from that of any clean, healthy, manly-appearing
Eastern youngster. He wore a well-fitting
suit of dark blue serge, a negligée shirt,
and a carelessly knotted crimson four-in-hand
tie. On his feet were stout, serviceable, yet distinctly
well made and stylish tan shoes.

Berlin Barker, who had been reciting, sat
down. The principal surveyed Rod over his gold-rimmed
spectacles, which perched precariously
on the end of his nose, nodding his head slightly
as if inwardly approving of the change in the
new boy’s appearance.
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.pn +1

“Grant.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You may recite.”

Rodney stood up.

“How many bones are there in the entire
skeleton of an adult?”

“Two hundred, sir.”

“You may state the number and give the
names of the various bones of the human arm
and hand.”

Grant did so without hesitation, speaking in
a clear, well-modulated voice, his language having
no touch of the vernacular which Phil
Springer had asserted to be characteristic
of a Westerner. His accent and inflection, it is
true, differed slightly from that of Easterners in
general, but this difference was not sufficient to
attract the notice of a person who was not
particularly observing.

“Very good, Grant,” nodded the principal.
“You may be seated. I have the pleasure of informing
this class that I have been enabled, at
.bn 029.png
// 029.png
.pn +1
considerable expense and after no end of trouble,
to purchase a complete and perfect human skeleton,
which arrived yesterday and is now stored in
the laboratory. I obtained this skeleton for demonstrating
purposes; but, not wishing to disturb
those scholars who are naturally nervous or timid,
I shall not display it before the school during
the period of any regular session. To-morrow,
however, such members of this class as may desire
to remain after the last period will be given
the privilege of seeing and examining the skeleton.
I wish it understood, however, that no one
is positively required to remain for that purpose,
and I would suggest that the timid ones do not
remain. Class dismissed.”

“Jiminy!” whispered Cooper in Sleuth Piper’s
ear. “Where d’you s’pose he got his old skeleton?”

“My deduction is,” answered Sleuth, “that he
obtained it from a cemetery.”

“What a grave thing to do,” grinned Chipper.
“On the dead, it gives me a shiver.”
.bn 030.png
// 030.png
.pn +1

At intermission some of the boys gathered
near the academy steps and talked about the
skeleton.

“My eagle eye detected the long, gruesome-looking
box in the express office yesterday,” said
Piper; “but on lifting one end of it, which I did,
my deduction was that the box, being very light,
could not possibly contain a subject for a funeral.
Ever since then the mystery has preyed upon me,
but at last the prof’s statement has cleared it up
to the satisfaction of all concerned.”

“Be yeou goin’ to see the old thing to-morrer?”
questioned Crane.

“I shall take pleasure in doing so.”

“Pleasure! Great scissors! I don’t see no fun
in lookin’ at a skeleton. The prof is a crank
abaout such things; everybody says so.”

“I sure can’t see the necessity of exhibiting
a genuine skeleton before the class,” said Rod
Grant. “If we were medical students, it would
be different; but, as far as I’m concerned, I can
acquire all the knowledge I desire about the bones
of the human body without examining such human
framework at short range.”
.bn 031.png
// 031.png
.pn +1

“It can’t be possible,” said Chub Tuttle, “that
a fellow who has scalped schoolmasters and
tickled Injuns to death is afraid of a harmless
skeleton.”

“I don’t admit any that I’m afraid of the
thing,” returned Grant; “but I simply say, what’s
the use?”

Standing near, Berlin Barker shrugged his
shoulders and laughed an unspoken sneer, which
caused the warm blood to glow through the tan
of Rod’s cheeks. Turning on his heel, Barker
joined some fellows who were jumping at the
corner of the academy. Grant’s gaze followed
him. In a moment or two, urged to do so, Barker,
who prided himself on his ability as a
jumper, stripped off his coat and entered into
competition with Jack Nelson.

Rod drew near and looked on.

“That’s pretty fair,” he observed, when Berlin,
doing his level best, had beaten Nelson by a good
six inches.

Barker turned on him. “Pretty fair, you lead-heeled
gas bag! Perhaps you think you can beat
it?”

“Maybe so,” nodded Rod.
.bn 032.png
// 032.png
.pn +1

“I’ll bet ten dollars you can’t come within a
foot of my mark.”

“Keep your money in your clothes, partner;
you may need it some.”

“You’ve been blowing around lately about
what you can do, but nobody has ever seen you
do anything. I’m not from Missouri, but you’ve
got to show me, and there are various other fellows
who feel the same way.”

“I’m out of practice,” said Grant, slowly removing
his coat and dropping it to the ground;
“but, as long as you’ve put it up to me that
fashion, I opine I’ll have to show you a
stunt.”

Eagerly the boys gathered around to watch
the fellow from Texas, who stepped forward
with a calm, confident air and toed the mark.
Backward and forward at his sides Grant swung
his clenched fists, stooping a little, while the
muscles in his body grew tense. Suddenly he
launched himself through the air with a long,
graceful leap, flinging his feet forward beneath
him at the proper moment and planting his heels
.bn 033.png
// 033.png
.pn +1
firmly and fairly in the turf, coming upright
without a falter or a struggle.

The spectators shouted.

“Jerusalem!” cried Sile Crane. “He’s beat
Berlin, ding my boots if he hain’t!”

Measurement with a tape showed that the lad
from Texas had outjumped Barker by fully four
inches.

“Great work, Grant,” said Roger Eliot approvingly;
but Berlin, choking with chagrin and
wrath, turned away without a word.

“Oh, that was right easy,” beamed Rod, accepting
his coat from Crane, who had hastened
to get it. “Sometime when I’m feeling plenty like
it I’ll show you a real jump.”

“What’s the longest jump you ever made?”
asked Piper.

“I hold the world’s record,” replied Rod unblushingly.

“Oh, say! what are you giving us?” cried Jack
Nelson.

“Cold facts, my friend. In dire peril of my
life, I once made a jump only equaled by the
original owner of the seven league boots.”
.bn 034.png
// 034.png
.pn +1

“Tell us abaout it,” urged Crane, scenting a
story. “How fur did yeou jump?”

“Twenty miles.”

“Wha-what?” gulped Phil Springer. “Oh,
say! Now that sus-spoils the whole story.”

“Yes,” sighed Crane, “that spiles it. If yeou
had only stretched her a little bit—just within
the bounds of reason!”

“I was well aware, gents,” said Grant, smoothing
a wrinkle in his coat sleeve, “that you would
think me prevaricating. I presume it’s right natural
that you should. Nevertheless, I’ll tell the
tale. I learned the art of jumping from grasshoppers;
you know they are great jumpers. Occasionally
these pests come down in millions upon
the Panhandle country. They have been known
to eat every blade of grass clean to the roots on
a section as big as the State of Rhode Island.
They have even invaded houses and chewed up
muslin window curtains, carpets, rugs, and similar
articles. Two years ago we had the greatest
grasshopper season ever known in Roberts
County. The pests came down on us suddenly
in swarms which darkened the sky and blotted
.bn 035.png
// 035.png
.pn +1
out the light of the sun. I was out riding the
range at the time the advance guard of the varmints
appeared.”

“Oh, jinks!” hissed Piper. “He said <i>varmints</i>!”

“Some of our boys over on Bitter Crick had
sent me with a message to the ranch, and I
started out at an early hour. The ranch house
is located on the south bank of the Canadian
River. We were some thirty miles or more to the
north of the river. Shortly after sunrise I perceived
what I took to be a cloud in the sky. It
drew nearer with great rapidity, and I was
looking for a dry gully or some shelter to
protect me from what I took to be a sure
enough tornado when the first sprinkling of
grasshoppers settled around me. It didn’t
take me long after that to make out what
that cloud was—nothing but grasshoppers. They
kept on coming thicker and thicker, until the air
was literally full of them and the ground was
covered to a depth of several inches. The sunshine
was blotted so that it was almost as dark
as twilight on a late autumn day. The blamed
things got in my nose, my ears, my eyes, and they
.bn 036.png
// 036.png
.pn +1
crawled down my neck and filled my hair. It sure
was some unpleasant. All I could do was ride
along, letting my horse pick his way; for, not
having a compass nor being able to see the sky
or the surrounding country, I had no idea where
the river lay.”

“Yeou sartain was in a scrape, wasn’t ye?”
grinned Crane.

“Wait, my friend—wait. I have not begun to
tell you the full extent of my horrible dilemma.
Once or twice I fancied I smelled something like
smoke, but I paid no heed to this until a sort of
dull reddish glow penetrated that mass of flying
insects. Finally, looking back, I perceived behind
me, spreading out on both sides, a gleam like fire.
It was fire. The dry prairie grass was burning,
and the wind was sweeping the flames down on
me with the speed of an express train. In a
measure that accounted for the tremendous number
of grasshoppers now swarming about me and
beating against me in their flight. They were
being driven ahead of the flames, and as the fire
advanced their numbers became greater and
greater, until I could scarcely breathe without
my nostrils being plugged by grasshoppers.”
.bn 037.png
// 037.png
.pn +1

“Horrible!” snickered Cooper.

“It was horrible,” said Grant solemnly. “When
I realized my peril from that onrushing conflagration
I put spurs to my horse in a hopeless
effort to keep ahead of it. It was like galloping
through the darkness of night. The beating and
rustling of grasshoppers’ wings, which had
sounded faint at first, had gradually risen until
it was like the roaring of a gale. The pressure
of insects against my back helped in a measure to
carry me onward. Finally, however, my horse
plunged into a gopher hole and broke its leg.
Poor beast!

“But think of me, gents—think of me some!
There I was dismounted in the path of that fearful
prairie fire. Desperately I succeeded in rising,
and madly I stumbled on knee deep amid
squirming grasshoppers. The gloom was penetrated
in a way by the light of the flames, and I
could feel the scorching heat upon the back of
my neck. Suddenly right ahead of me I beheld
a deep fissure in the plain. The bottom of the
.bn 038.png
// 038.png
.pn +1
fissure was packed with layers of grasshoppers
many feet in depth. For a moment I hesitated,
and then, as the fire rushed upon me, I launched
myself in a desperate spring for the opposite side
of the fissure.

“At that very moment, apparently aroused,
despite their weariness, by the close approach and
searing heat of the flames, the grasshoppers in
that gully rose in a solid mass. They actually
lifted me and bore me upward for a few moments.
True, I was nearer smothered than ever
before in all my life. Like a drowning person,
I sought to rise higher by paddling with my
hands and treading with my feet.

“I rose, gents—I sure did. I kept on rising,
too, until I opined I was, pretty near the top of
that tremendous mass of grasshoppers, which
was sweeping along the surface of the earth
ahead of the fire. I soon discovered that by
paddling gently with feet and hands I could keep
myself up, and to my unbounded relief I perceived
that the flying grasshoppers were bearing
me along with such speed that the flames could
not gain upon me.
.bn 039.png
// 039.png
.pn +1

“I don’t know just how long I was in the air,
but I do know that at least twenty good miles of
Texas territory was passed over before that mass
of flying grasshoppers became so thinned that I
finally sank slowly and gently, like a feather, to
the ground. Believe it or not, I landed on the
south side of the Canadian River, and thus my
life was saved; for when the flames reached the
river they could go no farther.

“That, gents, is, I reckon, beyond the shadow
of dispute, the longest jump on record. If any
one has ever beaten it, I’d like to meet up with
the party and yield him the palm.”

The bell clanged; intermission was over.

“Oh, suffering misery!” groaned Chipper
Cooper, staggering toward the academy door.
“Somebody support me. I’m weak and exhausted.
That’s what I call a real w-hopper!”
.pb
.bn 040.png
// 040.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 04 IV. "THE FELLOW WHO REFUSED."
Coached by Dash Winton, a former Dartmouth
College player, the Oakdale Academy
football team thus far had not lost a game for
the season, and there was now but one more
game to be played, which, however, was the one
the boys especially desired to win; for, could they
defeat Wyndham, the school that during the past
three years had held the county championship,
they would themselves win the title of champions.

As usual, Wyndham had a strong eleven; so
strong, indeed, that in almost every respect it had
wholly outclassed its opponents, thus far not having
been once scored against; therefore, having
won some of her contests by the narrowest possible
margin and succeeded only once in blanking
the enemy, it was no more than natural that
Oakdale should feel more or less apprehension
.bn 041.png
// 041.png
.pn +1
over that deciding battle so soon to be fought.
Another reason for apprehension lay in the fact
that Oakdale’s battered rush line contained several
cripples; but it was likely that only the coach
and Eliot, the captain, had detected certain alarming
indications that the players were “going
stale,” a calamity which they had privately discussed.
In his heart Winton feared he had
driven the youngsters too hard, when better judgment
should have held them somewhat in restraint
for the great battle of the season.

The autumn days had grown so short that
there was little time to practice between the closing
of the afternoon session at the academy and
the coming of nightfall. As soon as possible, on
being let out, the boys rushed from the academy
to the gymnasium, jumped into harness and hurried
onto the field, where they invariably found
the coach waiting. Night after night they put
in a brief practice game against the scrub, which
contained a number of grammar school boys and
was strengthened by the regular substitutes and,
usually, by Winton himself.
.bn 042.png
// 042.png
.pn +1

But even this work had ceased to be properly
beneficial, especially in developing defensive tactics;
for the time had passed when the scrub
could force them to exert themselves to the utmost.
Indeed, the only substitutes obtainable
were few in numbers and sadly deficient in real
football qualifications, so that even the least astute
knew that disqualifying injuries to two or
three regular players, occurring in the game with
Wyndham, would be almost certain to weaken
the team hopelessly.

The great desire for reliable substitutes had
led Roger Eliot to ask, almost to beg, Rodney
Grant to come out for practice. For even though
Grant might know little about the game, there
was a chance for him to acquire some rudimentary
knowledge, and, being a strong, lithe, athletic
fellow, there was a possibility that he could be
used to fill a gap at a time of extreme emergency.
Eliot’s entreaties, however, had proved unavailing,
the Texan flatly declining to practice, without
giving his reasons for the refusal.

This new boy, entering Oakdale in the midst of
the autumn term, where he appeared unannounced
and unacclaimed, had at first seemed to
.bn 043.png
// 043.png
.pn +1
be quiet and retiring to the verge of modesty. Of
late, however, beset, almost pestered, by his
schoolmates, his manner had undergone a decisive
change, and it was not at all remarkable that
various lads besides Berlin Barker had come to
regard him as a braggart.

In the midst of practice on the afternoon of
Grant’s feat as a jumper, Hunk Rollins, filling
the position of right guard for the regulars, gave
his right knee, injured in the last game, a twist
that sent him hobbling off the field. There was
a pause, in which Eliot consulted Winton concerning
a substitute.

“No use to try Springer or Hooker,” said the
coach in a low tone. “Neither is fitted for the
place. In fact, we haven’t a man.”

Ben Stone, the left guard, an uncomely chap
who, nevertheless, had become amazingly popular
with the boys, chanced to overhear these words.
In a moment he joined them.

“Why don’t you ask Grant again, captain?”
he suggested. “I don’t know why it is, but I
have a notion that he can play the game.”
.bn 044.png
// 044.png
.pn +1

“Grant?” said Roger in surprise. “I’ve asked
him once, and he refused. Where is he?”

“Sitting alone over yonder on the seats,” answered
Ben, with a movement of his head. “I
saw him come in shortly after we commenced
work.”

“Oh, yes,” muttered Roger, perceiving the solitary
figure of Rod Grant. “There he is. Confound
him! why doesn’t he come forward like a
man and get into it? I did my best to induce
him.”

“Let me talk to him,” said Winton, starting
quickly toward the young Texan.

Barker, observant, strolled over in the wake of
the coach.

Reaching the lower tier of seats, Winton shot
a sudden question at Rodney Grant:

“Do you know anything about football?”

“Mighty little,” was the surprised answer.

“But you do know something? You’ve played
the game, haven’t you?”

“Not much.”

“That’s an admission that you’ve played it
some. We need you to fill a hole in the line—just
for this practice game, you understand.
Come on.”
.bn 045.png
// 045.png
.pn +1

“I reckon you’ll have to excuse me, sir,” said
Grant. “I don’t believe I’ll play football.”

“This isn’t a regular game; it’s practice.
You’ve got a little patriotism, haven’t you?
You’ve got some interest in your school and your
school team, I hope? It won’t hurt you to practice.
Come, we haven’t any time to lose before
it gets dark.”

But the boy on the seats shook his head. “I
thank you for the invite, but I allow I’d better
keep out of it. You’ll certain have to get some
one else.”

Barker’s cold, irritating laugh sounded at Winton’s
shoulder. “He’s afraid! He hasn’t even
got sand enough to take part in a practice game.”

“You’re a——”

Rod Grant cut himself short with the third
word trembling on his lips. Involuntarily he had
started up and was coming down over the seats.

“Say it—say it if you dare!” cried Barker,
springing past Winton. “I wish you would.”
.bn 046.png
// 046.png
.pn +1

The young Texan faltered on the lowest seat.
“Never mind,” he said slowly. “I judge maybe
I’d better keep my tongue between my teeth.”

“You’re right, you had,” Barker flung back,
his aggressiveness and insolence increasing, if
possible, with the hesitation of the other. “What
are you here for, anyhow? If you haven’t got
sand enough even to practice, why do you come
out here and sit around watching the rest of us?
You’d better get off the field before some one runs
you off.”

Grant stepped down to the ground. “I sure
hope nobody will try it,” he muttered.

By this time Winton had Barker by the
shoulder.

“Why are you butting in here?” he exclaimed
warmly. “If you would let him alone, perhaps
I’d get him to——”

“Don’t you believe yourself, Mr. Winton. You
couldn’t get him to do anything but talk and
blow. I’ve been up against this same chap once
before to-day, and he knows what I think of him.
He’s a white-livered coward, that’s what’s the
matter with him.”
.bn 047.png
// 047.png
.pn +1

Again it seemed that the boy from Texas
would be taunted beyond endurance, and for a
moment he crouched slightly, as if on the verge
of springing at his insulter.

“Come on,” invited Barker. “You know how
many bones there are in the human hand, even
if you are afraid to examine a skeleton at short
range. Come on, and I’ll let you feel the bones
in my fists.”

These loud words had brought the boys flocking
to the spot. Not a few of them believed for
a moment or two, at least, that the impending
fight between Barker and Grant must take place
then and there, and, boylike, they welcomed it
as a test of the stranger’s courage. Imagine their
disappointment when Rod Grant dropped his half
lifted hands by his sides and turned away.

“I’ll get off the field,” he muttered huskily.
“I’m going, and I hope Mr. Barker will let me
alone in future. He’d sure better.”

They watched him depart in the direction of
the gate.

“That proves what he is,” said Berlin.

“By jinks, I guess yeou’re right,” acknowledged
Sile Crane. “He is a coward.”
.bn 048.png
// 048.png
.pn +1

“Fellows,” said Ben Stone, “I may be wrong,
but I don’t believe he refused to fight because he
was afraid.”

“Perhaps not,” said Winton, shrugging his
shoulders; “but I’d like to know why he refused
to practice. Come on, boys, we’ll put some one
in Rollins’ place and go ahead.”

It was quite dark when Stone, having shed his
football togs, left the gymnasium and strode
down the street toward the cottage of the Widow
Jones, where he roomed. As he was passing
through the front yard gate some one called to
him, and he saw a figure hurrying toward him.
It was Grant, who came up and stopped with his
hand on the fence.

“Stone,” said the Texan, “I heard what you
said as I was leaving the field to-night, and I
want to thank you. It’s mighty agreeable to
know that one fellow, at least, was inclined to
stand up for me.”

“Look here, Grant,” said Ben, “I wish you’d
tell me why you swallowed Barker’s insults.
There must have been a reason.”
.bn 049.png
// 049.png
.pn +1

“There was; but I can’t tell you—not now,
anyhow.”

“Why didn’t you fight him?”

“I—I didn’t want to,” faltered Rod.

“You weren’t afraid, were you?”

There was a moment of silence.

“Yes,” answered Grant in a low tone, “I was
afraid.”

“I didn’t think that,” muttered Ben in disappointment.

“I can’t explain it now,” Grant hastened to
say. “Sometime I will—perhaps. I won’t forget
that you stood up for me. I can hear some of
the fellows coming. Good night.” He turned
sharply, and a moment later his figure melted
into the darkness down the street.

Puzzled and wondering, Stone reached the door
of the cottage and stopped there, listening involuntarily
to the voices of several fellows he could
see approaching. They were nearly opposite the
house when he heard Chipper Cooper laugh
loudly and say something about frightening the
Texan into fits.
.bn 050.png
// 050.png
.pn +1

“If we can make it work it will be better than
a circus,” said the voice of Fred Sage. “Are you
sure you can get the old thing, Sleuth?”

“I’ve a skeleton key that will admit us,” replied
Billy Piper.

“Oh, a skeleton key!” chuckled Chipper
Cooper, as they passed on. “That’s the kind of
a key for this job. Eh, Barker?”

Barker was with them. He said something,
but Stone could not understand his words.

With his hand on the doorknob, Ben stood
there speculating. “They’re putting up some sort
of a job on Grant,” he murmured. “I wonder
what they mean to do?”
.pb
.bn 051.png
// 051.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 05 V. "AMBUSHED."
Priscilla Kent, spinster, sharp-visaged, old and
eccentric, sat knitting by lamplight before the
open Franklin stove at which she warmed her
slippered toes. In its hanging cage an old green
parrot slept fitfully, occasionally waking to roll
a red eye at its mistress or to mutter fretfully
like one disturbed by unpleasant dreams. Behind
her back a small monkey had silently enlarged
a rent in the haircloth covering of an old
spring couch and was industriously extracting
and curiously inspecting the packing with which
the couch was stuffed. The hands of the old-fashioned
clock upon the mantel pointed to eight
thirty-five.

“Goodness!” said Miss Priscilla, after peering
at the clock. “It’s goin’ on to nine, and Rod ain’t
back yet. He said he was just goin’ down to the
village to mail a letter. I’m afeared he’s gittin’
.bn 052.png
// 052.png
.pn +1
into the habit of keepin’ late hours. He takes
his natteral reckless disposition from his father’s
side, but I do hope the terrible misfortune that
befell Oscar will be a lesson to him and teach
him to shun bad company and curb his violent
temper. If he don’t come purty soon I shall get
real worried.”

Now Miss Priscilla, living as she did on the
outskirts of the village in a small house reached
only by a footpath from the main highway, might
have worried indeed had she known that the
darkness and the bushes bordering that path hid
a trio of armed and desperate-looking savages
who were lying in ambush. The faintest sort
of a moon or even a few stars might have
shed light sufficient to show that the ambuscaders
were attired in fringed khaki garments
and moccasins, and wore upon their heads
bonnets adorned with feathers plucked from the
tails of more than one unfortunate rooster. Even
such a dim light would also have revealed that
the papier-mache masks which hid their faces
added in a degree to their make-up as Indians,
while the red paint which stained the edges of
.bn 053.png
// 053.png
.pn +1
their wooden tomahawks and scalping knives
was certainly sufficient to produce a shudder. In
the parade of “horribles,” on last Independence
Day, these warriors had appeared for the amusement
of the admiring populace of Oakdale, and
now their carefully preserved disguises were
again being put to use.

Even though they lurked in concealment so
near the exposed and defenseless home of Miss
Priscilla, the savages had no murderous designs
upon the spinster. They were, however, as their
guarded conversation indicated, lying in wait for
some one whom they expected soon to return
along that footpath, and protracted lingering in
ambush upon a nipping November night was
proving far from pleasant, as their chattering
teeth and occasional fretful remarks plainly indicated.

“Ugh!” grunted one, whose voice sounded
amazingly like that of Phil Springer. “I wonder
why the hated pup-paleface does not appear?”

“Peace, noble Osceola,” said another, with a
shivery chuckle that might have come from the
lips of Chipper Cooper. “The hated enemy of
.bn 054.png
// 054.png
.pn +1
our people will surely return in time to his wigwam.
If he don’t I’ll be froze stiff; for, with
only this feather headdress as protection, I can’t
keep my own wig warm to-night.”

“Oh, say, King Philip,” drawled the third,
“don’t increase our sufferin’s by any such cracks
as that.”

“Enjoy you not my persiflage, Tecumpseh?”
asked the one who had been addressed as the
war chief of the Narragansetts. “’Tis thus by
light and airy jesting we aid the leaden hours to
pass on fleeting wings.”

“Heap bub-bad Injun lingo, King Philip,”
criticized Osceola. “A real aborigine such as
you impersonate wouldn’t talk about leaden
hours. Cuc-cut it out.”

“Your slang, Osceola, is somewhat too modern.
You don’t s’pose that sucker got onto our
game and fooled us by sneaking back to his
teepee by some other road, do you?”

“If he has,” growled Tecumpseh, “he’ll sartainly
have the laugh on us. But, in that case,
why hain’t we been informed by Girty, the renegade,
who’s trailin’ him?”
.bn 055.png
// 055.png
.pn +1

“’Sh!” hissed King Philip suddenly. “I hear
a signal. Muffle the chin-music and listen.”

A smothered, suppressed sound, like the faint-hearted
hooting of an owl, drifted up the dark
path, and instantly the three savages were palpitant
with eagerness.

“It’s Hunk—I mean Girty,” spluttered Cooper,
rising on his hands and knees. “Where’s the
blanket? Get the blanket ready, fellows. Now
don’t bungle this job.”

A sound of running feet grew more distinct,
and a panting lad came hurrying up the path.

“Hey, Hunk—hey!” called Tecumpseh softly.
“Here we be. Is he comin’?”

“Oh, here you are!” gasped the new arrival, as
he plunged into the shelter of the pathside thicket
and joined them. “Yep, he’s coming. I watched
him till I saw him start, then I made a short cut
by the footpath past Tige Fletcher’s, and got
here first. He’ll be right along. I guess the
fellers are getting the other end of the game
fixed up all right, for I see Sleuth buying phosphorus
at the drug store. Oh, say! we’ll scare
that bragging coward to death to-night. After
we catch him we’ve got to keep him till they get
ready to work the rescue racket.”
.bn 056.png
// 056.png
.pm illust 03 page-055.jpg 461 "OUT FROM COVER LEAPED THE QUARTET, FLINGING THEMSELVES ON THE PALEFACE. —Page 55."
.bn 057.png
// 057.png
.pn +1

“Oh, we’ll keep him all right if we catch him,
and we’ll make it warm for him, too,” said King
Philip. “Come on, Hunk—I mean Girty,—we’ll
take the other side of the path, you and I. Osceola
and Tecumpseh, have the blanket ready.
Everybody jump at him all together; get him
before he can scoot. Come on.”

Followed by the one called Girty, who was disguised
in rough, loose fitting clothes, a slouch hat
and a hideous white-face mask, King Philip
hustled across the path and ensconced himself
close beside a low clump of cedars. Silence followed,
broken presently by the faint, clear sound
of a whistled tune, becoming more and more distinct
as the whistler drew near. Their muscles
taut, their nerves strung high, the three redskins
and the renegade crouched for the attack upon
their chosen victim, who, wholly unsuspecting,
sauntered heedlessly into the trap.

Out from cover leaped the quartet, flinging
themselves upon the paleface, whose whistled
tune was actually cut short by the muffling folds
.bn 058.png
// 058.png
.pn +1
of the blanket cast over his head and twisted
tight. Nevertheless, although his feet were kicked
from beneath him and all four united in the effort
to subdue him, the boy from Texas, squirming,
twisting, kicking, fighting desperately to fling off
the blanket, gave them a lively time of it for
several minutes. At last, however, smothered
and crushed, he began to weaken, and presently
his hands were twisted round behind his back
and tied there with a stout piece of rope produced
from a pocket of King Philip’s khaki war-suit.

“Got him now!” grated Girty viciously, as he
gave the captive a punch in the ribs. “Confound
him! he kicked me one in the breadbasket that
near knocked the wind out of me.”

“Stop that!” commanded King Philip authoritatively.
“He will pay the bitter penalty when we
put him to the torture. Come on, let’s hit the
high places.”

Still keeping the blanket wrapped about the
head and shoulders of the victim, they lifted him
to his feet, held him fast, plunged through the
bushes, and struck out across a rough open field
.bn 059.png
// 059.png
.pn +1
in the direction of Turkey Hill. The captive
staggered as he was forced along, but their firm
hands sustained him, and they paid no heed to
the muffled gasping and groaning which came
from beneath the blanket. Over a fence and
across a stone wall he was pushed and dragged,
and finally the woods at the eastern base of Turkey
Hill were reached. A short distance into the
blackest of the night-shrouded timber they penetrated,
halting at last in a small glade near a bubbling
spring.

“This is the place,” whispered King Philip.
“We agreed to have him here at the spring.
We’ll have some fun with him while we’re waiting
for the other fellers to come.”

“I guess we’d better give him a chance to git a
breath,” observed Tecumpseh, who was supporting
the captive with both arms. “He’s limp as a
dish-rag. I cal-late he’s purty near done up.”

In truth, Rodney Grant was nearly smothered,
and when the blanket was removed he lay gasping
painfully upon the cold ground.
.bn 060.png
// 060.png
.pn +1

“Guard the paleface dog, Osceola,” commanded
King Philip. “If he attempts to escape, crack
his skull with your trusty tomahawk and lift his
topknot with your gory scalping knife. Girty,
build a fire, and fear not; for neither Daniel
Boone nor Simon Kenton are nearer to-night
than the Dark and Bloody Ground.”

Girty promptly gathered some sticks of wood,
scraped together a mass of dry fallen leaves, and
applied a lighted match. A blaze sprang up at
once, illuminating the whole glade.

“My brothers,” said King Philip, “we will now
hold a council of war to decide the fate of this
wretched paleface captive. As the war chief of
the Narragansetts, hunted in the swamps like a
wild beast, my spirit cries out for vengeance.
The most frightful torture we can inflict upon
this wretch will but poorly atone for the suffering
he has caused our people; for has he not with
his own lips boasted that he tortured three noble
warriors to death by tickling them on the bottoms
of their bare feet with feathers? What torture
can we devise that will serve as sufficient retaliation?
I would listen to the wisdom from the lips
of the great Seminole, Osceola.”
.bn 061.png
// 061.png
.pn +1

“It is my idea,” said Osceola, “that we ought
to soak it to him heap much. I’m in favor of
skinning him alive.”

“What do you propose, Tecumpseh?”

“I would hang him by the heels over a slow
fire. I guess that would warm him up some.”

“Simon Girty, even though your skin is the
color of the despised paleface, you have renounced
your people and become one of us. You are even
more bloodthirsty and cruel than the bloodiest
warrior that roams the primeval forest. What
say you? Spit it out.”

“Burn him to the stake,” growled Girty.

“Good! It shall be done. Lift him and tie
him, standing, with his back to a stout sapling.
Here’s another hunk of rope.”

The captive, although somewhat recovered,
made resistance when they raised him from the
ground and dragged him to the sapling.

“Go ahead with your funny business, you onery
coyotes!” he exclaimed. “I opine I know you all,
in spite of your rigs; and when I promise to get
even a plenty I certain mean it.”
.bn 062.png
// 062.png
.pn +1

Scoffing at him, they tied him fast, and then
piled in a circle about his feet a mass of dry
leaves and broken branches, taking care, however,
that this combustible material did not touch
him by a foot or more.

“We’ll toast him gently at first,” chuckled
King Philip. “When a victim is too quickly
burned at the stake it is a sad <i>mistake</i>, for it ends
our fiendish joys all too soon. Apply the torch.”

Girty seized a burning stick of wood and
touched it to the leaves near the prisoner’s feet.
The fire blazed up and began creeping round the
circle of combustible material. The heat of the
flames reached the helpless boy’s face and hands,
while the smoke filled his eyes and nostrils, making
him choke and gasp. In a moment King
Philip, Tecumpseh, Osceola, and Girty, the renegade,
were dancing and whooping around Rod
Grant, flourishing their tomahawks and knives.

From the midst of the enveloping mass of
smoke and sparks came a harsh voice, vibrant
with intense rage:

“Whoop it up, you skunks! You’d better carry
the game through and finish me, for if you don’t
I’ll make every one of you dance a different jig
before long!”
.pb
.bn 063.png
// 063.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 06 VI. "THE RESULT OF A PRACTICAL JOKE."
The woods rang with their whoops and yells;
their circling figures cast flitting, grotesque, fantastic
shadows. The helpless captive choked and
strangled; the fire had begun to scorch his shins.

Suddenly, with a series of answering yells, half
a dozen masked fellows charged forth from the
darkness and fell upon the savages, who, in
seeming panic, took to their heels and fled, after
a brief show of resistance. Two or three of the
newcomers had apparently made an effort to
dress themselves like cowboys, while the remainder
simply wore rough, ill-fitting clothes, or garments
turned wrongside out. One, who seemed
to be the leader, scattered the blazing leaves and
sticks with his feet and began stamping out the
fire.
.bn 064.png
// 064.png
.pn +1

“Pards,” he said, “we’ve put the pesky redskins
to rout and saved this poor fellow from a
frightful death. I reckon he will be very grateful.”

The still choking captive, blinking the smoke
from his eyes, gazed sharply at the speaker.

“I’m sure much obliged for the temporary relief,
Mr. Barker,” he said; “but I’m not chump
enough to opine you’re through with your shindig,
and I allow there’s something more coming
to me.”

“What’s this?” cried the other. “His voice
sounds familiar. His face—I’ve seen it before.
So help me, he’s the galoot that led the cowpunchers
who lynched my partner, poor old Tanglefoot
Bill. I swore vengeance upon him, and
my hour has come. He shall pay dearly for
what he did to Tanglefoot. Eh, pards?”

“That’s right; that’s right,” they cried, glaring
threateningly at the captive through the eyeholes
of their masks.

“Let’s swing him from a limb,” proposed a
stout chap, who was occasionally losing a peanut
from a hole in the bottom of the well stuffed side
pocket of his coat. “Many a time and oft has he
boasted of what he has done to cattle rustlers like
us.”
.bn 065.png
// 065.png
.pn +1

“My deduction is——” began a little chap; but
instantly some one gave him a poke in the ribs,
which cut him short.

“We’ll bear him to our retreat amid the mountains,”
proposed the leader, “and there we can decide
what fate shall be meted out to him. Release
him from the tree, but blindfold his eyes, in order
that he may not observe the trail we follow.”

These instructions were carried out, although
they took care to leave Grant’s hands pinioned
behind his back. A thickly folded handkerchief
was placed over his eyes and securely tied at the
back of his head. Barely was this done when the
three redskins and the renegade came sneaking
back from the shadows of the woods and joined
the self-styled cattle rustlers. Threatening
Grant if he made an outcry, they hurried him
forth from the woods and away toward the
twinkling lights of the distant village. Down the
Barville road they went, approaching the dark
and silent academy and the gymnasium. Among
themselves at intervals they muttered fierce
threats of vengeance for the death of the mythical
“Tanglefoot Bill.”
.bn 066.png
// 066.png
.pn +1

Once or twice a sound like a suppressed, smothered
giggle came from behind the mask of the
fat fellow, causing one of his companions to give
him a vigorous punch and hiss into his ear an
order to “dry up.”

Within the gymnasium a shaded light glowed
dimly. Beneath this light they gathered, with the
unresisting and still blindfolded captive in their
midst.

“What shall we do with him, comrades?” questioned
the leader.

“String him up to a rafter,” urged one of his
followers.

“Show him no mercy,” advised another.

“Make short work of him,” growled still another.

“Had we known who he was,” said the leader,
“we’d never risked our lives to rescue him from
the redskins. Comrades, listen. In yonder small,
dark room lie the bleaching bones of poor Tanglefoot
Bill. While we are debating over the proper
fate for Bill’s slayer, I would suggest that we
place the wretched captive in that room with the
remains of his victim.”
.bn 067.png
// 067.png
.pn +1

This proposal meeting no opposition, Grant
was pushed toward a door, at which one of the
masked fellows took his place with his hand on
the knob. At a signal from the leader, the door
was opened, the blindfold snatched from Rod’s
eyes, and he was given a push that sent him staggering
into the room. At the same time some one
cried in his ear:

“Behold the bones of your victim!”

The door slammed and the key was hastily
turned in the lock.

Barely succeeding in keeping upon his feet,
Rodney Grant stumbled against something that
rattled; and then in the deep darkness of that
place he saw lying at his very feet what seemed
to be a skeleton, every bone of which glowed with
a dull, phosphorescent luminosity. Involuntarily
he backed away from the thing until he had retreated
against the door.

“Great jackrabbits!” he gasped. “It can’t
be——” He choked, the words seeming to stick
in his throat, for, to his added amazement and
.bn 068.png
// 068.png
.pn +1
consternation, the skeleton moved, its head rising
slowly from the floor and the upper part of its
body following. Little by little it continued to
rise, until at last it was in an upright position.
Then one long, faintly gleaming arm was lifted
from its side until it became outstretched toward
the shivering, cowering lad. From some source
a hollow groan sounded, followed immediately
by a faint, huskily spoken word, twice repeated:

“Retribution! Retribution!”

Outside that room, which in the days when the
building had served as a bowling alley had been
a washroom and a closet for the keeping of clothing
and various other articles, one of the masked
jokers was manipulating the cords that had
caused the skeleton to rise and lift its arm. Another
fellow, with his mask removed, had applied
his lips to a knothole in the partition, through
which he sent the groan and spoke that terrible
sounding word.

“Gee whiz!” giggled the fat chap. “I’ll bet
he’s pretty near frightened into fits. I know I’d
be.”
.bn 069.png
// 069.png
.pn +1

“Shut up, Chub!” hissed the leader, who was
listening at the door. “Of course he’s scared
stiff, for he’s a coward, anyhow.”

“He ought to be yelling blub-bloody murder
by this time,” murmured Osceola, the Seminole.

“Can yeou hear anything, Berlin?” asked Tecumpseh,
the Shawnee.

“How can I hear anything with all you fellows
pushing and chattering?” fretfully retorted the
one at the door.

“My deduction is,” said the chap who had
pulled the cords, “that he’s too scared to even
utter a chirp.”

“I bate a hundred dollars,” laughed King
Philip, “that this will cook him so he won’t tell
no more yarns about hunting Indians and lynching
cattle thieves.”

“Shut up!” once more ordered the leader. “I
can hear something now. Listen to that. What’s
he doing?”

The sounds, low and weird and doleful, issuing
from that small, dark room, filled them with unspeakable
astonishment.

“So help me, Bob,” spluttered King Philip,
“he’s singing!”
.bn 070.png
// 070.png
.pn +1

It was a sad and doleful wailing, like a funeral
dirge, and the jokers, who had been ready to
shriek with laughter a few moments before, were
now struck dumb by wonderment, and more than
one of them felt a shiver creep along his spine.
Suddenly the singing ceased, but it was followed
by a burst of wild laughter even more startling.

“He’s gug-giving us the ha-ha,” said Osceola.
“Now what do you think of that!”

There seemed, however, to be no merriment
in the strange, wild peals of laughter which
reached their ears. Agitated and apprehensive,
one fellow seized the shoulder of the chap who
stood at the door.

“Open up, Bark,” he urged—“open up! Turn
the lights on, somebody. Let’s see what’s the
matter in there.”

As the lights were turned on the door swung
open, and those practical jokers, crowding forward,
beheld a spectacle that made more than
one recoil. In some manner Rodney Grant had
succeeded in freeing his hands from the rope. His
coat had been torn off and flung aside. His shirt
was ripped open at the throat, and one sleeve
.bn 071.png
// 071.png
.pn +1
had been torn into shreds. He was crouching on
one knee directly in front of the dangling skeleton,
and the flood of light from the open door
fell on a face so wild and terrible that the disguised
boys shuddered at beholding it. He was
white as a sheet; his eyes glared, and a frothing
foam covered his lips.

“Avaunt!” he shrieked. “Quit my sight! Let
the earth hide thee! Thy bones are marrowless,
thy blood is cold; thou hast no speculation in
those eyes which thou dost glare with!”

“Great mercy!” gurgled one of the group at the
door. “He’s gone mad—stark, staring mad!”
.pb
.bn 072.png
// 072.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 07 VII. "THE ONE WHO LAUGHED LAST."
While they stood paralyzed Rodney Grant suddenly
leaped to his feet, still jabbering and laughing
wildly, seized the skeleton, tore it from the
ropes by which it was suspended, and charged
them with the grisly thing in his grasp. Right
and left they scattered, terrified beyond words,
some of them actually uttering screams of fear.
Their one great desire seemed to be to get out of
the way and give Grant plenty of room.

Having driven them in this manner, the victim
of the joke hurled the skeleton aside, rushed
across the open floor of the gymnasium, caught
up a chair and dashed it through a window, carrying
away sash and glass. A single step he retreated,
and then, with a forward bound and a
yell, he followed the chair through the broken
.bn 073.png
// 073.png
.pn +1
window, disappearing into the darkness outside.
The appalled boys heard the sound of running
feet swiftly die out in the distance.

“Well, we’ve done it!” said Cooper huskily, as
he tore off his mask and revealed a face almost
as ghastly as that of the lad who had leaped
through the window.

“You’re right, Chipper,” agreed Chub Tuttle,
also unmasking. “We drove him plumb daffy.
It’s awful!”

“He busted the skeleton,” said Sleuth Piper,
gazing ruefully at the broken thing, which lay
on the floor where Grant had flung it. “The prof
will raise the dickens about this.”

“Oh, hang the sus-skeleton!” stuttered Phil
Springer. “Think of driving that fellow out of
his wits! Gee! boys, it’s bad business.”

“Yeou bate it is,” agreed Sile Crane. “We’d
orter knowed he wasn’t well balanced, for his old
aunt has been half crazy all her life.”

Tuttle, his peanuts forgotten, had dropped his
mask to the floor and sunk limply on a bench
near the lockers, where he sat shivering like a
round jelly pudding.
.bn 074.png
// 074.png
.pn +1

“It’s awful,” he muttered over and over—“it’s
awful, fellows!”

“I guess we’re in a bad scrape,” said Hunk
Rollins, who was posing no longer as Girty, the
renegade.

“It’s awful!” mumbled Tuttle. “If we had
ever stopped to think that he came from a family
of loose screwed people we might not have pushed
this thing so far.”

“He’s busted the skeleton,” complained Piper
again. “Won’t the prof be hopping about that!”

“Busting the old sus-skeleton is nothing compared
with driving a chap plumb cuc-crazy,”
groaned Springer. “Perhaps he’ll never get his
wits back. Maybe they’ll have to send him to a
mum-madhouse, and we’ll be responsible—think
of that, boys, we’ll be responsible! I’ll nun-never
get over it.”

“Who proposed this thing, anyhow?” asked
Roy Hooker, looking around. “Was it you,
Sleuth?”

“Not much I didn’t,” answered Piper instantly.
“It was Barker’s scheme. He said Grant was a
scarecrow who was even afraid of the prof’s old
.bn 075.png
// 075.png
.pn +1
skeleton, and suggested that it would be great
fun if we could only haze him the way college
fellows do.”

“But you got the skeleton. If it hadn’t been
for you——”

“Now don’t you try to shoulder all the blame
onto me,” cried Piper, in terrified resentment, forgetting
for the time being his artificial style of
speech. “You were all in for it, every one of you.
I simply had some keys by which I could get into
the lab, where the skeleton was kept. You’re all
as deep in the mud as I am in the mire. Barker
is really the one who engineered this thing.”

“Where is he, anyhaow?” asked Crane, looking
around.

“Yes, where is he?” cried the others, realizing
for the first time that the fellow they had recognized
as their leader was missing.

They called to him in vain. The outer door of
the gym stood slightly ajar, and, after a time,
looking at one another in dismay, they understood
that Barker had slipped away.
.bn 076.png
// 076.png
.pn +1

“Now what do yeou fellers think of that!”
rasped Sile Crane. “He’s skedaddled and left
us; he’s run away.”

“Well, if that isn’t the tut-trick of a coward,
I don’t know what you’d call it!” exploded
Springer.

“He needn’t think he can get out of it that
way!” blazed Jack Nelson.

“I’m sick,” moaned Tuttle—“oh, I’m awful
sick! What do you s’pose they’ll do to us if
we’ve really drove Grant batty? Oh, say! won’t
I catch it at home!”

“We ought to follow him,” said Nelson. “We
ought to catch him. No telling what he will do.
Maybe he’ll jump into the lake or the river and
be drowned.”

“I’m going home,” wheezed Hunk Rollins
huskily. “Somebody is liable to come along and
spot the whole of us here.” He edged toward
the door.

“Yeou’re another quitter, jest like Barker,”
roared Crane suddenly. “Yeou pranced around
and made a lot of fightin’ talk to Rod Grant arter
yeou’d figured it out that he wouldn’t take yeou
up, and now yeou’re so allfired sca’t yeou want to
skedaddle.”
.bn 077.png
// 077.png
.pn +1

“Somebody has got to help me take the skeleton
back to the academy,” said Piper appealingly.
“Don’t skin out and leave me, boys; let’s hang
together.”

“If we don’t hang together,” muttered Cooper,
with a rueful grimace, “we may hang separately.”

Little did they dream that at that very moment
they were watched by two pairs of eyes
gazing at them through the broken window.

Grant, having made his spectacular getaway,
reached the road and ran as far as the lower
corner of the academy yard, where he stopped,
breathing a trifle heavily, and leaned upon the
fence. In a moment he was startled by a voice
coming from the shadows of a nearby tree.

“What’s the matter?” was the question that
reached his ears. “What’s going on at the gym
to-night?”
.bn 078.png
// 078.png
.pn +1

He recognized the voice as that of Ben Stone,
whose figure he could perceive in the denser darkness
under the tree. For a moment he hesitated;
then, with a short laugh, he answered:

“Oh, just a bit of a monkey circus, that’s all.
A few of my friends tried to force me into playing
the clown, but I sure reckon the laugh is on
them some. What are you doing here?”

“I knew something was up,” answered Stone,
as he came forward, “and, while I didn’t want to
butt in, I couldn’t choke down my curiosity entirely.
Tell me about it.”

Grant did so briefly and concisely, beginning
with his ambuscade by the fake Indians. Although
a narrative unadorned and cut short, it
was vivid and interesting enough to absorb the
listener.

“All the time,” proceeded Rod, “I was doing
my level best to get my hands free, for I allowed
I’d sail into that bunch right lively if I could obtain
the use of my paws. I was sure enough
jarred some when they handed me into the dark
room with the old skeleton and the thing rose up
on its hind legs and groaned. That made me give
an extra twist, and I broke the rope. I knew
where I was, for Roger Eliot had shown me all
.bn 079.png
// 079.png
.pn +1
over the gym. I likewise knew the powdered
chalk for marking the field was kept on a shelf
in that closet. It didn’t take me long to think of
a plan to turn the laugh on that bunch of merry
old roasters. I found the chalk and rubbed it
over my face. Then, feeling around, I got hold
of a cake of soap on the washstand and bit off a
piece, which I proceeded to chew up so that I
could froth at the mouth in fine shape. All the
while I was chanting a funeral dirge a plenty
doleful, punctuating it with occasional loud and
mirthless ha-ha’s. The game worked well. They
were listening, and I reckon it set them guessing.
When I heard the key turning in the lock I proceeded
to drop down on my shin bones in front of
the skeleton, and I turned off a bit of the mad
scene from Macbeth. Say, Stone, it knocked ’em
stiff. Then when I saw I had them going I
grabbed the old skeleton and made a dash at the
bunch. They fell over one another in their urgent
desire to give me ample room. I didn’t propose to
let them get their hooks on me again, so I
dropped old phosphorus bones, grabbed a chair,
smashed a window, jumped through and touched
.bn 080.png
// 080.png
.pn +1
the elevated spots outside. I opine the merry
jesters left behind are a plenty disturbed about
now, and——”

“’Sh!” hissed Ben suddenly, grasping Grant’s
arm. “Here comes somebody.”

They hastily retreated into the darkness beneath
the tree, from which shelter they saw a
fellow pass at a run.

“One of my late entertainers on the way to his
downy couch,” whispered Rod, smothering a
chuckle of satisfaction. “I trust his slumbers to-night
may not be disturbed by unpleasant
dreams.”

“I believe it was Barker,” murmured Stone;

“Oh, Barker!” said Grant, with a snap of his
jaws. “He was sort of a high cockalorum with
the gang. I judge he put up the job on me. And
now he’s quit his partners in crime and scooted.
I sized him up for that kind of a piker. Let’s
slide down to the gym and see how the gang is
taking it.”

And so it happened that, standing outside the
shattered window, they were more or less highly
entertained by the talk of the frightened boys
.bn 081.png
// 081.png
.pn +1
within the gymnasium. Also, as those lads had
removed their masks, all save Barker, who had
deserted, were seen and recognized beyond any
question or doubt. After it had been arranged
that Piper and Crane should return the broken
skeleton to the academy laboratory and the others
were preparing to scatter quietly to their
various homes, Rod and Ben decided it was time
for them to depart.

In Stone’s room at Mrs. Jones’ home Grant
washed the powdered chalk from his face,
combed his hair and made his appearance as passable
as possible.

“Aunt Priscilla will sure be a plenty worried
by this time,” he said, “and I don’t want to
frighten her into fits by showing up looking like
a battered specimen from a railroad wreck. If
you’ll loan me a coat, I’ll be much obliged. I can
get mine to-morrow.”

Wearing Ben’s best coat, the young Texan
finally said good night and departed, feeling well
satisfied with himself and the manner in which
he had turned the joke on his hazers.
.pb
.bn 082.png
// 082.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 08 VIII. "THE WHITE FEATHER."
Nearly a dozen boys of Oakdale Academy
slept poorly that night; some of them scarcely
slept at all. Of the latter Chipper Cooper turned
and tossed and twisted all through the long
hours, and finally when he did doze a little it
was only to be aroused by the morning whistles
of the mills, which brought him out of bed, shivering
and nerveless, fully two hours ahead of his
usual rising time.

When he knew his father had gone for the
day he crept down stairs, to the astonishment of
his mother, who, after taking one look at his
haggard face, decided that he must be ill. Her
conviction that this was the case seemed confirmed
by the fact that he could eat no breakfast,
although he sought to reassure her by saying it
was far too early for him to have any appetite.
.bn 083.png
// 083.png
.pn +1
Realizing at last that he must offer some explanation
for his strange behavior and unusual appearance,
he confessed that he had been troubled
by a slight attack of indigestion on the previous
day, which was true. As a penalty for this subterfuge
he was compelled to swallow a tablespoonful
of some homemade remedy which Mrs.
Cooper sternly forced upon him.

An hour later Chipper was puttering about in
the woodshed when he heard a footstep and
looked up to discover Chub Tuttle shivering in a
turtleneck sweater outside the open door. Chub
likewise looked pale and heavy-eyed, and a single
glance was sufficient to let each lad know what
the other had passed through.

“Gosh! it’s cold this morning,” mumbled Tuttle.
“Ground is froze stiff and puddles skimmed
side of the road.”

“Yep,” answered Chipper; “there’ll be skating
pretty soon. What you doing over here so
early?”

Tuttle entered the shed. “I couldn’t sleep at
all last night,” he confessed. “Don’t b’lieve
closed my eyes once. Couldn’t help thinking
about Rod Grant going clean off his nut.”
.bn 084.png
// 084.png
.pn +1

“’Sh!” hissed Chipper, tiptoeing up some steps
and closing a door that led toward the kitchen.
“I don’t want mother to find it out—yet. I s’pose
she’ll have to know about it pretty soon. Sleep!
Say, I never got a bit. Couldn’t help thinking all
night long that Grant might be lost in the woods
or drowned or freezing or something. Have you
heard anything this morning, Chub?”

“No; I cut across back lots so’s not to come
through the main street of the village. Four or
five times last night I sat up in bed, thinking I
heard people out searching for Grant. Jiminy,
Chipper, didn’t he look just awful when Bern
opened the closet door! I’ve never seen a crazy
person before, but I knew he was stark daffy the
minute my eyes fell on him.”

“So did I,” nodded Cooper. “We should have
had sense enough to realize that, having a batty
streak in his family, he was liable to go woppy
like that.”

“Never occurred to me,” confessed Chub, turning
the sawhorse on its side and seating himself
on it. “Did you eat any breakfast?”

“Not a morsel.”
.bn 085.png
// 085.png
.pn +1

“Same here. Have some peanuts.”

Cooper declined the proffered handful of peanuts,
and Chub, trying to swallow one, nearly
choked over it.

“I’m worried sick,” acknowledged Chipper.
“I’d give anything in the world if I hadn’t taken
part in that fool racket last night. You know only
a year or two ago some students at West Point
drove a fellow half crazy hazing him, and he
knocked one of the bunch out with a chair. Came
near killing him, too. The fellow didn’t die, but
the doctors said it was doubtful if he’d ever get
over it. Read about it in the newspapers. Funny
thing, but the chap they were hazing was named
Grant, too.”

“I guess this hazing business ain’t as much
fun as it might be,” sighed Chub. “You’ll never
get <i>me</i> into any more of it.”

“I think I’ve had my fill, too. I just hate to
show up at the academy to-day.”

The sound of a low, peculiar whistle, like a
signal, drifted in through the open door of the
shed, causing them both to give a start.
.bn 086.png
// 086.png
.pn +1

“That’s Sleuth!” palpitated Chipper, starting
for the door.

Hesitating on the road in front of the house,
they beheld Billy Piper, who turned into the yard
at once and hurried toward them, in response to
a beckoning signal from Cooper. His manner
was nervous and furtive, and he glanced round
as if in constant apprehension of feeling the
hand of an officer at his collar.

“Hello, Chub; you here?” he said. “Just come
over by the lower bridge. Thought I’d come that
way, so I wouldn’t have to pass through town.
Say, who do you s’pose I saw waiting for the
morning train over at the station? You can’t
guess. It was Barker.”

“Barker?” exclaimed Chipper and Chub in a
breath. “Waiting for the train? Where’s he
going?”

“He didn’t want me to know he was going
anywhere, but I caught him with his satchel in
his fist, and he had to own up. Said he’d had an
invitation to visit Fred Merwin over at Clearport.
Now my deduction is——”
.bn 087.png
// 087.png
.pn +1

“The sneak!” cried Cooper resentfully. “He’s
running away!”

“That was my deduction,” nodded Piper.

“And he was really the fellow who put up the
whole job,” gurgled Tuttle. “He’s skinning out
on us; he’s leaving us to face the music.”

“And if that doesn’t prove him to be the biggest
coward in Oakdale I’ll eat my hat!” snarled
Cooper. “He made a lot of talk about Grant
being a quitter and a coward, but now he’s showing
himself up all right. Say, I’d like to have
just a few words with him—I’d like to tell him
what I think. Come on.”

“Too late,” said Piper. “There’s the train
whistling now.”

The sound of a locomotive signaling for the
station beyond the river reached their ears
through the clear, cold November morning, and
they knew that long ere they could reach the
depot the train would pull out for Clearport.

“Let him go,” muttered Tuttle. “He’ll have
to come back. He can’t dodge it this way.”
.bn 088.png
// 088.png
.pn +1

In the shed those three unhappy boys discussed
the affair until the first bell sounded from the
tower of the academy, when at last, encouraged
by one another’s company, they set forth for
school, making haste through the main part of
the village. As they approached the academy
Phil Springer stepped round a corner and beckoned
to them.

“Juj-juj-jiminy!” chattered Tuttle, his teeth
rattling in spite of his efforts to prevent them.
“They’ve heard something about Grant!”

Their hearts heavy, they followed Springer.
Behind the academy they found assembled the
rest of the boys who had taken part in the hazing,
with the exception of Berlin Barker, and these
lads gazed at them inquiringly as they approached.

“Have yeou fellers heard anything?” asked
Sile Crane.

“Not a thing,” answered Piper. “What have
you heard?”

“Nothing, and that’s mighty funny. We expected
old Priscilla Kent would have the whole
town stirred up by this time. If Rod Grant
hadn’t come home last night she’d been throwing
fits all over the territory before this.”
.bn 089.png
// 089.png
.pn +1

“Perhaps he came home,” said Cooper hopefully.
“You’re right about Miss Priscilla, and
so in this case no news sounds like good news.”

“Have you seen anything of Barker this morning?”
questioned Jack Nelson.

Sleuth promptly gave them the same information
concerning Berlin which he had imparted to
Cooper and Tuttle, concluding with an expression
of his views regarding the conduct of
Barker. Their indignation was boundless, and,
as one fellow, they agreed that the chap who had
been the main mover in the hazing had shown
the white feather.

“That’s enough for me, by jinks!” cried Sile
Crane. “He run away last night, and now he’s
dug out of Oakdale. Yeou bate I’ll tell him
something when he comes back! If Rod Grant
is——”

“Great Cæsar!” gasped Piper suddenly. “Here
comes Grant this minute, and Stone is with him!”

He pointed with an unsteady finger, and those
boys beheld Rod Grant and Ben Stone coming
down along the footpath from the direction of
Tige Fletcher’s house.
.pb
.bn 090.png
// 090.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 09 IX. "MOMENTS OF APPREHENSION."
As Grant drew near they saw he was regarding
them with a half taunting expression on his
bronzed face. In return they stared at him wonderingly,
seeking to detect in his manner some
symptoms of craziness.

“Dud-dinged if he don’t look all right,” muttered
Phil Springer.

“I guess he’s got over it,” said Sile Crane.

Followed by Stone, the boy from Texas vaulted
the back yard fence and came straight toward
them.

“Well, how are the noble warriors and the
desperate cattle rustlers this morning?” was his
mocking inquiry. “You sure appear a trifle
upset, gents. King Philip has a pale and languid
look; Tecumpseh seems some disturbed, and I
declare, Osceola is nervous. Girty, the renegade,
has backed off, ready to take to his heels. I miss
.bn 091.png
// 091.png
.pn +1
the familiar face of the chief of the cattle rustlers.
Is it possible he has found himself indisposed
this morning, which has compelled him to
remain in bed? Take you all together, you’re a
sure enough meaching-looking bunch.

“Survey them, Stone. Would you ever imagine
these brave bucks possessed the hardihood
to lay in wait, in superior numbers, under cover
of darkness, and jump on a lone and unsuspecting
person? Can you pick out among them the bloodthirsty
redskins who would cruelly tie a captive
to the stake and attempt to burn him alive?
There they are—Cooper, Crane and Springer;—and
there’s their disreputable accomplice, Rollins,
otherwise known as Girty, the renegade. These
others are the cattle rustlers, who rescued the
unfortunate wretch from the Indians and bore
him to their mountain rendezvous, where they
threw him into a room with the bleaching bones
of poor old Tanglefoot Bill. Is it any wonder
they drove the victim of such cruel treatment
clean batty? Is it any wonder that he
chanted a doleful dirge, and rubbed powdered
chalk on his face, and chewed soap until he
.bn 092.png
// 092.png
.pn +1
could froth at the mouth? Such behavior on his
part certainly indicated that he had gone plumb
loony.”

He concluded with a burst of laughter that
grated harshly on the ears of the deluded jokers,
who were slowly beginning to understand that
they had been fooled completely—that the joke
was on them. The realization of this brought
flushes of shame mounting to their faces.

“Well, I’ll be switched!” gasped Crane. “He’s
a-givin’ us the laugh.”

Chipper Cooper pretended to look around on
the ground. “Can anybody find a hole small
enough for me to crawl into?” he muttered. “I
want to get out of sight—quick.”

“I don’t blame you any,” chuckled Rod Grant.
“Take my advice and seek seclusion and shelter
in the swamps of the Narragansetts. You were
a bum redskin, anyhow. You gents had a heap
of fun, didn’t you? But you always want to remember
that the fellow who laughs last laughs
best. It’s my turn now, and I’m enjoying it a
plenty. You ought to see yourselves. You’re
the cheapest looking aggregation of hazers I
ever beheld. Some of you appear sick enough to
have a doctor.”
.bn 093.png
// 093.png
.pn +1

This was true; without exception, they all wore
a silly, shamed expression.

The sudden sounding of the last bell came as
welcome relief, and they lost no time about hustling
indoors, followed more leisurely by Grant
and Stone, the former continuing to cast jibes
after them.

During the morning session the boys were
given time to think the whole matter over, and
with the coming of a calm realization that they
had been not only checkmated but completely
hoist on their own petard, their chagrin was intensified.
Occasionally one of them would steal
a sly glance toward Rod Grant, but whoever did
so was almost certain to meet the chaffing, derisive
gaze of the boy from Texas. Some made
secret vows of vengeance, while others were more
inclined to “own the corn” and acknowledge
themselves outwitted. What they now dreaded
more than anything else was the stinging tongue
and pitiless badinage of the new boy.
.bn 094.png
// 094.png
.pn +1

At intermission they held a secret conclave, at
which a few betrayed their continued rawness in
the face of advice from others to swallow the
medicine, bitter though it was, and make the
best of it.

“I tell yeou, fellers,” said Sile Crane, “after
due consideration, I’m sorter inclined to own
right up before Grant that he come it over us
mighty slick. We started aout to have haydoo-gins
of fun with him, but before we got through
he made us look like a cage of monkeys, and that’s
all there is to it. I snum, I think ’twas pretty
clever of him.”

“Bah!” growled Hunk Rollins. “If you want
to lay down and let him use you for a foot-mat,
go ahead. I don’t feel that way, and I don’t
propose to do it. He’s been shown up as a case
of bluff. He hasn’t got the nerve to fight, nor
even to play football. Are we going to let that
sort of a feller crow over us?”

“I’ve got an idee,” said Crane slowly, “that
Rod Grant ain’t lackin’ in nerve. No feller could 
’a’ stood what he did last night, bein’ chucked
into a dark room with a real skeleton that had
been rubbed over with phosphorus, and then
.bn 095.png
// 095.png
.pn +1
fooled the bunch of us by makin’ b’lieve he was
crazy, unless he had pretty good nerve. He’s
refused to play football, and mebbe he won’t
fight; but I cal’late the chap that keeps treadin’
on the tail of his co’t is goin’ to run up against
a s’prise party some day. Bimeby he’ll wake up
and break loose, and when he does there’ll be
some doings.”

Returning to the academy after dinner, Chipper
Cooper found a number of the boys still talking
about Grant.

“Say,” cried Cooper, “you can’t guess who
called me up over the long distance ten minutes
ago.”

“Barker,” said Nelson instantly.

“You win.”

“Bub-Barker!” sneered Phil Springer. “What
did he want?”

“Wanted to know what we’d heard about
Grant. Said he naturally felt somewhat anxious.”

“You bate he felt that way!” exclaimed Crane
scornfully. “What’d you tell him?”
.bn 096.png
// 096.png
.pn +1

“I told him all about it—told him what a lot of
lobsters we were.”

“What made yeou do that?” cried Crane.
“Why didn’t yeou tell him they’d had to put Grant
in a strait-jacket, or somethin’ like that?”

“Didn’t think of it quick enough, Sile; but I
told him the fellers were mighty disgusted because
he sneaked out.”

“What’d he say to that?”

“Oh, he denied that he had sneaked. Said
he’d had a standing invitation from Merwin, who
had been urging him for a long time to come
over, and that was why he went. All the same,
I could tell by the sound of his voice that he was
greatly relieved.”

“Of course he was,” nodded Nelson. “We all
know he skipped out and left us to face the
music. Now that there’s nothing more to worry
about, he’ll come back with his head up.”

“Nothing to worry about!” sighed Billy Piper.
“Wait till the prof finds out what happened to his
skeleton. My deduction is——”
.bn 097.png
// 097.png
.pn +1

“He’ll <i>bone</i> the whole school to tell who did
it,” sighed Cooper. “If anybody squeals, we’ll
find ourselves in a mess.”

“If anybody sus-squeals!” muttered Springer.
“What’s going to prevent Grant from giving the
whole thing away?”

“He’ll do it,” said Rollins. “That’s the way
he’ll get even with us.”

“Get even!” said Roy Hooker. “Seems to me
he’s more than even as it stands.”

With the beginning of the afternoon session
they perceived something in Prof. Richardson’s
manner which increased their apprehensions.
Nevertheless, not until he had heard the physiology
class and was on the point of dismissing
it did the principal speak out. Standing beside
his desk, he removed his spectacles and held them
balanced upon his thumb, while his eyes surveyed
the scholars before him, several of whom found
it difficult to hide their nervousness.

“It’s an unfortunate thing,” began the master
calmly, “that some young men in this school
seem to hold very crude and unsatisfactory ideas
regarding honor and decency. You know very
well that I have always favored clean sport and
.bn 098.png
// 098.png
.pn +1
decent fun—I have even encouraged it. Yesterday
I informed the members of this class that I
had secured a human skeleton, which those who
wished to do so might examine at an extra session
after school closed to-day. This skeleton had
been placed in the laboratory. I have but recently
discovered that the laboratory has been
entered by some one and the skeleton has been
broken. It was strung upon wires, and may be
restored. This, however, in no way palliates the
offense, which was no more nor less than a
shameful act of vandalism. It is quite likely that
more than one person was concerned in this despicable
business. I’m not going to question you
individually, but I warn you now that I shall deal
severely with the culprits when I learn who they
are, unless they at once own up to the deed. The
lad who comes to me first with an honest confession
will be treated with more or less leniency.
It may be that some one who was not concerned
in the matter—who is in no way responsible—knows
something about it. If so, I hope he will
speak up at once and tell the truth. This is his
opportunity. Let him speak.”
.bn 099.png
// 099.png
.pn +1

It seemed that the master’s gaze came to a rest
upon Rodney Grant as he concluded, and more
than one lad in that class felt his heart stand still,
believing it almost certain that Rod would grasp
this opportunity to complete the work of retaliation.
For several moments the silence was intense.
The prominent “Adam’s apple” in Sile
Crane’s neck bobbed convulsively as he swallowed.
White around the mouth, Chub Tuttle
slowly rolled his eyes in Grant’s direction. Rod
was looking straight at the professor, but he sat
unmoved and calm, like an image of stone.

“Very well,” said the master at length; “you
have had your opportunity, and no one has
chosen to speak out. Perhaps some one will decide
to do so after further consideration. At
any rate, I shall leave no stone unturned in my
efforts to learn the identity of the rascals. The
class is dismissed.”

School over for the day, Ben Stone found an
opportunity to question Grant. “What would
you have done,” he asked, “if the professor had
singled you out and put it to you point-blank?”

“I should have declined to answer.”
.bn 100.png
// 100.png
.pn +1

“Then he certainly would have believed you
concerned in the breaking of the skeleton.”

“I was.”

“But you were not to blame. If you had told
the truth the other fellows would have had to
suffer, while you must have been exonerated.”

“Had he cornered me,” said Grant, “I should
have requested that the same questions be put to
every other fellow in school.”

“What if they had lied? They might have denied
knowing anything about it.”

“In that case,” said Grant, “I should have told
the story of the hazing and refused to give the
names of the fellows who took part in it.”

“Do you think they would have followed the
same course—all of them, or any one of them—had
the situation been reversed?”

“I don’t know,” answered Grant; “but I hope
so.”
.pb
.bn 101.png
// 101.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 10 X. "WHO TOLD?"
Jack Nelson was right about Barker; Berlin
came back “with his head up.” To the surprise
of his teammates, he was on hand for football
practice that night, having caught the afternoon
train from Clearport. When some of the boys
commented on the shortness of his visit to Merwin
and hinted broadly that he had made that
visit for the purpose of avoiding the height of a
severe storm which had threatened to fall upon
the heads of all concerned in that piece of skylarking
at which he was the master mover, he
made an indignant denial. Even Crane, who had
vowed he would give Barker a piece of his mind,
was silenced by Berlin’s resentment and anger
over the insinuation that he had shown the white
feather.
.bn 102.png
// 102.png
.pn +1

Barker was not one of the few who betrayed
a disposition to make the best of the fact that
Grant had turned the joke upon his tormentors;
on the contrary, this knowledge seemed to pierce
his very soul with a red-hot iron, and he became
still more vindictive and vicious toward the lad
from Texas, declaring he would yet make the
fellow laugh out of the other side of his mouth.
Nor was his bitterness softened in any degree
when he was told of Grant’s silence regarding
the breaking of the skeleton.

“He didn’t dare peach, that’s all,” said Berlin.
“If he’d had the nerve, he’d blown the whole
business.”

A secret known by many persons may scarcely
be called a secret, and almost invariably it is sure
to “leak.” For reasons, Roger Eliot had not
been taken into the confidence of the hazers, yet
it was not long ere he learned what had happened
on that lively night, and in his quiet way he took
occasion to jest a trifle at the expense of the fellows
concerned. They wondered who had told
him, and Rollins expressed the belief that Grant
must be “tattling and boasting.”
.bn 103.png
// 103.png
.pn +1

With the approach of the date for the Wyndham
game, which was to conclude the season,
football almost wholly absorbed the attention of
the boys. Every effort was being made to
strengthen the weak points on the team, for Oakdale
still hoped to defeat the former champions
and conclude a remarkable series of triumphs by
winning the championship for the first time in the
history of the academy. Although he pretended
to be optimistic, the coach kept the players keyed
to a fine point, never once permitting them to get
the impression that the game would be anything
but a stern battle from start to finish in which
the failure of a single fellow to do his level best
might prove disastrous.

In secret consultation with Eliot, Winton
owned up to apprehension concerning two of the
players, and repeated over and over that even
one more good man might strengthen the eleven
enough to bring about the desired victory. Although
Grant’s name was not mentioned again,
Roger felt sure the coach had him in mind, but
Eliot knew well enough there was no prospect of
altering the fellow’s decision about playing. Furthermore,
the time had already grown too short
for the new boy to put in the practice he would
need to become at all efficient.
.bn 104.png
// 104.png
.pn +1

The game, to be played in Wyndham, was
scheduled for a Saturday. On Friday, at the beginning
of the afternoon session, Prof. Richardson
startled the school by delivering a grim lecture
on the evils of hazing. Beneath his calm but
scathing words some of the boys writhed visibly,
despite their efforts to maintain a semblance of
indifference. They knew, at the very start, the
cause of this lecture, and concluded at once that
in some manner the principal had learned the particulars
of the hazing affair in which they had
been concerned. As he went on the master proceeded
to cite special instances in which hazing
had resulted in the wrecking of the mental or
physical health of the victims. He denounced it
as disgraceful, unmanly and brutal, adding that
he had been mortified and shocked to learn that
various of his most respected boys had been concerned
in such a piece of work.

“A few days ago,” said the professor, “I had
something to say to you about the breaking of the
skeleton in the laboratory, which at that time I
.bn 105.png
// 105.png
.pn +1
supposed to be an act of vandalism. I have since
learned that this skeleton was used by the hazers
to frighten the unfortunate subject of their pitiful
sport, and that it was broken while being thus
used, and then returned to the academy. I declared,
should I learn who had been concerned,
that I would be severe in my punishment; but
that declaration was made without a full understanding
of the circumstances. I am now in complete
possession of the facts, and I know the
name of every boy who took part in that disgraceful
frolic. The wisest men often feel at
liberty to change their minds, and, without any
claim to special wisdom, I have changed mine. I
shall not inflict immediate chastisement upon the
offenders. However, I shall hereafter keep close
and constant watch upon them, and any further
offense of theirs coming to my notice shall not
pass, I promise, without merited discipline. I am
not so old that I do not understand that boys will
be boys, but there are plenty of clean and manly
sports in which you may indulge to your heart’s
content without danger of bringing to yourselves
pangs of regret, and without fear of inflicting
.bn 106.png
// 106.png
.pn +1
shame upon your parents and friends by your behavior.
Although I have been exceedingly mild
in my denunciation of your conduct, I wish you to
know that I feel highly incensed and grieved and
regretful over it.”

Without exception, they were intensely relieved
when he had finished. Few of them ventured
to exchange glances, but behind his geography
Hunk Rollins grinned and winked at one or
two of the guilty chaps who chanced to look in
his direction.

After school that night, ere proceeding to
the football field for final signal practice, half a
dozen lads gathered behind the gymnasium.

“Somebody pup-peached,” said Phil Springer.

“Well, whoever the pup is, he’s a peach, that’s
all I have to say,” observed Chipper Cooper.

“Who d’you s’pose it was, fellers?” questioned
Sile Crane.

“My deduction is,” said Sleuth Piper, “that it
was a certain party named Grant.”

“Of course it was Grant,” agreed Berlin Barker.
“No one else would do it.”
.bn 107.png
// 107.png
.pn +1

“If it was him,” said Tuttle, “why didn’t he
come right out with it when the prof gave us
that first game of talk about busting the skeleton
and offered to let off without punishment any one
who would own up?”

“Because he’s a sneak and a coward!” exclaimed
Berlin. “He was afraid to get up before
the whole school and squeal, but he went to Prof.
Richardson privately and told the whole business.
I’ll bet my life I’m right.”

“Of course you are,” eagerly put in Rollins—“you’re
dead right, Berlin. You’ve got the cheap
skate sized up correct.”

“If you <i>are</i> right,” said Cooper, “we’d all better
show Mr. Grant what we think of a sneak.
I’m in favor of sending him to Coventry. Let’s
cut him out, let him alone, have nothing to do
with him; let’s not even speak to him. If every
fellow will do that, he’ll enjoy himself hugely—I
don’t think.”

“It’s a good idea,” nodded Barker.

“Maybe there’s one feller yeou can’t git to
agree to it,” drawled Crane. “Ben Stone’s ruther
chummy with Rod Grant.”
.bn 108.png
// 108.png
.pn +1

“There was a time when Stone wasn’t very
popular around here,” reminded Barker.

“Oh, yes,” nodded Sile; “but yeou don’t want
to forgit that he come out on top, just the same.”

“Look here,” sneered Berlin, turning on the
lanky fellow, “if you want to take up with a sneak
and a coward like this boasting Texan why don’t
you say so? If you want to be friendly with a
skulking, white-livered creature who peaches on
you behind your back you can do so.”

“Naow yeou hold right on!” snapped Crane.
“I ain’t said nothin’ about bein’ friendly with him
myself, have I? We all know haow we used
Stone and what come of it. Bern Hayden was
at the head of that business, and he’s got out of
Oakdale and gone to school somewheres else. I
just mentioned the fact that Stone was ruther
friendly with Grant. I s’pose that’s natteral, too,
seein’ as he recollects what happened to himself
when he first hit this taown. We don’t know yet
for dead sartain that ’twas Grant who give us
away, and so I’m in favor of goin’ slow, that’s
all.”
.bn 109.png
// 109.png
.pn +1

“We don’t have to have proof against him,”
retorted Barker. “Nobody else would tell. Besides
that, he’s shown himself to be a quitter and
a cheap dub. A fellow who hasn’t the sand to
play football when his team needs him is a——”

“’Sh!” hissed Piper. “Here’s Eliot.”

“Come on, fellows,” called the captain of the
team, looking round the corner. “What are
you doing here? The coach is waiting for us.”

They followed him to the field.

A slight spitting fall of snow, beginning early
the following morning, filled the boys with apprehension,
but it did not result in a storm; and
at ten o’clock the members of the team and the
coach set out on their long ride over the frozen
roads to Wyndham. A group of boys and girls
who could not make the trip to witness the game
were assembled at the square in front of the
postoffice, and gave the buckboard load of husky
youngsters a rousing send-off. As the buckboard
swung down the main street Piper espied a
sturdy, solitary figure in front of Stickney’s store.

“There he is!” exclaimed Sleuth. “There’s
Grant watching us!”

“The cheap, blabbing coward!” cried Barker.
.bn 110.png
// 110.png
.pn +1

Ben Stone, sitting in front of Berlin, twisted
round in his heavy overcoat.

“Look here, Barker,” he said indignantly, “if
you’re referring to my friend Grant, take my advice
and use different language in my hearing.”

“Oh, ho!” sneered Berlin. “Your friend
Grant, eh? Well, you must be proud of your
friend!”

Stone’s face was flushed, and he would have
made a hot retort had not Eliot promptly interfered.

“Drop it, both of you,” commanded Roger.
“This is no time for a quarrel. We’ve got a
football game on our hands.”

“All right, captain,” said Ben, straightening
round. “I’m mum.”

Barker laughed mirthlessly, and the buckboard
rumbled across the bridge.

Little did those boys dream that while they
were on their way to the scene of the contest
Rodney Grant made arrangements with the telephone
operator in Wyndham to secure the earliest
possible report of the game. And while they
were fighting desperately on the field Grant sat
.bn 111.png
// 111.png
.pn +1
within instant call of the phone, waiting to bear
of the result. When at last the exultant Wyndham
operator transmitted over the wire the intelligence
that Oakdale had been defeated by a
score of 10 to 6, the boy from Texas returned
to the home of Priscilla Kent in a deeply dejected
frame of mind.

“I’m sorry,” he said to himself. “It’s too bad.”
.pb
.bn 112.png
// 112.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 11 XI. "IN DOUBT."
In the development of character defeat often
plays an important part. The person who has
never known the pangs following failure,
whether deserved or otherwise, is poorly prepared
to face such a misfortune when it comes to him,
and at some time it must befall every one. Continued
success is almost sure to breed over-confidence,
self-conceit, underestimation of others,
and, in many cases, downright caddishness. A
certain amount of failure, a proportionate share
of defeat, adds stamina and determination to
a character that is naturally strong, and the
experience thus obtained may be turned to profit
in teaching the luckless one how to avoid future
mistakes. It is only the weak and unfit who are
ever totally crushed and disheartened by failure.

Hunk Rollins was one of the dejected members
of the Oakdale eleven who whined after the
Wyndham game was over, repeating his conviction
that luck was against Oakdale and declaring
she never could hope to defeat Wyndham.
.bn 113.png
// 113.png
.pn +1

Roger Eliot, hearing Rollins, had something to
say:

“We lost the game in the last ten minutes of
play, and we did so simply because you and one or
two other fellows got cold feet. We made our
touchdown and goal easier than we had dreamed
we could, and that swelled our heads. We
thought we were really going to have a snap;
but when Wyndham woke up, got wise to our
style and held us even play, our confidence began
to ooze away. Those fellows fought for every
point, and never let up once. After they tied us
we went to pieces. If every man on the team had
continued to do his level best, the game would
have ended in a draw.”

“Perhaps you would have been satisfied with
that?” sneered Hunk.

“At least, it would have been better than
losing. It’s no use to cry over spilt milk. Everything
considered, we have been amazingly successful
this season, and the fact that we came so
.bn 114.png
// 114.png
.pn +1
near downing Wyndham should spur us on to
get after that bunch just twice as hard next
year.”

“You’ll never beat them,” Rollins once more
asserted.

“We’ll never do it with fellows on the team
who think we can’t.”

“That’s a knock at me.”

“It’s the plain truth, Rollins. Considering the
material we had to build on, we turned out a
corking team. We owe a lot of gratitude to the
coach.”

“Perhaps you’d won if you’d been able to
strengthen your team with the feller from
Texas.”

“Bah! We couldn’t have won anyhow,” put
in Barker. “I wonder we made as good showing
as we did.”

Roger turned on him. “You were one who
let up toward the last of it, Barker. You surprised
me by your lack of spirit. You were
given one splendid chance to get through for a
big gain, possibly for a touchdown, and you
shirked.”
.bn 115.png
// 115.png
.pn +1

Berlin’s face turned white, and a resentful
gleam of anger rose in his eyes.

“Look here, Mr. Eliot—the season is over
and I no longer feel it necessary to call you
captain—I want you to understand that I did
my best, and if you say anything different you’re
a——”

“Stop, Barker! I wouldn’t use that word if I
were in your place, for if you do you’ll find you’re
not dealing with Rodney Grant. There was no
excuse for your quitting. You weren’t used up,
but you flinched at the critical moment. I didn’t
intend to say this publicly, but you joined Rollins
in the cry-baby act, and I couldn’t help
speaking out. It’s not the first time, either, that
you’ve shown a disposition to lie down and let
others face the brunt of things. I think you
know what I mean.”

Barker shivered with a sort of cold rage. Eliot
had not lifted his voice, but, knowing him as he
did, Berlin was seized by a sudden disinclination
to provoke him further.
.bn 116.png
// 116.png
.pn +1

“All right,” he muttered. “I’m not going to
quarrel with you now, Eliot, but I won’t forget
this.”

The boys journeyed homeward through the
gathering darkness and stinging cold of the November
night in anything but a happy condition.
No one cared to accept Tuttle’s offer to treat on
peanuts, and Cooper’s efforts to jolly things up by
springing some bad puns and cracking a few
stale jokes fell lamentably flat.

Not a few of them fancied Rod Grant must be
secretly rejoicing over the result of the game,
and, naturally, this increased their dislike for
the Texan. Grant found himself shunned and
practically ostracized by all save Stone and Eliot,
and even Roger made no particular effort to be
friendly. Stone stuck by faithfully, regardless of
the efforts of various fellows to lead him to do
otherwise.

Cold weather deepening, the boys fell to
watching Lake Woodrim with longing eagerness
for the time when it should close over and the
ice become sufficiently strong for skating. In
due course this happened, and, with their skates
polished and ground, the fellows flocked to the
lake, accompanied by a few girls who likewise
enjoyed the sport.
.bn 117.png
// 117.png
.pn +1

School over one day, Grant was standing alone
on the academy steps gazing toward the lake
when Stone, carrying his skates, came out.

“Hello, Rod,” said Ben. “Come on.”

“Where?”

“Down to the lake. The ice is great.”

“I don’t skate.”

“Don’t? Why not?”

“Never learned.”

“That’s queer.”

“Not so queer when you consider that we have
blessed little skating in the State of Texas.”

“Oh, I didn’t think of that. Well, now is
your time to learn, and I know you’ll like it.”

“I haven’t any skates.”

“I’ll loan you mine.”

“That’s right good of you, Ben, old man; but
I don’t think I’ll try it—now.”

“Why not?”

“Well, to tell you the plain truth, I’m not anxious
to make an exhibition of myself before
everybody. Sometime, perhaps, I’ll sneak off by
my lonesome and have a go at it. Is the ice solid
all over the lake?”
.bn 118.png
// 118.png
.pn +1

“Well, pretty nearly all over it. There are
one or two weak spots, but we know where they
are, and we keep away from them.”

“Do you swim?”

“Sure; don’t you?”

“Yes, but I fancy it would be right unpleasant
to take a dip in that icy water.”

Ben was thinking of Grant’s words as he
clamped on his skates at the edge of the lake
down behind the gymnasium. There was something
strangely contradictory about the boy from
Texas, who had betrayed a disposition to swagger
a bit and to boast in a joshing way, but who
would not fight, who had refused to play football,
and who now was plainly indisposed to
make himself an object for jesting or ridicule by
attempting to skate. Whether this backwardness
came from a sensitive temperament, or whether
Grant was actually lacking in courage, was a
question Ben could not decide. There had seemed
to be some timidity in the fellow’s desire to know
whether or not the ice was sufficiently strong
.bn 119.png
// 119.png
.pn +1
for skating all over the lake. Finally, swinging
away to join some shouting lads who were engaged
in an impromptu game of hockey, Stone
dismissed the problem.

Even then Grant was on his way to Stickney’s
store, where he purchased a pair of skates. Supper
over that night, he set off alone toward the
upper end of Lake Woodrim.
.pb
.bn 120.png
// 120.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 12 XII. "COLD WEATHER IN TEXAS."
In the shelter of Bear Cove, the shore of which
was heavily wooded with a growth of pine, Rodney
Grant clamped on his skates. Through the
still night air, at intervals, came the faint, faraway
shouts of skaters who were enjoying themselves
on the broad lower end of the lake. From
a distance, while making his way to this secluded
spot, Rod had seen the gleaming light of a bonfire
which had been built on Crooked Island; and,
pausing for a few moments, he had watched the
flitting, darting figures of the skaters passing
between himself and the light, which flared and
rose with the application of fresh fuel brought
from along the shores. And while he watched a
feeling of loneliness crept over the young Texan.

“But I’ll keep away from them until I can
skate some,” he muttered, as he resumed his
journey across the frozen fields and pastures.

Having secured the skates to the stout soles of
his heavy boots, Rod started to rise, but dropped
back with a faint grunt of surprise as the irons
shot out from beneath him.
.bn 121.png
// 121.png
.pn +1

“Right slippery things,” he half chuckled. “I
reckon I’ll have to be careful how I get up.”

A sapling close by the shore aided him, but
when he had reached an upright position he found
to his perplexity that instinct led him to cling fast
to that slender young tree, with the apprehension
of a fall strong upon him in case he ventured to
let go. His ankles were inclined to wobble weakly,
and a queer, disconcerting sensation of uncertainty
made him hold his breath.

“What’s the matter with me?” he growled fretfully.
“I didn’t expect to skate right off in polished
style, but I’ll be hanged if I believe I can
even stand up on the things. I’ve watched the
fellows at it, and it seems easy enough to go
skimming around first on one foot and then on
the other. They didn’t make any mess at all
about it.”

His feet started backward beneath him, and he
pulled himself up, causing the sapling to bend
and crack.
.bn 122.png
// 122.png
.pn +1

“Maybe these new skates are too blamed slippery,”
he thought. “If that’s right, I wonder
why the man who sold them to me didn’t say
something about it. Well, I don’t care a rap;
I’m going to give them a try.”

With an effort, he swung round and let go his
hold on the sapling. The sensation of suspense
and uncertainty deepened swiftly as he found the
skates slowly carrying him away from the shore,
while at the same time he realized that his feet
were spreading farther and farther apart, a thing
he could not seem to prevent.

“Great smoke!” he gasped. “I’ll split plumb
in two if this keeps up. Ugh!”

The final grunt was pounded from his lips as
he came down sprawlingly upon the solid ice.

For at least thirty seconds he sat there, scratching
his head in a state of doubt and chagrin.

“I’ve ridden buckers,” he said, “and I’ve even
busted one or two bad ones; but I knew how to go
at that job, while this business has got me stuck
complete. I’m guessing some.”
.bn 123.png
// 123.png
.pn +1

His perplexity was rapidly changing to annoyance
and vexation. Getting on his knees, he cautiously
placed his right foot beneath him and attempted
to rise. In a twinkling he was stretched
at full length upon his stomach.

“Dash the things!” he cried savagely. “I don’t
see how anybody ever stands on them, much less
goes scooting around doing fancy tricks. Maybe
if I could get Stone to give me some pointers I
might catch onto the game. But I don’t want
any one to give me pointers,” he continued warmly.
“I’ll learn how to skate all by my lonesome,
or I’ll break my wooden head.”

Aroused to this point, he continued his efforts
with grim and unabated determination, in spite of
repeated falls, some of which shook him up thoroughly
and quite knocked the wind out of him.
He was just beginning to fancy himself making
slight progress when a burst of laughter caused
him to twist his neck round to glance toward the
nearby shore, which incautious movement again
sent him flat upon the ice.

“Woosh!” he wheezed, sitting up.

“Oh! ho! ho! ho!” shouted some one, who
seemed to be literally choking with merriment.

“Hee! hee! hee!” laughed another voice.
.bn 124.png
// 124.png
.pn +1

He could see them there at the edge of the ice,
two dark figures faintly discernible in spite of
the black background of pines.

“You seem to be plenty amused, gents,” he observed
sarcastically. “I opine I’m providing a
better entertainment than a real circus clown
could hand out; but I want you to understand this
is a strictly private show, and you’re not at all
welcome unless you can show invitation cards.”

“Oh, say!” piped a high-pitched voice; “it’s the
feller from Texas, I guess. He don’t seem to
know much about skating.”

“How did you ever get that idea?” growled
Rod. “I’m the champion skater of the Panhandle
country. I’ll guarantee you can’t find a native
son of Rogers County, Texas, who can show me
any points at skating.”

One of the fellows came sliding out onto the
ice, followed slowly by the other.

“Funny you should be all alone here,” said the
chap in advance. “You know me—Spotty
Davis.”
.bn 125.png
// 125.png
.pn +1

“Oh, Davis!” muttered Rod, not particularly
mollified, recalling instantly that he had heard
something about the fellow having been concerned
in a particularly low and contemptible
trick upon Stone, which had placed him in decided
disfavor at Oakdale. “What are you doing
here?”

“Me and my friend, Lander, came over here to
skate,” explained Spotty.

“Why didn’t you skate down the lake with the
rest of the fellows?”

“Oh, we’ve got our reasons. You see Lander
he’s just come back to Oakdale after being away
for a couple of years, and he don’t care much
about the fellers ’round here.”

“They’re a lot of stiffs, the whole bunch of
them,” said Lander. “Spotty is the only friend
I have got in town that I care a rap about.
He’s the only one who seemed glad to see me
back. Some of ’em wouldn’t even say hullo.”

“I guess Grant knows what they are,”
chuckled Davis. “They’ve handed him the
frosty, too. That was some of Berlin Barker’s
work, and the rest of the crowd fell into line.”
.bn 126.png
// 126.png
.pn +1

“Barker!” sneered Lander. “He thinks he’s
somebody. I ain’t got no use for him, nor for
Roger Eliot, either.”

“Eliot!” snapped Davis. “He threw me down;
kicked me off the team. I won’t forget it, and
some day, perhaps, I’ll have a chance to get even.
Just learning to skate, Grant?”

“Just trying my hand at it—I mean my foot.”

“You certainly was making a mess,” snickered
Spotty. “You need some one to give you a few
pointers. Wait till we put on our skates, and
we’ll show you. Eh, Bunk?”

“Sure,” agreed Lander cheerfully. “I don’t
believe there’s anybody around Oakdale can skate
better than me.”

“You seem to have a right good opinion of
yourself,” said Rod, as the two boys seated themselves
on the ice and began fastening on their
skates.

“Oh, there ain’t much of anything I can’t do
first-class,” boasted Bunk Lander. “I’m a ripping
good swimmer, and I can play baseball and
football as well as the next feller.”
.bn 127.png
// 127.png
.pn +1

“You remind me some of a gent who dropped
into Rogers County, Texas, two years ago,” said
Grant. “He was from the East, and his name
was Jim Lander. Any relation, I wonder?”

“I don’t know; never bother any about my relatives.
How was it this Jim Lander reminded you
of me?”

“Why, he gave out the same generous flow of
hot air; he was always telling how good he was.
The punchers christened him Hot Air Jim. Why,
his line of talk would melt ice in zero weather,
and he proved it, too. You know we don’t have
much ice down that way, but that year there came
a big freeze. It seemed to strike Rogers County
in particular, and it was the worst ever known.
Why, gents, it actually froze the Canadian River
stiff clean to the bottom in a single night.”

“What are you giving us?” exclaimed Lander.

“I was starting in to tell you how this yere
gent we called Hot Air Jim saved us from a terrible
calamity,” answered Rod soberly; “but if
you don’t want to hear it——”

“Go ahead,” urged Davis. “Spiel it off.”

“Well, as I was saying, that sudden freeze congealed
the whole Canadian in those parts till the
river was like an Alpine glacier. It was sure
.bn 128.png
// 128.png
.pn +1
enough extraordinary, for such a thing never
happened before. There wasn’t any snowfall accompanying
the phenomenon, for I judge it was
too cold to snow. What was more remarkable,
the zone of that freeze didn’t seem to extend more
than fifty miles or so into the mountains. Beyond
that the river flowed on in the same old
fashion, but when it hit the cold country it simply
turned to ice and went to piling up higher and
higher, choking its channel and overflowing in
all directions. That dam of ice heaped itself up
across the mouth of a huge valley, until the force
of the water behind it began to push it along
across Rogers County. We discovered the ice
was moving slowly at first, but after a time you
could see it creep along, groaning and cracking
and complaining all the while. And don’t forget
that it was spreading out over the country just
as fast as the water behind it forced it down out
of the mountains.

“You can perceive, I opine, that the whole
Canadian country was threatened with devastation,
for the irresistible force of that mass of ice
was sure bound to sweep everything before it.
.bn 129.png
// 129.png
.pn +1
People were in a panic when they came to realize
this. The only thing that could save us was a
sudden break in the cold spell, and we saw no
signs of that. Then I thought of Jim Lander. It
was a great thought, gents. I sent for him and
brought him out there and set him to blowing
off hot air about himself. Inside of half an hour
the thermometer went up twenty points, and the
temperature of the surrounding country for at
least a hundred miles was modified amazingly.

“Pretty soon the ice began to melt and run, and
this continued as long as we could keep that man
Lander talking. Maybe you won’t believe it,
but inside of two hours the ice was all melted and
the river pouring down its bed in a perfect flood,
while the surrounding country was a foot deep
in water. Then we tried to shut Lander off; but
he had started going, and he couldn’t seem to
stop. Say! he kept on blowing until the water
began to steam and get hot, and in his immediate
vicinity it actually boiled. We had to capture the
man and gag him in order to prevent the whole of
Rogers County from being cooked then and
there.”
.bn 130.png
// 130.png
.pn +1

“Gee!” said Bunk Lander. “That sounds
me like a lie.”

“It is possible!” murmured Grant.
.pb
.bn 131.png
// 131.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 13 XIII. "A BOND OF SYMPATHY."
With their assistance and advice, Rod finally
found himself making some progress at learning
to skate. Slow progress it seemed, indeed, yet he
was genuinely elated when he finally found himself
able to stand on the irons and stroke a little
in an awkward way; for this was the promise of
better things to come, and, despite black-and-blue
spots and wearied, wobbly ankles, he was determined
to acquire skill at that winter pastime
which all the boys seemed to enjoy. At intervals,
having labored back to the shore, he sat down
to rest, watching his two companions skimming
hither and thither over the surface of the frozen
cove. Once they joined him.

“Pegged out?” questioned Spotty kindly.

“Not a bit of it,” replied Rod, with a touch of
pride. “I’ve busted bronchos in my day, and
learning to skate is a parlor pastime compared
with that job. I’m going at it again directly.”
.bn 132.png
// 132.png
.pn +1

“You’ll learn all right,” assured Lander.
“Every feller gets his bumps when he first tries
it. Boo! it’s cold to-night. Wish we had a nip of
something to warm us up.”

“Hot coffee wouldn’t be bad,” said Rod.

“Coffee!” laughed Bunk derisively. “I’d like
something stronger than that, but you can’t get
much of anything around this old town. Tell
you what, I know where to find some slick old
cider, and that would be better than nothing.
’Tain’t so easy to get it, though. My grandfather
put it up, and he’s got it bottled and
stowed away in his cellar. Guards it like a hawk,
too.”

“Can’t you swipe a bottle or two?” asked
Spotty eagerly. “I know what it is, for didn’t
we have a high old time with some of it over
at your camp in the swamp back of Turkey
Hill?”

“I’d forgot about that,” laughed Lander. “We
did have a racket, didn’t we, Spot?”
.bn 133.png
// 133.png
.pn +1

“Yes, and I had a headache the next day.
Your old granddad’s cider is stout enough to
lift a safe.”

“Oh, he knows how to fix it. He doctors it
up with charred prunes and brown sugar and
raisins, and mixes a little of the real corn juice
in with it. A swig or two of that stuff is enough
to make a feller feel frisky as a colt. Maybe I’ll
be able to get hold of some to-morrow. Say,
Spot, I wonder if my old camp is still standing?”

“Guess it is,” answered Davis, “though the log
we used to cross over on is gone, and you can’t
get to it very easy.”

“We can get to it all right now the swamp is
froze up. That was a corking place, and I had
some fun there till I got caught. We’ll have to
take a look at it, me and you, the first chance we
get. Maybe your friend Grant would like to
come along.”

“Just now,” said Rod, “I’m particularly interested
in acquiring the art of skating. What’s
this camp you’re talking about?”

“A little old log cabin I built on sort of an
island in the middle of the swamp back of Turkey
Hill,” explained Lander. “It made a great place
.bn 134.png
// 134.png
.pn +1
for fellers that was congenial to sneak off away
from people and have fun. There was a sort of
path through the swamp, and, by cutting down a
tree and dropping it across the worst place, we
could get over to the island slick. I had that old
joint fixed-up fine, too, with bunks and blankets
and an old stove; and you should have seen the
stock of provisions I put in—everything a feller
needed to live comfortable and feed well for a
month or more.”

“Where did you get all that outfit?”

“Oh, I got it all right,” answered Bunk evasively,
while Spotty smothered a chuckle. “If it
hadn’t been for that sneak, Barker, who come
prying around, I’d never had any trouble. Why,
the great detective, Sleuth Piper, was fooled
completely. He was all balled up on the big
sensation that had everybody in Oakdale talking,
and his deductions about it would have made a
horse laugh.”

“Don’t talk to me about him!” snarled Davis
suddenly. “He’s one of the bunch I’ve got it in
for, all right. A detective! Why, he couldn’t
detect anything.”
.bn 135.png
// 135.png
.pn +1

Rodney Grant could not help feeling a slight
bond of sympathy between himself and these lads
who bore a strong dislike for the very fellows
who had accorded him such unfair and shabby
treatment. True, there was something about
them which gave him a sensation of distrust, yet
they also were outcasts in a way, and he could
not help thinking that their misfortune might not
be wholly merited. Of a generous nature, he believed
every person had redeeming qualities, and
nothing irritated him more than the common impulse
of the masses to jump on a fellow who was
down.

“You’ll have to come over and see my old hang-out
sometime, Grant,” said Lander. “If the stove
is still there, I imagine the camp might be
chinked up a little and made pretty comfortable
for some fellers who wanted to sneak off and
have a little quiet fun. Of course everybody
around here is watching me, and I’ll have to
make a bluff at walking a chalk-line; but I’m
going to be careful, and any lobster who sticks
his nose into my business will stand a chance of
getting it pinched.”
.bn 136.png
// 136.png
.pn +1

“That’s the talk!” cried Davis. “I don’t blame
you a bit.”

Although he wondered what all this sort of
conversation meant, Rod, following the true
Texas code of manners, refrained from asking
questions. If they wished to take him into their
confidence, well and good; but, if they did not, he
would not pry.

After a time they resumed their skating, and
Rodney, still further elated, found that he was
making decided progress. He even ventured
forth from the cove in the direction of Bass
Island, but Spotty skated after him and warned
him to keep away from the southern end of the
island, where there were always “breathing
holes” in the ice.

“There are currents come round both ways
and meet there,” said Davis, “so it’s never really
safe, even in the middle of the winter. Eliot
broke through all by his lonesome last winter
and come mighty near drownding.”

“Which would have been a terrible loss to the
community,” laughed Lander, skating backward
near at hand.
.bn 137.png
// 137.png
.pn +1

“What have you got against him?” questioned
Spotty. “He didn’t have anything to do with
handing you that swift poke you got.”

“Oh, no; but he always seemed to think himself
too good for association with common people.
Just because his father happens to have the
dough, he has a way about him that I can’t stand.
You know what he did to you.”

“That’s all right; I’m not standing up for him.
Say, Rod, old feller, you’re coming fine. You
were falling all over yourself a while ago, but
now you can get around pretty well. It won’t
take you long to skate first-class.”

“Thanks for the encouragement,” laughed
Grant.

“Come out here with us to-morrow night,”
urged Spotty, “and we’ll give you another
lesson.”

“Sure thing,” agreed Bunk.

“I’ll do it,” promised Rod.
.pb
.bn 138.png
// 138.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 14 XIV. "A NARROW ESCAPE."
The following morning, not a little to his wonderment,
Rod found his legs were lame and his
ankles a trifle stiff. Being a fellow of active
temperament and athletic mold, and having ridden
the range and punched cows, it vexed him to
find his efforts at skating, having lasted less than
two hours, should have done him up to such an
extent.

“I must be getting soft,” he muttered, as, following
a sponge bath, he rubbed himself down
and massaged the sore muscles of his legs. “I’ll
slump out of any sort of condition if I don’t look
out.”

Gradually, as he moved around, the lameness
passed away, although it did not wholly disappear.
At school he heard the boys talking ice
hockey and discussing the organization of a basketball
.bn 139.png
// 139.png
.pn +1
team to furnish sport when, later, snowfalls
should put an end to skating; and once more,
with a sensation of resentment, he felt himself
barred from their circle, although as a student
at the academy he should have been one of
them. This led him openly to accept the friendly
overtures of Spotty Davis, observing which, Ben
Stone, who had remained faithful despite public
sentiment, did not seem to be wholly pleased.
Nevertheless, Stone made no comment.

Lander was not a student at the academy; he
had never completed his course in the grammar
school, and he now spent his time loafing around
the village, being closely watched by the people
who knew him of old; for no one trusted him.

With suppressed impatience, Grant waited the
coming of another night. It fretted him to see
the boys and girls skating on the lake during
noontime intermission, yet he found a fascination
in watching them, and he noted that Barker and
Eliot seemed to be the most graceful, accomplished
and proficient of all the fellows. Not
until he had acquired much more skill would he
be ready to make a public appearance on skates.
.bn 140.png
// 140.png
.pn +1

Leaving his aunt clearing the table after supper,
with the monkey watching her from its perch
on the back of a chair and the parrot grumbling
in its cage, Rod secured his skates and again
turned his steps toward Bear Cove. As he approached
the cove he was surprised to hear voices
and laughter, and, pausing to listen, he learned
that Davis and Lander were there ahead of him.

They were sitting on the shore in the shadow
of the pines, and their voices sounded strange,
while their laughter was of a high-pitched, unnatural
sort. They looked up with a start as he
paused beside them, for the carpet of pine needles
had muffled his footsteps.

“Who the dickens——” cried Spotty.

“Why, it’s Rod—our friend Rod, Spot,” said
Lander. “’Lo, old chap. We’re waiting for you.
How is the weather in Texas to-night?”

“’Tis Rod, ain’t it?” whooped Spotty familiarly.
“Good old Rod, the cow-puncher and fabricator.
Glad to see you, old man. Say, Bunk,
where’s that flagon of joy juice?”

“Here ’tis,” said Lander, handing something
over. “Great stuff for a cold night; it’s good as
an overcoat.”
.bn 141.png
// 141.png
.pn +1

“Have a nip, Rod,” invited Davis, holding it
out as Grant sat down at the edge of the ice.

“What is it?” asked Rodney.

“Some of old Gran’ser Lander’s bottled elixir
of life. Gee! it does stir up a feller’s blood and
make him feel good and warm. Don’t be afraid
of it; take a good pull.”

Davis thrust a gurgling bottle into Grant’s
hand.

“Oh, I don’t believe I want any of that stuff,”
laughed Rod. “I’m not cold.”

“Do you good, just the same,” declared Bunk.
“You don’t know what we’re offering you. It’s
nothing but harmless cider. Go ahead and try
it.”

Thus adjured, the boy from Texas removed the
stopper and tipped the bottle to his lips. One
small swallow was quite enough; he spat out the
second mouthful.

“Cider!” he exclaimed. “It tastes like vinegar
to me. You don’t mean to say you like that
stuff?”
.bn 142.png
// 142.png
.pn +1

“No vinegar about it,” said Lander, with a
touch of indignation. “It’s just plain hard cider,
doctored and bottled by my old grandpop. I had
hard work sneaking it out under my coat. Perhaps
you may not like the taste of it at first, Rod,
but you’ll get so you’ll like it if you keep trying
it.”

“It gives you that funny feeling, that funny
feeling,” chanted Davis, ending with a silly
laugh.

Disgusted with them, Rod forced the bottle into
Spotty’s hands.

“My father is a temperance man,” he said.
“He won’t have a drop of booze around the ranch,
for he’s seen the bad effects of it. One of our
best men got his skin full and was lost in a
norther. When they found him he was pretty
near gone, and he lost both hands from that
freeze—made him a cripple for life.”

“Oh, that was different,” said Bunk. “He had
been drinking the real stuff; this is only cider.”

Nevertheless, Grant, preparing to clamp on his
skates, firmly refused to touch the bottle again.
Lander and Davis had another drink, and then
they attached their own skates to their feet.
.bn 143.png
// 143.png
.pn +1

“I’m afraid,” Said Spotty, rising somewhat unsteadily,
“that you’re a rather tame old cowboy,
Rod. I’m afraid that’s why the fellers don’t take
much stock in you. You duck at everything.”

“They’re welcome to take as little stock in me
as they choose,” said Grant, a trifle warmly. “I
came out here to learn to skate, not to guzzle old
cider.”

They followed him onto the ice, and Spotty,
attempting to do some fancy tricks, sprawled at
full length, whereupon he sat up, whooping with
laughter.

“Hold on, Grant,” called Lander, as Rod started
off. “We’re going to give you further instructions,
you know. Don’t mind Spotty. That
upper story of his is so light he can’t keep his
balance.”

“Never mind me,” returned Rodney; “I reckon
I’ll get along all right.”

He was gratified to find he had lost none of the
slight knack at skating acquired on the previous
night, and this gave him so much confidence that
he rapidly improved. At first his lame ankles
protested, but they soon ceased their rebellion,
and a sense of exhilaration came to him as he
.bn 144.png
// 144.png
.pn +1
found himself swinging back and forth across
the cove with fairly long strokes and remarkable
steadiness. Nevertheless, he was annoyed by his
companions, who persisted in following him and
getting in his way, offering suggestions and making
silly remarks. To get away from them he
skated out toward the open lake.

Suddenly round Pine Point flashed a light,
followed by another and another. Half a dozen
boys, bearing torches, came upon Grant and his
persistent mates ere they could escape. Three of
the torch bearers were Eliot, Barker and Rollins.
Berlin flashed the light of his torch upon them,
and then, whirling to skate backwards as he went
past, cried out to the others:

“Here’s a fine collection! The cow-puncher
has found some company to suit his taste.”

This produced a laugh, which appeared greatly
to irritate Lander, who shouted:

“Go on, you bunch of dubs! Nobody wants
anything to do with you, anyhow.”

Spotty Davis broke into a series of derisive
cat-calls and taunting jeers, to which the torch
bearers gave no heed. Some of the party turned
back at that point, but two or three continued on
round the northern end of Bass Island.
.bn 145.png
// 145.png
.pn +1

“They make me sick!” snarled Lander. “I’m
going to get at that feller Barker some day, and
when I do he’ll know something has happened
to him.”

In spite of himself, Grant could not wholly
smother a feeling of regret over having been
seen with those two chaps. Barker’s sneer had
left a sting, a fact which he would not have
acknowledged had any one intimated as much.
Wishing to get away by himself, he improved an
early opportunity to skate off, leaving Bunk and
Spotty still telling each other what they thought
of certain fellows in Oakdale; and he paid little
heed to his course until, of a sudden, he discovered
the shore of Bass Island not far away
at his right.

“Jingoes!” he muttered, attempting to check
his progress suddenly. “This must be the dangerous
place they told me about. Those ‘breathing
holes’ in the ice——”

In spite of his efforts, his momentum had carried
him onward, and suddenly both skate-irons
cut through beneath him. There was a terrifying,
cracking sound, and in a twinkling he felt
himself plunged into the icy water. A cry was
cut short on his lips as he went under.
.bn 146.png
// 146.png
.pn +1

Although he rose almost immediately to the
surface and clutched at the thin edge of the ice,
he could feel the current which swept round the
island pulling at his legs. The ice gave way, and
he clutched again and again, struggling to keep
himself from being sucked beneath it.

“Help!” he cried.

A moving, flashing light gleamed across the
glassy surface of the lake. It was followed by
another and still another. The three torch bearers,
who had circled round the island, were now
speeding southward. Two of them seemed to be
racing far over toward the western shore of the
lake. Apparently the third had not joined in
this contest, and he was much nearer.

“Help!” called Rod once more.

The nearest skater heard the cry and swerved
suddenly in Grant’s direction.

“What’s the matter?” he shouted. “Where
are you?”
.bn 147.png
// 147.png
.pn +1

“Here—here in the water. I’ve broken in.”

Grant’s teeth rattled together as he uttered
these words, the icy chill of the lake seeming to
benumb him through and through. Nevertheless,
he fancied he had recognized the voice of
the approaching fellow as that of Hunk Rollins,
and a moment later the waving torch, lighting
the face of its bearer, showed beyond question
that it was Rollins.

At a safe distance Hunk came to a full stop.
“Who is it?” he called again.

“It’s I—Grant. Can’t seem to lift myself out.
I can barely hang on.”

“Jerusalem!” gasped Hunk. “I don’t dare to
get near you. It’s dangerous there.” Then he
whirled swiftly and went skating away as fast as
he could, yelling at the top of his voice: “Hi!
hi! fellers! Come back! Grant’s broke in!”

To the dismay of the boy in the water, the
racing torch bearers did not seem to hear Rollins,
who continued to pursue them, repeating his calls.
Farther and farther away they went, the sound
of their skates ringing over the surface of the
lake.
.bn 148.png
// 148.png
.pn +1

“By the time he overtakes them I’ll be done
for,” thought the unfortunate lad; and even as
this passed through his mind the ice broke again,
compelling him to make another struggle to fling
his arms out upon it. In that terrible moment it
seemed that Rollins had deliberately deserted him—had
even been willing to leave him there to
perish.

“I must get out alone. I must get out somehow,”
he mumbled huskily. “If it wasn’t for the
current I might——”

Again the ringing sound of skates reached his
ears, and hope flared up strong as that sound became
more and more distinct. It came from the
direction of Bass Cove, and, approaching across
the ice, he discovered two figures, one in advance
of the other.

“Hi, there! Hi, Grant! Is that you? Where
are you? What’s the matter?”

It was the voice of Lander.

“Here! here!” answered Rod, as loudly as he
could. “I’ve broken in. Can’t you help me?”

“Look out, Bunk,” warned Spotty, who was
behind. “It’s dangerous there.”
.bn 149.png
// 149.png
.pn +1

One of Lander’s skates raked along the ice as
he set it sidewise to check his speed.

“I see him!” he cried. “There he is, Spot!
Hang on, Grant, old feller; we’ll get you out
somehow. Hang on a little longer.”

Away he went toward the nearby island, while
Davis, getting down on all fours, crawled cautiously
toward Rodney. From the shore of the
island came a cracking sound, like some one
thrashing amid the underbrush and saplings
which grew upon it.

“We told ye,” said Spotty—“we told ye to
keep away from here. Gee! you’re in a bad fix.
If we had a rope or something, we might haul
you out.”

“You’ll have to get busy pretty soon,” returned
Grant. “The way this current pulls is
something fierce.”

Out from the shore of the island flashed
Lander, bearing a long pole in his hands. Making
a half circle, he passed Spotty, who uttered
some cautioning words, slowing down as he drew
near Grant.
.bn 150.png
// 150.png
.pn +1

“Come on, Spot,” he urged. “The ice seems
to be solid here. We’ve got to pull him out of
that. Here, Rod, old man, get hold of the end
of this pole if you can—get hold and hang on for
your life.”

Grant grasped the end of the pole with both
hands, having lifted the upper part of his body
onto the edge of the ice, which buckled and permitted
the water to flow up around him, although
it did not break. Urged by Lander, Davis ventured
nearer and added his strength in pulling.
Together they dragged the weakened and nearly
exhausted lad out onto the solid ice.

“Come,” said Bunk, seizing the water-soaked
chap and lifting him, “stand on your pins if you
can. We’ve got to hustle you under cover before
you freeze stiff. Just stand up, and we’ll
push you along.”

Down the lake they swept with him, meeting
Rollins, Barker and several others, who, still
bearing torches, were returning.

“Oh, you’ve pulled him out, have you?” cried
Hunk.
.bn 151.png
// 151.png
.pm illust 04 page-148.jpg 466 "TOGETHER THEY DRAGGED THE WEAKENED AND NEARLY EXHAUSTED LAD OUT ONTO THE SOLID ICE. —Page 148."
.bn 152.png
// 152.png
.pn +1

“No thanks to you,” flung back Lander. “We
heard him hollering to you. Why didn’t you stop
and help? He’d ’a’ drownded for all of you.”

“I went after the other fellers,” said Hunk.

“And if you’d had any sense at all,” sneered
Lander, “you’d known he’d ’a’ gone down before
you could bring them. You didn’t have nerve
enough to give him a hand, that’s all. Here’s
your friend Barker with Mr. Rollins, Grant.”

“So I observe,” said Rod. “He’s found some
company to suit his taste.”
.pb
.bn 153.png
// 153.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 15 XV. "WHEN A GRANT FIGHTS."
Rod Grant appeared at school the following
day apparently none the worse for his unpleasant
experience. Ben Stone congratulated him on his
escape, but his distant and repellant air held the
other boys aloof, if any of them were disposed
to make advances.

As soon as he had concluded a hasty supper
that night, Stone set out for the home of Priscilla
Kent. Following the dark footpath upon
which Grant had been ambushed by the hazers,
Ben reached the lonely little cottage and
knocked at the door.

Miss Priscilla Kent answered the summons, a
lamp in her hand and her pet monkey perched
upon her shoulder. As she opened the door the
caller was startled to hear a harsh voice within
the house crying:
.bn 154.png
// 154.png
.pn +1

“Up with the anchor! Heave ho! Shake out
another reef! Salt horse for mess! Kill the
cook! Kill the cook!”

“I beg your pardon,” said the spinster in a
surprisingly mild and gentle tone of voice; “it’s
only my parrot. I got him from an old sea captain.”

“Oh!” said Ben, plainly relieved. “I didn’t
know. I thought——”

“Some one was being murdered, I s’pose,”
smiled Miss Kent. “Living alone, as I have, my
pets have served as company. Won’t you step
in?”

Was this mild, fragile, gentle woman the person
all Oakdale declared cracked in the upper
story? Ben wondered; and then he remembered
hearing it said that she was afflicted only at
intervals.

“My name is Stone,” he explained. “I’m a
scholar at the academy, and I thought I’d call on
Grant.”

“You’re the first caller he’s had. I think he’ll
be s’prised to see you.”

A door opened at the head of the stairs, and
Grant appeared in the light that shone from a
room beyond.
.bn 155.png
// 155.png
.pn +1

“Who is it, aunt?” he asked.

“A caller to see you, Rodney. He says his
name is Stone.”

“Oh, Ben!” exclaimed Rod, in apparent wonderment.
“Is that you, Ben? Come up.”

“All right,” said Stone, starting to mount the
stairs as Miss Priscilla closed the door.

“You’re off your course, you lubber!”
squawked the parrot. “Salt horse for mess! Kill
the cook!”

“Polly is very noisy to-night,” remarked the
spinster apologetically.

Involuntarily Stone dodged as something went
darting past him up the balustrade. Then he
laughed a bit, beholding the monkey perched on
the newel post at the head of the stairs.

“Come down, Nero! Come back here, sir!”
called Miss Priscilla. “He wants to get inter
your room, Rodney.”

“And tear up my books and papers again,”
laughed Grant. “Chase yourself, you Roman emperor!”
.bn 156.png
// 156.png
.pn +1

The monkey dodged, chattered, and slid tauntingly
down the balustrade.

“He’s a lively rascal and sure plumb full of
mischief,” said Rod. “Come into my den, Ben.
Hardly expected to receive a caller here to-night—or
any other time.”

The room was small but comfortable, being
warmed by a tiny air-tight stove. Two Navajo
rugs brightened the old-fashioned rag carpet on
the floor, and there were some pictures on the
walls which plainly had been hung there by Grant
himself. An old oak bedstead took up considerable
space, although it had been set as far back
as possible in a corner. On a table, bearing a
shaded lamp, were books and papers and some
playing cards carefully laid out face upward in a
series of small piles. A chair stood where Rod
had pushed it back from the table on hearing
some one at the door.

“Just amusing myself for a few moments with
a little game of solitaire,” explained the boy
from Texas, observing the visitor glance toward
the cards. “Have to do something to pass away
the time, you know. Have the easy chair, won’t
you?”
.bn 157.png
// 157.png
.pn +1

“I—I’m not going to stop long,” faltered Ben.
“The other chair will do just as well.”

But Rod laughingly forced him to take the
easy chair. “If you’re comfortable, perhaps you
won’t be in such a great hurry. It’s a sure
enough novelty for me to receive a visitor, and
you’ve got me wondering a plenty how you
chanced to come round.”

“I wanted to see you,” said Ben slowly. “I
wanted to have a talk with you, Rod.”

“Well, we can talk ourselves black in the face,
and nobody to bother. Go ahead and string it
off.”

“You were lucky to escape being drowned last
night.”

“Sure thing. I reckon I’d gone under right
there if it hadn’t been for Bunk Lander. He
stood by like a man.”

The embarrassment of the visitor became more
apparent.

“Doubtless Lander deserves all the credit you
give him, Rod.”
.bn 158.png
// 158.png
.pn +1

“He certain does.”

“But if you had not been with those fellows——”

“Oh, I know what you’re driving at now. Look
here, Stone, I like you; you’ve treated me like a
white man. I can’t say as much for some other
chaps around here. Just because I kept my
mouth shut and minded my own business when
I came here, a lot of pin-heads began to sneer
about me and say I was a fake who’d never even
seen the State of Texas. I was born in Rogers
County, which is located in the Panhandle of the
Lone Star State. Those fellows didn’t disturb
me a whole lot, Ben; but, just for a joke, I decided
to give them something really worth talking
about. As long as they had the notion that every
Texan must talk dialect and act like a half-civilized
man, I took a fancy to play the part for
them. It was a sort of a joke with me. I’ll say
right here and now that I reckon we’ve got as
decent and refined people in Texas as you can find
anywhere around these parts, though doubtless
it would be right difficult to pound this fact into
the heads of some chaps.”
.bn 159.png
// 159.png
.pn +1

“That’s not what I’m driving at,” said Ben,
“and I don’t believe your statement that you hail
from Texas had anything to do with turning the
fellows against you. The team needed strengthening;
they wanted you to play football,
and——”

“I claim, as a free and independent individual,
that I have a right to play football or not, just
as I choose.”

“Of course you have, but loyalty to the
school——”

“Whatever I may do or decline to do, Stone,
you may be sure I have good and sufficient reasons.
A fellow’s motives are sometimes misunderstood.”

“That’s quite true,” agreed Stone. “I had an
experience decidedly more unpleasant than yours
when I first came to Oakdale.”

“But you pulled out on top. Why? Because
you played football?”

“No, not that; because circumstances and
events made me understood at last. I’ve never
questioned your courage, Grant, but you know
lots of times a fellow has to prove himself before
he’s estimated correctly. I don’t believe you’re
a quitter; I don’t believe you’ve a yellow streak.”
.bn 160.png
// 160.png
.pn +1

“Thanks,” said Rod, with a slight touch of sarcasm
which he could not wholly repress.

“But you know how most fellows estimate a
chap,” Ben went on hastily; “they judge by outward
appearances.”

“Evidently my appearance is decidedly against
me,” laughed Rod.

Involuntarily the visitor lifted a hand to one
of his ears, half of which had been cut away
cleanly at some time by a sharp instrument. He
could not have been called a prepossessing or attractive
lad, but there was a certain rugged honesty
and frankness in his eyes and his manner
which stamped him as the right sort. Nevertheless,
during the first weeks of his life in Oakdale,
being misunderstood and misjudged by
nearly every one, he had passed through a cloudy
and bitter experience.

“It’s not wholly by a fellow’s looks that he’s
estimated, Rod; actions count, you know. I came
here an unknown, just as you did; but you have
the advantage of me, for you’re a good-looking
.bn 161.png
// 161.png
.pn +1
chap, and I’m simply ugly. Now if you’d happened
to hit the fellows just right at first, and
you’d deported yourself according to their views
regarding the code of behavior for an Oakdale
Academy man, you might have become popular
at once.”

Rod snapped his fingers, rising to fling a leg
over one corner of the table, on which he half
seated himself, the other foot upon the floor,
leaning forward toward Ben.

“Who are these narrow-minded, Puritanical,
half-baked New England cubs that allow they
have a right to lay out a code of deportment and
behavior to be followed by me?” he cried scornfully.
“It was chance that corraled me in this
wretched hole, not choice. What do these fellows
here really know about me, anyway? Nothing.
Disgusted with their nosey, prying ways, I’ve
amused myself by stringing them—by telling preposterous
tales of my wild adventures and hairbreadth
escapes. Evidently it hasn’t helped my
cause much, for the blockheads seem to lack imagination
and a real sense of humor. Why, they
really thought I was trying to make them believe
.bn 162.png
// 162.png
.pn +1
those yarns, while all the time it was apparent
on the surface to any one with the slightest horse
sense that I was joshing. They think me a braggart.
Bah!”

Ben twisted uneasily upon his chair. “They
don’t understand you, Rod, any more than they
understood me at first,” he said soothingly. “Now
I’m willing to take your word for it that you had
some good reason for refusing to play football—even
for swallowing the slurs and insults of
Hunk Rollins and Berlin Barker.”

The eyes of the young Texan flashed and a
flush deepened in his bronzed cheeks.

“Rollins is a cheap bully,” he declared, “and it
seems to me Barker showed himself up for a
coward when he ran away from Oakdale with
the idea in his head that he had been chiefly concerned
in driving me dotty.”

“Your estimation of Rollins is pretty near
correct,” nodded Ben, remembering his own experience
with the same fellow; “and if you had
come out boldly and faced Barker when he returned
from Clearport I’m sure the situation
would be different to-day.”
.bn 163.png
// 163.png
.pn +1

“That would have made it necessary for me to
fight him,” said Rod, “and I have my reasons for
avoiding anything of that sort. It may make me
look like a coward, but if anybody will take the
trouble to look up the records of the Grants in
Rogers County, Texas, he will find there never
was a cowardly drop of blood in one of them.
Beginning as a nester or small rancher, my
father found himself up against the big ranchers
who wanted his acres and were determined to
drive him out. He’s there now, and he owns a
pretty sizeable ranch for these days. But he
had to fight for his rights, and I don’t allow the
remembrance of some of the things he went
through is any too agreeable. He’s carrying a
bullet in his right hip which made him lame for
life, and his left arm is gone at the elbow, the
result of a gun fight, in which he received a
wound that didn’t get proper attention for three
days. You haven’t heard me blowing about these
things, but they’re straight facts, with no fancy
touches added for effect. And as long as I have
said this much, let me add that the other man,
whose name, by the way, was Jennings, didn’t
come out of it as well. There’s been a white
stone standing over him for a good many years.”
.bn 164.png
// 164.png
.pn +1

“Gracious!” muttered Ben.

“This is between us, Stone. I’ll ask you not
to repeat it, for if you should, the fellows around
here would believe it another of my fanciful
fabrications. Things are somewhat more peaceful
in Texas these days, but the old grudge, a
sort of feud between the Jennings and the Grants,
has never died out. I was sent to school in
Houston before I came here. Fred, the only
son of old man Jennings, attended that same
school. I won’t go into detail, but he picked his
time to get at me. They took him to a hospital,
and I went home to the Star D Ranch in something
of a hurry. When a Grant finds it necessary
to fight, usually something happens to the
other fellow.”
.pb
.bn 165.png
// 165.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 16 XVI. "INDEPENDENT ROD."
Despite those final words, the boy from Texas
had spoken quietly and without giving the impression
that he was boasting; indeed, it seemed
as if this much had escaped his lips through a
sudden impulse, which he now more than half
regretted.

“I could tell you something more, Ben,” he
said; “but they are things I do not care to talk
about, and I’ve said enough already—too much,
perhaps.”

“Not too much,” protested the visitor hastily.
“For I fancy that I myself am beginning to
understand you better than I did. If the fellows
knew——”

“I don’t want them to know. Don’t forget
I’ve trusted you thus far in strict confidence.
I could give you reasons why I don’t play football
.bn 166.png
// 166.png
.pn +1
and why I hold in abhorrence the usual practice
of hazing at school or college; but, as I just
remarked, I don’t care to talk about those things.
I’ve been sent here to attend school, and I reckon
I’ll do so for all of the narrow-minded, misguided
peanut-heads in Oakdale.”

“That’s right,” encouraged Ben. “Sometime
they’ll find out their mistake.”

“It certainly is a matter of indifference to me
whether they do or not,” laughed Rod. “I’m
some independent in my ways.”

“But there are some things no fellow can
afford to do,” said Ben. “Now I didn’t come
here to knock anybody, but I think there are certain
facts you ought to know about those chaps
you were with last night. I want you to understand
I haven’t any grudge against Davis, even
though he was concerned in a mean and despicable
plot to make me out a cheap sneak thief—a
plot which, fortunately for me, fell through.
Spotty really wasn’t nearly so much to blame as
the chap who put him up to it, an old and bitter
enemy of mine who is no longer attending school
at Oakdale. I think Davis is easily influenced,
but his natural inclinations seem to be crooked.”
.bn 167.png
// 167.png
.pn +1

Grant was listening seriously enough now, and
Stone continued:

“Even Lander may have a streak of decency
in him, but he’s always been the black sheep
among the boys of Oakdale, and anyone who
chooses him for a friend is almost certain to be
estimated by the company he keeps. To-day some
of the fellows, skating up at Bass Cove, found
there on the shore a bottle containing a little
frozen hard cider. Now they’re saying you fellows
were boozy last night, and that’s why you
skated out onto the dangerous ice and broke
through.”

“So that’s what they’re saying!” cried Rod
hotly. “It’s a lie, as far as I’m concerned.”

The visitor nodded his head in satisfaction.
“I’m glad to hear you say that, and I believe it.
I’ve already expressed my belief that it wasn’t
true; now I shall tell them I know it wasn’t.”

“Lots of good that will do!” scoffed Rod.
“Don’t put yourself out to do it, Ben; let the
chumps think what they like.”

“But—but,” faltered Ben, “no fellow can
afford to have such lies circulated about him.”
.bn 168.png
// 168.png
.pn +1

“Second-hand contradiction of a lie seldom
stops its progress.”

“Why don’t you deny it?”

“Bah! Would you have me pike around after
those fellows who have given me the cold shoulder
and meachingly protest that I wasn’t boozy
last night? Why, that would rejoice certain
members of the bunch who, I’m sure, have taken
prime joy in spreading the yarn.”

“You know, some fellows think you peached to
the professor about that hazing business, and
you haven’t denied it.”

“If I started in denying the lies cooked up
about me, it’s plain I’d be kept plenty busy. By
and by they may get tired of it and let up.”

“Perhaps you’ve never heard just why Lander
happened to leave town so suddenly two years
ago?”

“No.”

“Shortly before he got out, a series of petty
robberies were committed in Oakdale, rousing the
people here to a state of apprehension and indignation.
The worst of these was the breaking
.bn 169.png
// 169.png
.pn +1
into Stickney’s store one night and the pilfering
of a whole lot of provisions, tinware,
cutlery, and a gun. A day or two later Bunk
Lander was caught in an old camp he had built
out in the swamp back of Turkey Hill, and in
that camp they found the stolen goods. They
were going to send him to the reform school,
but he was not taken into immediate custody,
and ere he could be sent away he disappeared.
His father, who is a poor, hard-working man,
sent him off somewhere. Since then Mr. Lander
has settled with the people who were plundered,
fixing it up some way so that Bunk has ventured
to return. I thought you ought to know all
this, Rod.”

Grant rose, walking to the door and back.
Standing beside the table, he looked at Ben.

“Right serious business,” he admitted. “But
possibly Bunk didn’t realize just how serious it
was. When I first came to Oakdale I heard
some fellows who aren’t reckoned to be particularly
bad chaps joking with one another about
robbing orchards and plundering somebody’s
grape arbors. I wonder if they realized that
they were thieves.”
.bn 170.png
// 170.png
.pn +1

“Oh, but that’s different—in a way,” Ben
hastily said.

“In a degree, perhaps,” nodded Grant. “But
it was theft, just the same. Those fellows were
right proud of it, too.”

“Most fellows consider hooking apples or plundering
grape vines as permissible sport.”

“Oh, yes, I know that. And to Bunk Lander’s
undeveloped sense of right and wrong, stealing
provisions and other stuffs he desired to furnish
his camp, may have seemed like permissible sport.
I doubt not that the fathers of some of these
very fellows who plundered orchards and grape
arbors were plenty rank and severe against Lander
when he was caught, yet in a degree their
own sons were no better than Bunk.”

Stone found himself somewhat staggered by
the force of this argument.

“I’m not saying that even Bunk is irreclaimable,”
he hastened to state. “But it seems to me
that under the circumstances you can’t afford to
let yourself be classed with him.”
.bn 171.png
// 171.png
.pn +1

“It wouldn’t surprise me any if Lander had
as much honor in his makeup as Hunk Rollins,
or even Berlin Barker; yet those fellows are
accepted as the associates of the most respectable
chaps in Oakdale. Stone, old man, last
night Rollins left me hanging precariously to
the edge of the broken ice while he skated off,
yelling to his friends. On the other hand, Bunk
Lander took a chance and pulled me out. He
saved my life, Ben, for I wasn’t able to get
out alone, with the current dragging at me the
way it did. If anybody reckons that a Grant
is going to forget a thing of that sort, he’s
making a mighty big mistake.”

“Which means, I suppose,” said Ben, rising,
“that you propose to stick by Lander?”

“Which means that I propose to treat him
white and do him a decent turn if I ever get
the chance. Everybody around here has thrown
him down on his past record, and that’s the best
way to send a fellow who has made a mistake
straight to the dogs. We all make mistakes,
and when we do we need somebody to encourage
us, not to kick us. No, Stone, I shan’t go back
on Lander.”
.bn 172.png
// 172.png
.pn +1

“Well?” cried Ben suddenly, “although I
haven’t succeeded in the object of my visit, I
want to say that I rather admire you for your
stand, and here’s my hand on it.”

“Thanks,” laughed Rod Grant, as they shook
hands.
.pb
.bn 173.png
// 173.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 17 XVII. "THE FIRST SNOW."
Rodney Grant seemed to take genuine pleasure
in showing his disdain and defiance of public
opinion by openly associating with Lander and
Davis, and he was seen often in their company.
Even Roger Eliot, naturally broad-minded and
liberal, could but deplore this; and Stone found
himself quite alone in any effort to defend
or justify the actions of the singular boy from
Texas. It was generally believed and proclaimed
that Grant had found associates to his liking,
and more than once the old saw, “A person is
known by the company he keeps,” was applied
to him.

The young people of Oakdale were making the
most of the skating when, after a slight warning
flurry, a slow, steady downfall of snow set in,
growing heavier with the passing of a cloudy
afternoon.
.bn 174.png
// 174.png
.pn +1

“No more fun on the lake for us,” moaned
Chub Tuttle, standing more than ankle deep outside
the academy as the scholars came trooping
forth. “This snow has fixed the skating all
right.”

“Snow doubt about it,” punned Chipper
Cooper, turning up his coat collar and pulling
his cap down over his ears. “We’ll have to
take to another line of sport, and it’s likely
there won’t even be any sliding worth while for
some time to come.”

Nearly all night long it snowed, but with the
coming of another dawn the storm ceased, the
sky cleared, and the sun beamed cheerfully on a
world wrapped in a mantle of white, gleaming
with the prismatic colors of millions of diamonds.

At an early hour, having eaten breakfast, Rod
Grant was viewing the scene with admiration
and pleasure when he discovered two dark figures
tracking across the open fields toward the cottage
of Miss Priscilla Kent. Immediately he
recognized Lander and Davis, watching them
with curiosity and interest as he perceived that
they were walking on snowshoes. They hailed
.bn 175.png
// 175.png
.pn +1
him as they drew near, and, with his trousers
laced into the tops of high, heavy leather boots,
he waded out knee-deep to meet them.

“Top of the morning, Roddy,” cried Bunk, in
his familiar way. “What are you doing with
yourself?”

“Morning, Lander. Morning, Davis. I was
just getting ready to turn myself into a human
steam-plough and wield my aunt’s big shovel.
Got to open up the path as far as the road,
you know.”

“That’s work,” grinned Davis, two missing
front teeth in his upper jaw giving him anything
but an appearance of comeliness. “Work was
made for slaves.”

“But you Yanks took away our slaves,” reminded
Rod jovially, “and so we have to bend
our backs like common people.”

“Eh?” grunted Spotty in surprise. “Your
slaves? Why, Texas—why, I’ve always thought
of Texas as a Western State, and——”

“We’re right proud to be called Southerners,”
said Rod. “Find any sport walking on those
things?”
.bn 176.png
// 176.png
.pn +1

“Oh, it’s sport in a way,” answered Lander.
“Besides, a feller can get around almost anywhere
on ’em, no matter how deep the snow is.
I and Spot have been talking about going over
to my camp Sat’day. Without snowshoes we’d
have to do some tall wading. If we can get a
dog, and the snow packs down some, perhaps
we’ll try the rabbits a crack—and <i>that’s</i> sport.
Ever shoot rabbits?”

“Jacks.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard about them. Our rabbits
are different; they’re good to eat. Say, it
would be fun to shoot a few and have a rabbit
stew over at my camp. I can make the stew, too.”

“That wouldn’t be so bad,” admitted Grant,
who had a taste for hunting.

“Want to come in on it? Come ahead. I’ve
been telling Spot I thought we might borrow
old Lem Sawyer’s hound, Rouser. He’s a good
dog, though, like Lem, he’s getting rather old.
Lem’s laid up with the rheumatism this winter,
and I don’t believe he will do much rabbitin’.”

“I’d have to have some snowshoes and a gun,”
said Rod.
.bn 177.png
// 177.png
.pn +1

“Bet we could get them of Sawyer. You
know how to shoot?”

“A little,” smiled the boy from Texas, “but
I don’t know much about using snowshoes,
though, watching you fellows, it seems easy
enough.”

Spotty chuckled. “Try it,” he invited. “Try
mine. Go ahead.”

Obligingly he slipped his toes out of the straps
and stepped off into the snow. Grant was willing
enough to make the trial and, wading alongside,
he mounted on Spotty’s snowshoes. Having inserted
his toes beneath the straps, he started off
with a confidence that was soon upset, as he was
himself by stepping on one snowshoe with the
other, which plunged him to the full length of
his arms, burying his face in the snow. Nor
could he rise until he had succeeded in getting
his feet free from the snowshoes, after which
he floundered part way over and stood up to
discover Both Davis and Lander convulsed with
laughter.

“Looks easy enough, don’t it?” cried Bunk
hilariously.
.bn 178.png
// 178.png
.pn +1

“Hang the things!” growled Rod, his face
flushed with chagrin. “They seem contrary as
an unbusted bronch. You fellows don’t have
any trouble managing them.”

“There’s a little trick to it that you’ll have to
learn,” explained Lander. “To begin with, those
boots of yours are too stiff and heavy. You see,
I’ve got on moccasins, and Spotty’s wearing some
limber-soled shoes. You’ve got to lift the front
end of the snowshoes with your toe and let the
heel drag, slipping the shoe forward as you step,
this fashion. Watch me and get wise.”

Grant watched Bunk walk around easily in a
broad circle, which brought him back to the
starting point.

“I see,” nodded the boy from Texas, “and I
reckon I can catch onto it after a little practice.
Where can I get a pair of moccasins?”

“Stickney carries ’em; he carries everything.
Mebbe Lem Sawyer’ll have an old pair he’ll sell
cheap, for he’s hard up and needs the money. I’ll
find out if you want me to.”
.bn 179.png
// 179.png
.pn +1

“Go ahead. I’ve never yet mounted anything
I couldn’t master, and, having been bucked off by
a pair of snowshoes, I’m right eager to get busy
in proper fashion with the things. Think I’ll
get the shovel now and go at it opening the path.
I won’t have much more than time to finish that
job before school.”

Having watched them depart, he went at his
task, making the snow fly with a pair of lusty
arms, which, in spite of the heavy work, betrayed
no weariness until he had finished.

At noon that day Davis informed him that
Lander had succeeded in borrowing Sawyer’s
dog, gun and snowshoes for the following Saturday,
and that Sawyer had agreed to sell his
moccasins at a bargain if they were what Rod
wanted.

“We’ll show you some fun,” promised Spotty.
“We’re going over to Bunk’s old camp to-night
to see if everything is all right there. If it is,
we’ll have the stuff ready for a stew Saturday,
and as sure as we can start any rabbits we’ll
give you a feed that will be good for a hungry
man. Watch for us in the morning. We’re
going to show you how to navigate on snowshoes.”
.bn 180.png
// 180.png
.pn +1

They came the following morning, bringing
the snowshoes and moccasins, and Rod had his
first lesson. As soon as he caught onto the
knack of it, he made satisfactory progress, and
was praised by both Spotty and Bunk, although
he found it impossible to get over the snow for
any distance with as much speed and ease as
they could.

“You’re coming all right, old man,” assured
Lander. “I’ve seen lots of fellers try it who
didn’t get along half as fast. Just you keep
practicing, and you’ll break in fine.”

Rodney continued to practice, and by Saturday
he had thoroughly mastered the art of getting
around with considerable skill and ease upon
snowshoes.

Friday night about an inch of light snow fell
on top of the other, which had settled beneath
the rays of the sun, giving a perfect opportunity
for rabbit tracking, as Lander joyously explained
when he and Spotty appeared at an early hour.
They were leading Sawyer’s old black-and-tan
hound, and, besides their own guns, they brought
the man’s double-barreled breech loader for
Rodney.
.bn 181.png
// 181.png
.pn +1

And so, thoroughly equipped, the boys set off
for the day’s sport.
.pb
.bn 182.png
// 182.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 18 XVIII. "RABBIT HUNTING."
Standing amid the clustered alders which lined
the banks of an ice-bound stream that flowed
through a little valley, Rodney Grant listened
with a tingling thrill to the musical baying of a
hound running a rabbit. Rouser had struck a
scent, and now, after circling some distance into
the deeper woods, the sound of his voice, growing
more and more distinct, indicated that he
was coming back. Holding Lem Sawyer’s gun
ready for use, Rod changed his position somewhat,
in order to get a better view through a
little break or opening in the alders. The snow
crunched softly beneath his feet, and a few light,
feathery flakes, dislodged as he brushed against
the bushes, floated down around him. A chickadee,
undisturbed by the baying of the dog or
the presence of the boy near at hand, performed
some amazing evolutions amid the branches a
.bn 183.png
// 183.png
.pn +1
few feet away, keeping up the while a constant
friendly chatter in a ludicrously hoarse and husky
tone. Up the bank behind Rod, some distance to
the right, the snow crunched a little and a dark
figure appeared at the edge of the spruces.

“’St! ’st!” came a double hiss of warning.
“Watch out, Grant! He’s coming! He’s coming!
You may see him first.”

It was Spotty, who had sought a more favorable
position, only to be led back that way by
the baying of the dog. Lander had gone still
farther up stream.

Hearing the hound coming in full tongue, Rod
did not even turn his head, but crouched a bit
to peer through the opening down which the
dog’s voice floated from the shadowy woods beyond
the stream. His eyes were keen for the
first glimpse of the running rabbit, and his finger
was ready for the trigger.

<i>Whit-ker-whit—whirr!</i>

Spotty, moving again, had sent a partridge
out from beneath the shelter of some low-hanging
evergreens. With a gasp, he swung half round
and blazed away, almost blindly, at the flitting
.bn 184.png
// 184.png
.pn +1
bird, which went soaring over the alders toward
the cover of the dense woods beyond the stream.
He knew he had missed, even as he fired.

Grant, straightening up as if jerked by an
electric shock, saw the brown bird flash against
a bit of gray sky. There was no time to bring
the butt of the gun to his shoulder. He fired,
seemingly without taking aim, and the partridge
crashed down through the alders, falling with a
“plump” to the snow.

“Get him—did you get him?” palpitated
Spotty.

“I reckon I did,” answered the young Texan
coolly, stooping to peer through the bushes and
perceiving the bunch of brown feathers that lay
so still some distance away.

But the rabbit was still coming, if the approaching
staccato of the hound was to be accepted
as positive evidence, and Rod, satisfied
that the partridge would remain where it had
dropped, again turned his attention to the business
from which it had been temporarily distracted.
.bn 185.png
// 185.png
.pn +1

“By, jinks!” muttered Spotty. “I guess he can
shoot, all right.”

Over in the woods beyond, the fleeing rabbit
had stopped short at the crashing report of the
gun, sitting straight up on its haunches for a
fleeting moment, its whole body aquiver with
terror. Only for a moment did it linger. The
clamoring dog on its track was coming, filling
the whole woods with a racket which plainly told
that the scent was rapidly growing warm. Ahead
silence had followed that double burst of terrible
sound, but behind was the relentless pursuer,
who was making the forest ring. The
hunted thing seemed to know where the crossing
of the stream could most easily be made, and
beyond the stream, up the bank, were the thick
firs and the deep, sheltering shadows.

On it came once more, with great bounds, long
ears flattened back. Gray almost as the snow
itself, it leaped forth into the little opening.

This time the butt of the gun in Rodney
Grant’s hands was pressed to his shoulder for an
instant. The left barrel belched smoke, and the
rabbit, shot-riddled in the midst of a leap, was
practically dead when it struck the snow.
.bn 186.png
// 186.png
.pn +1

“Get him—did you get him?” yelled Spotty
once more.

“I sure did,” laughed Grant, breaking down
the gun to eject the empty shells. Blowing
through the barrels, he slipped in fresh cartridges,
snapped the gun together, pushed
through the bushes to pick up the partridge, and
had almost reached the rabbit when Rouser came
bellowing forth from the woods to stop in surprise
and sniff around the furry, blood-stained
body.

“Say, you’re a holy terror!” spluttered
Davis, as he came crunching and crashing
through the alders. “You can shoot some, can’t
you?”

“It’s a cinch with a shotgun,” laughed Rod.
“I’ve always done most of my shooting with a
rifle.”

“Don’t believe Bunk thought that rabbit would
circle back this way,” confessed Davis. “If he
had, he wouldn’t have gone up-stream. He’ll be
coming pretty soon, now that Rouser’s quit talking
after that shooting. We had better go meet
him.”
.bn 187.png
// 187.png
.pn +1

Already the dog was sniffing around in the
bushes for a fresh scent. Spotty called the
animal, and they pushed up-stream, soon discovering
Lander approaching.

“Get anything?” asked Bunk.

“I didn’t,” acknowledged Spotty. “I put up a
biddy, but I missed her. Rod brought her down,
though, and he got that rabbit, too.”

His gun tucked under his arm, Lander looked
at the partridge and the rabbit in evident surprise.

“Great luck,” he commented, with an evident
shade of chagrin. “Good work for a greenhorn.
Sometimes it happens that way; the feller who’s
green gets all the chances.”

“Greenhorn!” snickered Spotty. “You should
see him shoot. Here, Rouser, come back here!
Come back, sir!”

The old dog had been slipping away into the
woods, but he returned at the command.

“Well, we’ll have our stew all right,” said
Lander. “That’s a consolation for us, Spot.”
.bn 188.png
// 188.png
.pn +1

They moved on, Bunk leading and directing
the dog. After a time another track was picked
up, and again Rouser went baying off into the
woods.

“We’ll wait a while and see which way he
turns,” said Bunk, who hoped to pick the lucky
location for himself this time.

“Hark! What’s that?” cried Davis suddenly,
as the distant report of a gun drifted to their
ears.

“Somebody else out for rabs, I guess,” growled
Lander. “Yes, there’s their dog. Listen!”

Another hound, much farther away than
Rouser, was heard giving voice.

“Bet the feller that fired made a miss,”
grinned Spotty. “It takes old Deadeye Grant
from Texas to bring ’em down.”

With his ear cocked, Lander listened. After
a time he said:

“This is a good place, Grant. You stay here.
Spot, you can go farther up this time. I’m
going to cross over.”

Watching them hurry away, Grant said nothing,
although he knew Bunk was trying to secure
for himself the chance of the next shot.
.bn 189.png
// 189.png
.pn +1

For some moments after they vanished his
keen ears heard an occasional distant sound, like
the cracking of branches or the rustling of bodies
pushing through thickets; but this gradually died
out, and something like a lonely hush settled
over the winter woods. He could still hear the
distant baying of the dogs, but this seemed even
to accentuate the stillness in his immediate
vicinity.

“I reckon it was more by accident than anything
else, that Rouser turned the rabbit back
my way before,” muttered the lad from Texas,
“and I don’t judge it will happen again. If I
stay here I won’t get another shot. Bunk and
Spotty count on doing the rest of the shooting
themselves. By the sound, I should say Rouser
will be over in the next township before he
stops.”

The inactivity swiftly became irksome to him,
and finally, with gun tucked under his arm and
game bag containing the rabbit and partridge
slung from his shoulder, he set forth, guided
by the barking of the dogs. At times he was
forced to stoop to make his way through the
.bn 190.png
// 190.png
.pn +1
low, scrubby growth, and once he paused to tie
a red silk handkerchief about his neck, down
which the snow had an uncomfortable way of
sifting from the overhanging bushes which he
disturbed as he pushed along. He made no attempt
to follow either Lander or Davis, but
finally, to his satisfaction, the sound of the dogs
grew more and more distinct, and he came to a
swamp growth where rabbit tracks and paths
were plentiful. This swamp covered an extensive
territory, and in its depth the hounds seemed
to be pursuing the twisting, turning, circling
game.

“I’ll bet something that both Bunk and Spotty
are here somewhere,” laughed Rod softly. “They
tried to leave me picketed over yonder where
there wasn’t a show for me to do a whole lot of
shooting. Perhaps they think I’ve done enough
already.”

“Whoo!” came a hoarse shout, which sounded
almost in Rod’s ear and caused him to give a
ludicrously startled jump. Ere he could recover
and shoot, a fluffy gray thing shot out of the
shadows at one side and was gone into the still
deeper shadows of another thicket.
.bn 191.png
// 191.png
.pn +1

“An owl,” muttered Grant, with a short laugh
and a feeling of foolishness over his alarm. “He
was sitting right there on the broken branch of
that old dead stub. Owls aren’t good to eat,
but, mounted, he would have made a good trophy
for my room.”

Still, with the sound of the dogs drawing
nearer, he spent little time in regretting the
escape of the owl. Once the hounds were so close
that he stood half crouching, peering into the
shadows of the swamp, fully expecting to see
the hunted rabbit come bounding forth into view;
but suddenly the baying swept away to one side
and passed on to the north, denoting that the
furry fugitive had made a turn in the effort to
baffle the clamoring animals that would give him
no rest.

“It’s right plain he’s sticking to this swamp
tract,” thought Rod, “and so I judge he’ll come
round this way again if some one doesn’t pop
him over.”
.bn 192.png
// 192.png
.pn +1

He moved on a few rods, found a spot that
seemed favorable, placed himself with a tree at
his back, and continued to wait, as motionless
and rigid as the tree itself.

It was quite warm down here in the swamp,
where no breath of air stirred. If other living
creatures there were in the immediate vicinity
of the young hunter, it appeared that they were
also hypnotized into stony silence by the baying
of the dogs, now drawing near, now receding,
growing faint, becoming plainer again, and
finally seeming swiftly to approach.

“If I get this fellow, too, I’ll sure have the
laugh on Bunk and Spotty,” whispered Rod,
holding his gun ready to clap it instantly to his
shoulder.

The dogs came straight on. Unless they
changed their course soon, they must certainly
pass within easy shooting distance. The wild,
blood-thrilling music of their voices made the
whole swamp ring. Once the waiting lad fancied
he heard a slight crashing off at the left,
but, thinking it might be Lander or Davis approaching,
he did not turn his eyes in that direction.
Now it seemed that the passing of any
second might bring the hounds into view. Beyond
question they were close upon the rabbit,
and——
.bn 193.png
// 193.png
.pn +1

Up went Rod’s gun. His eye caught the sights,
his finger pressed the trigger. Following the
report of the piece, the smoke, drifting slowly
upward on the heavy air, unveiled the rabbit
kicking in its last throes upon the blood-stained
snow.

“Another!” exulted Rodney Grant, as, ere advancing,
he extracted the empty shell and slipped
a fresh one into the gun.

A black-and-tan dog flashed into view, reached
the slain rabbit and nearly lost its footing in the
attempt to stop promptly.

“You’re pretty lively for an old dog, Rouser,”
chuckled Rod. “You certainly seem to have
amazing good wind.”

But, still baying frantically, another dog was
coming, and within ten feet of the rabbit Grant
stood still, uttering an exclamation of surprise,
his eyes fixed on the hound that was yet sniffing
around the dead game.

“It’s not Rouser!” he muttered. “It’s——”
.bn 194.png
// 194.png
.pn +1

“What in blazes do you mean by shooting a
rabbit ahead of my dog?” cried a voice.

Rod twisted the upper part of his body round
and gazed over his shoulder at two lads with
guns who were hurriedly approaching on snowshoes.
.pb
.bn 195.png
// 195.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 19 XIX. "AN ENCOUNTER IN THE WOODS."
The one in advance from whose lips that
angry question had been flung, was Berlin
Barker. Phil Springer was following. Barker’s
face was almost snow-white, made thus by the
rage that was consuming him. Springer looked
greatly disturbed, and he muttered to himself:

“Now there’s sure to be tut-trouble.”

“What do you mean by it?” again demanded
Berlin, as he faced Rod a short distance away,
his gun gripped tightly in his glove-protected
hands.

“I didn’t know it was your dog.” Slowly and
awkwardly he shifted his position, in order to
face Berlin.

“You lie!” retorted Barker; and every nerve
in Grant’s body went taut as a bowstring.

With excited yelps, old Rouser came bursting
forth from the woods.
.bn 196.png
// 196.png
.pn +1

“There’s the dog I reckoned was running this
rabbit,” explained the young Texan, his voice a
trifle husky, yet remarkably steady.

“That old has-been!” sneered Barker. “Why,
he isn’t worth a charge of shot to put him out of
the way; and he’s been bothering Silver Tongue.
Of course you heard both dogs running.”

“Yes, but——”

“If you know anything at all, you certainly
knew old Sawyer’s cripple wasn’t leading.”

“I saw Rouser take up a track. It’s your dog
that mixed in and interfered—if that is your
dog.”

“You bet he’s mine! Just bought him for a
fancy price, too, and I don’t propose to have him
spoiled by Sawyer’s worthless brute. I’ll settle
it. Come here, Silver Tongue—come away and
give me a chance.”

His gun half lifted and ready for use, Barker
attempted to call his own dog away from the
other. Divining the fellow’s purpose, Rod Grant
took three hasty strides, placing himself between
Rouser and Barker.
.bn 197.png
// 197.png
.pn +1

“Get out of the way!” snarled Barker. “If you
don’t you’ll have a chance to pick some shot out
of your legs.”

The brown eyes of the boy from Texas glowed
strangely, and he also held his shotgun ready
for use.

“If I were in your place, my friend,” he said,
“I wouldn’t try to shoot old Rouser; for just
as sure as you do you’ll have a chance to bury
your own dog.”

He meant it, too; there could be no doubt about
that. Nor was he in the slightest degree intimidated
by the menacing weapon in Barker’s hands.
Shivering, Springer held his breath and watched
those two lads gazing steadily into each other’s
eyes. At length Phil managed to speak.

“Quit it, bub-both of you!” he spluttered. “Be
careful with those guns!”

“Which is right good advice for your friend,”
said Rod, without permitting his glance to waver
for an instant from Barker. “If he should shoot
up old Rouser, it sure would be a shame to
retaliate on his innocent dog. I admit I’d feel
much more like letting him have it himself.”

“You hear that, do you, Phil?” cried Berlin.
.bn 198.png
// 198.png
.pn +1

“Yes,” answered Springer, “and bub-by jingoes,
he looks like he might dud-do it, too!”

In spite of himself and his intense rage, Barker
wavered. For once, at least, he had found no
symptom of faltering or timidity in the fellow
he bitterly detested.

“Hey, what’s the matter over there?” cried a
hoarse voice, and Hunk Rollins, breaking forth
from a thicket, came shuffling toward them on
snowshoes, carrying a gun. They were now three
to one against Grant, but still Rod stood his
ground unmoved.

“He shot a rabbit in front of Berlin’s dud-dog,”
hastily explained Springer, “and Berlin’s blazing
mad about it, too.”

“What’s he doing here, anyhow?” questioned
Rollins contemptuously.

“I allow,” said Rodney, something like a faint
smile flitting across his face, “that I have as
much right to hunt rabbits hereabouts as you
fellows.”

“Take his gun away from him!” roared Hunk.
“Knock the packing out of him!”
.bn 199.png
// 199.png
.pn +1

But he stopped short with his first step toward
the boy from Texas, for the muzzle of Grant’s
gun swung toward him, and Springer shouted a
warning.

“Look out! He’ll shoot!”

“Gee!” gasped Rollins. “He don’t dast!”

“Don’t make any mistake about that,” advised
Rodney. “It would be a clean case of self-defense,
and only a fool would let you take his gun
away from him and beat him up.”

“Ginger!” gurgled Hunk. “I believe he means
it!”

At this juncture Lander and Davis put in an
appearance and came forward, wondering at the
tableau they beheld. Grant laughed aloud as he
saw them.

“Now we’re even as far as numbers are concerned,”
he observed, suddenly at his ease.

“What’s the row?” questioned Bunk, glaring
at Barker. “We heard you fellers chewin’ the
rag half a mile away, I guess.”

“Oh, there isn’t any row to speak of,” said
Rodney. “Both of these dogs were running the
rabbit yonder, which I happened to shoot. It
chanced that Barker’s dog was ahead of Rouser,
.bn 200.png
// 200.png
.pn +1
and so Mr. Barker foolishly got a trifle warm
under the collar. He made some silly talk about
shooting old Rouser, but I don’t reckon he really
meant it.”

“Oh, he did, hey?” shouted Lander, getting
purple in the face. “Threatened to shoot Rouser,
did he? Well, say! I’d like to see him try it!”

“He won’t try it,” assured the boy from
Texas. “He got all over that inclination some
time before you arrived, Bunk; but I had to tell
him what would happen to his own dog if he
didn’t hold up.”

“What a set of cheap skates!” sneered Berlin.

“Cheap skates, hey?” rasped Lander. “Well,
if there’s anybody around these parts cheaper
than you are, he can be bought for less than a
cent. I know you pretty well of old, Barker. It
was you who helped turn the fellers against me,
and you was mighty rejoiced when I got into
that little scrape two years ago. I don’t forget
them things. Now you and your friends better
chase yourselves and take your dog along with
you, if you care anything about him. We’re
hunting here in this swamp, and we don’t propose
to be bothered by you. Git!”
.bn 201.png
// 201.png
.pn +1

“We don’t cuc-care about hunting around
here,” said Springer hastily. “Come on, Berlin.”

Although reluctant to be driven away, Barker,
having cooled down somewhat, began to entertain
apprehensions for the safety of Silver
Tongue should he remain in that vicinity.

“Mr. Grant is very courageous—when he has
a gun in his hands,” he sneered. “At any other
time he’s a——”

“You’ve said that before,” interrupted Rod in
a tone that made Berlin start a bit in spite of
himself. “Be careful that you don’t say it once
too often.”

Barker shrugged his shoulders and laughed.
“I don’t have to say it; every fellow in Oakdale
knows what you are. Come, Silver Tongue—come,
sir. Come on, fellows; there are plenty of
other places to run rabbits.”

“And, counting yourself and your friends, you
make a fine bunch of dogs for the purpose,”
Lander flung after them.
.bn 202.png
// 202.png
.pn +1

In a few moments Barker and his companions
disappeared into the woods, and soon the muttering
of their voices died out in the distance.

“How’d you get here, anyhow, Roddy?” questioned
Bunk, with a grin. “We left you ’way
back yonder.”

“Yes,” nodded Grant; “but I reckoned there
wouldn’t be much shooting over there, so I pulled
my picket pin and moved. Here’s another rabbit
for that stew.”

“By jinks! Bunk,” said Spotty, “we ain’t shot
one yet. We took him out to show him how
’twas done, and he’s showed us.”

“He showed Barker, too, I guess,” chuckled
Lander. “Say, it done me good making that
bunch turn tail and dig out. ’Tain’t more’n a
mile to my camp, if it’s that fur; let’s strike over
that way, for I’ll have an appetite by the time we
can dress the rabbits and the partridge and get
the stew cooked.”

“I’ve an appetite now,” declared Rod. “I’ve
enjoyed the sport this morning very much indeed.”
.pb
.bn 203.png
// 203.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 20 XX. "A SUNDAY MORNING CALLER."
On Sunday morning, between the hours of
nine and ten, Spotty Davis knocked at the door
of Miss Priscilla Kent. The spinster, dressed in
plain black alpaca, admitted him when he asked
to see Rodney.

“You’ll find my nephew in his room right up
at the head of the stairs,” she said. “Rap on the
door. I don’t think he’ll have much time to talk
to ye, though.”

Spotty’s knuckles on the door panel brought
Grant, half dressed and wondering.

“Hello!” he exclaimed in surprise. “You? I
wondered who it could be. My visitors are sure
getting amazing plentiful.”

Davis walked into the room.

“Kinder thought I’d come round and chin with
ye this morning,” he grinned. “Sunday’s always
a punk day fur me. I hate the sound of church
bells. Went to see Bunk, but he’d gone off somewhere
a’ready.”
.bn 204.png
// 204.png
.pn +1

“So you accepted me as a last resort,” laughed
Rod. “Well, I’m afraid I won’t have much time
to chin.”

“Why not? What you doin’? I see you’re
dressin’ all up in your best bib and tucker. Goin’
somewhere?”

“Yes, to church.”

“What-at?” cried Spotty incredulously. “You
don’t mean it!”

“I sure do.”

“Why, I didn’t know you ever ’tended church.”

“I haven’t as much as I should since coming
to Oakdale,” admitted Rodney; “but you see my
aunt is very peculiar, and she seldom goes. This
morning she conceived a sudden desire to attend,
and asked me if I’d go with her. That’s why
I’m shifting over into my glad rags now.”

“Priscilla Kent in church’ll make folks rubber
sure enough,” said Spotty, who had seated himself
comfortably on the easy chair. “But say, I
bet I know why she’s goin’. They’ve got a new
minister, a young feller that ain’t married, and
.bn 205.png
// 205.png
.pn +1
every single girl and widder and old maid in town
is jest flockin’ to hear him. They say he’s perfectly
lovely. Hee! hee! I guess your aunt is
gittin’ the fever.”

Rod smiled. “Perhaps you’re right,” he admitted;
“but really, I doubt if she’s even heard
there has been a change of ministers, for you
know she is something of a recluse, and doesn’t
gossip with the neighbors. You’ll excuse me if
I keep on with the adornment of my person.”

“Oh, go ahead,” nodded Davis, producing a
pack of cigarettes. “I’ll have a coffin nail and
be sociable while you’re toggin’ out. Say, that
stew was rippin’ good, wasn’t it?”

“First rate,” agreed Rod, searching for a suitable
necktie in a drawer. “I allow I enjoyed it,
all right.”

“What do you think of Bunk’s old hang-out?”

“It’s a right comfortable place.”

“It’s great. We ought to have some fun over
there this winter. We three make a pretty good
crowd. Of course it would be better if we had
another feller, but the right kind can’t be found
around here. You didn’t seem to feel much like
playing cards yesterday.”
.bn 206.png
// 206.png
.pn +1

“Not for money, and that was what Bunk proposed.”

“And I was busted,” chuckled the visitor, “so
there wasn’t anything doin’. Bunk’s pretty slick
with the pasteboards. You’ve got to keep your
eye peeled for him. All the same, he needn’t
think he knows it all; there is others.”

“Playing cards for money is bad business,” was
Grant’s opinion. “I’ve seen trouble come of it.
I’m willing enough to play for sport.”

“But there ain’t much sport in it unless there’s
a little money up. If I’d had some loose change
in my clothes, I’d tackled Bunk yesterday. Say,
I’ve been thinking how we bluffed Barker and
his bunch, and it makes me laugh.”

Grant frowned. “Berlin Barker wants to put
a curb on his tongue, or it’s going to get him
into trouble some day.”

“Oh, he don’t love you a bit, and he’ll love you
less since you give him that call. Gee! I didn’t
know what was goin’ to happen when I and Bunk
heard you chawin’ and come out where we could
see ye standin’ there holdin’ your gun jest as if
you meant to use it any minute!”
.bn 207.png
// 207.png
.pn +1

“I should have used it if Barker had carried
out his threat to shoot Sawyer’s hound,” declared
Rod; “but I’d been sorry afterward, for I meant
to shoot his dog the instant he fired at old Rouser.
That would have been a right nasty thing for me
to do.”

“I don’t see why.”

“Silver Tongue wouldn’t have been to blame
for the act of his master.”

“Oh, a dog’s only a dog,” said Davis, letting
thin dribbles of smoke escape from his mouth as
he spoke, “and you’d been justified in it.”

“I don’t see it in that light—now. I should
have been revenging myself on a dumb animal
that had done me no harm. At the time, however,
I didn’t stop to consider that any. Stir a
Grant up right thoroughly, and he isn’t liable to
take consequences into consideration. It’s best
for me to look out not to get riled, though that
isn’t easy sometimes.”
.bn 208.png
// 208.png
.pn +1

“To hear you chin like that,” grinned Davis,
“anybody’d think you a red-hot proposition; but
around here they’ve got the idee you’re mild and
docile and all your talk is hot air.”

“Something may happen sometime,” returned
Rod, “to satisfy them that it’s not all hot air—though
I hope not.”

The voice of his aunt called him from the foot
of the stairs, and he stepped outside the door to
answer her. She wished to know if he was nearly
ready, and he replied that he was.

“It will take some time to get to the church,
Rodney, and the second bell will commence ringin’
pretty soon. We’d better start in a few
minutes.”

“I’ll be down right soon,” was his assurance
as he turned back into the room.

Spotty had abandoned the butt of his cigarette
and risen to his feet; he was standing with his
hands in his pockets, seeming deeply interested in
one of the pictures hanging on the wall.

“Well,” he said, turning, “I guess I’ll skin
along and leave ye. Jinks! you’re goin’ to look
stylish to-day, Rod. Where’d you git all them
good clothes?”
.bn 209.png
// 209.png
.pn +1

“My father blew himself on me when he decided
to send me East. Reckon he wanted me to
make a good appearance in the bosom of refined
and cultured New England.”

“Even Barker doesn’t dress as swell as that.
The only feller around here who ever did was
Bern Hayden, and he certainly did put on the
lugs; but he was a rotter. Hope you enjoy the
sermon, old chap. Don’t let Aunt Priscil’ flirt
with the new minister. Hee! hee! hee! So long.”
With this final bit of pleasantry Davis departed,
hurrying down the stairs and out of the house.

Grant finished dressing in a few moments and
was ready to join his aunt. He paused to pick
up his money and some keys and pocket trinkets
which he had left lying on the table. Something
caused him to hesitate as his fingers touched the
little thin fold of bank bills, and he was suddenly
struck with the idea that the money was not lying
as he had dropped it. He counted it over, finding
a five, two twos and two ones.

“Eleven dollars,” he muttered. “Why, I sure
thought I had another two dollar bill. I would
have sworn I was carrying thirteen dollars, besides
the change in my pocket. It can’t be——”
.bn 210.png
// 210.png
.pn +1

He stood there frowning for several moments,
plainly perplexed and undecided.

“Oh, I must be mistaken!” he finally exclaimed.
“Spotty has had his lesson, and he wouldn’t do a
thing like that again. Besides, he was put up to
the first job; he didn’t do it of his own accord.
I’ve bought skates and moccasins and things, and
I must have made a mistake about how much I
spent. Still, it might be right wise not to put
temptation in the way of a fellow like Davis.”

Pocketing the money, he descended to join his
waiting aunt.
.pb
.bn 211.png
// 211.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 21 XXI. "WHAT SLEUTH PIPER SAW."
From the lips of Rollins and Springer the boys
of Oakdale Academy learned something of the
encounter with Grant during the rabbit hunt, but,
naturally, even Springer colored his statements
in a manner which did not place Barker in an
unfavorable light. Save to sneer about the boy
from Texas, Berlin himself had little to say.
Nevertheless, the general impression went forth
that Rod had first threatened to shoot Silver
Tongue, and had been prevented from doing so
only by Barker’s firm stand. This added to the
almost universal dislike in which the young
Texan was held.

Ben Stone refrained from questioning Grant
directly, but he gave Rod a chance to make a
statement, and was disappointed when the latter
betrayed a disinclination to talk of the matter.
.bn 212.png
// 212.png
.pn +1

Grant still bore himself with unruffled independence,
paying such attention to his studies
that he stood high in his classes and received the
outspoken approval of Prof. Richardson. This
also, under the circumstances, did not conduce to
his popularity. With Davis and Lander he continued
friendly at all times, actually taking a sort
of perverse satisfaction in the knowledge that his
enemies were calling attention to his behavior
as proof of their just estimate of his character.

A bit of “soft weather,” with cold nights, made
excellent sliding, and evening after evening the
double runners, loaded with laughing, shouting
boys and girls, went shooting down Main Street
through the very center of the town and over the
bridge as far as the railway station. Although
Rod was never caught watching them, more than
once he paused at a distance to listen to their
joyous cries, and, truth to tell, there was regret
in his heart.

Thursday morning Sleuth Piper, reaching the
academy, had a tale for the ears of a group of
interested listeners. Mysteriously beckoning the
boys around him in the coat room, Piper held up
one finger for silence.
.bn 213.png
// 213.png
.pn +1

“’Sh!” he sibilated. “Perhaps some of you
fellows observed that I was not out sliding last
night. I struck a trail. Having noticed that one
Rodney Grant and his two boon companions were
not to be discovered around the village evenings,
my astute mind led me to the deduction that they
must be up to something of a dark and secret
nature. Last night, from a place of secure cover,
I watched with the patience of a redskin, and
eventually I was well rewarded for so doing. I
saw the miscreants meet secretly on High Street,
near the foot of the path which leads to the home
of Priscilla Kent. Under cover of darkness the
beforesaid miscreants set forth to the westward,
totally unaware that I was shadowing them. Of
course, as there was no immediate cover for concealment,
my task was extremely difficult, and
when they reached the Barville road I lost them.”

“Is that all you’ve got to tell us?” asked Chub
Tuttle, cracking a peanut. “I thought you’d
caught them robbing a hen-roost or breaking into
a bank.”
.bn 214.png
// 214.png
.pn +1

“I lost them for the time being,” continued
Sleuth, undisturbed; “but, after meditating at the
corner for some time, I was led to the deduction
that they had gone north toward Turkey Hill,
as it was not probable they would have chosen
that roundabout course to turn the other way.”

“Great head, Sleuth,” complimented Cooper.

“They must have made haste,” said Piper;
“for, though I hustled along all the way to the
hill, my searching eyes failed to discover even a
glimpse of them. Nevertheless, I was not baffled.
Further meditation led me to decide that
there could be only one destination for the aforesaid
miscreants. It was awful dark in the woods
over back of the hill, but my iron nerve remained
unshaken. Setting my teeth firmly, I followed
the course of Silver Brook all the way up to the
swamp, into the vastness of which I boldly penetrated.”

“Daring deed,” murmured Cooper, in mock
admiration.

“By this time,” pursued Piper, unmindful of
the interruption, “my keen intellect was satisfied
beyond reasonable doubt that the destination of
that trio of night prowlers was Lander’s old
camp. You see, my perspicacity was alive and
working.”
.bn 215.png
// 215.png
.pn +1

“Who’s he?” questioned Cooper.

“Who’s who?” snapped Sleuth, irritated.

“Why, Percy P. Cacity. Have there been rumors
afloat concerning his death?”

“Shut up! You’re interrupting the flowing
course of my thrilling narrative. Having decided
beyond doubt that I would find them at Bunk’s
camp, I stole onward through the silent depths
of the gloomy swamp. Not a sound broke the
deathly stillness.”

“Not even the bark of a dogwood tree?” questioned
Chipper.

Sleuth glared at him. “If you don’t want to
listen, go chase yourself and give others the
chance. It was so dark there in the swamp that
even I, with all my keen sagacity, found it difficult
to locate that old camp. At length, however,
I perceived a faint gleam of light, and my heart
gave an exultant leap, although my nerves were
steady as iron. Guided by the before-mentioned
light, I made my perilous way onward. I had
not been deceived, for the beacon gleamed
.bn 216.png
// 216.png
.pn +1
through the window of the den I sought. I was
within a rod of the place when a sudden terrible
racket broke forth. The sound of loud and angry
voices reached my ears, telling me beyond question
that there was a commotion within. Knowing
full well that while they were making all that
racket the before-mentioned miscreants could not
hear me, I dashed forward to the window,
through which I peered, beholding a scene of
strife and contention. The rascals were there;
perhaps they had been there for half an hour or
more while I was seeking to locate them. They
had built a fire, and, by the light of an old kerosene
lamp, I perceived that they had already engaged
in a suitable diversion for such reprehensible
characters. Briefly and concisely stated,
they had been playing cards—for money.”

“I wonder where Spotty Davis got the money
to play with?” muttered Sile Crane.

“There were cards scattered on the table before
them, and I know I saw money also,” Piper
declared, “Lander was wrought up to a white
pitch of wrath. I give you my verbatim statement
that I never saw a feller as mad as he was.
.bn 217.png
// 217.png
.pn +1
From his angry words I instantly gathered that
he had caught Davis cheating, and he was strenuously
seeking to lay violent hands on the aforesaid
Davis. Mr. Grant, of Texas, had interfered
and was keeping them apart, though it was
plain enough that Spotty wasn’t anxious to mix
it up with Bunk. Just as I looked in Lander
yelled at Grant to take his hands off, and when
the last mentioned party failed to comply Bunk
let him have a poke in the mug.”

“Oh, joy!” chortled Cooper. “That cooked
Mr. Grant, didn’t it?”

“Cooked him!” exclaimed Piper. “It turned
him into a raging whirlwind. Say, you should
have seen him sail into Lander! Why, he had
Bunk pinned up against the wall, shaking him
like a rat, in less than two seconds. I never saw
any human being as mad as Grant, and I give
you my word he handled Bunk just like a feller
might handle a baby.”

“Come, come!” scoffingly derided Barker, who
had joined the group in time to hear part of this
yarn. “What are you giving us, Sleuth? Why,
that fellow wouldn’t fight, and, if he did spunk
up enough courage to try it, Lander could whip
him with one hand tied behind his back.”
.bn 218.png
// 218.png
.pn +1

“Don’t you believe it!” spluttered Sleuth. “I
know better. I know what I saw, and he took
the starch out of Bunk Lander in double quick
order. He just fastened his hooks on Bunk’s
woozle and choked him till his eyes stuck out,
and I was beginning to think that would be the
finish of the before-mentioned Lander. It was
a tragic and terrifying spectacle. Davis was
frightened into fits, and finally he rushed forward
and tugged at Grant’s wrists, begging him
to stop. Just as I was deciding that I had arrived
in time to witness red-handed murder,
Grant suddenly seemed to come to his senses; he
let go of Lander, who dropped in a heap, as limp
as a rag, gasping for breath. Davis was crying
by this time; never saw anybody so frightened.
Grant backed off a step or two, sort of shivering,
his face pale as chalk. ‘Get some water, Spotty,’
says he. ‘I’m glad I didn’t kill him.’”

Barker laughed in his cold, sneering way.
“You have a vivid imagination, Sleuth,” he said;
“but you want to quit reading cheap novels.”
.bn 219.png
// 219.png
.pn +1

Piper resented this. “I’ve given you the plain,
cold, unadulterated facts, Mr. Barker. I know
what I saw.”

“Perhaps you dreamed it.”

“Nothing of the sort.”

“Perhaps you saw them playing cards, but this
final sensational touch of your dramatic tale—this
account of the fight—is preposterous. Grant
wouldn’t any more dare buck up against Bunk
Lander than against me.”

“Take my advice,” said Sleuth, “and don’t
count on it too much that he wouldn’t dare tackle
you.”

“Why, that has been proved to everybody’s
satisfaction.”

“Not to mine since what I saw last night. I
give you my word, I’d rather get a grizzly bear
after me than that feller. Soon’s I saw Spotty
getting a tin can to bring water, I sagely concluded
it was time for me to move, and straightway
I did so. I wasn’t nearly as long getting
out of the swamp as I had been finding Lander’s
camp.
.bn 220.png
// 220.png
.pn +1

“That’s the whole veracious narrative, faithfully
given in the minutest detail. But let me add
that the chap who wakes Rod Grant up and gets
him real fighting mad is liable in less than ten
seconds to find himself taken all to pieces and
scattered over the immediate vicinity; I’ll stake
my professional reputation on it.”
.pb
.bn 221.png
// 221.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 22 XXII. "THE FATE OF SILVER TONGUE."
Following Barker’s lead, some of the boys derided
certain features of Piper’s story, it being
difficult for them to believe that the seemingly
boastful, but timid, Texan could have mustered
courage to match himself barehanded against
Lander. Spotty Davis arriving, they questioned
him. At first Davis betrayed amazement, but
when pressed hard he denied everything.

“Who’s been tellin’ there was any trouble
between me and Bunk?” he cried. “There ain’t
nothin’ to it. Why, we wouldn’t have a fallin’
out over cards nor anything else. Some sneakin’
spy made up that yarn.”

“I think that settles it,” laughed Barker.

No one ventured to say anything to Grant,
who, as usual, was quiet and reserved, and held
himself aloof.

“As docile as a sick kitten,” chuckled Cooper.
“Think of Sleuth comparing him to a grizzly
bear! My! but Piper’ll get dotty if he don’t stop
reading the rot he feeds on.”
.bn 222.png
// 222.png
.pn +1
 
After supper that evening Davis again called
on Rodney Grant.

“I want to thank you for what you done last
night, Rod,” said Spotty, accepting the easy chair
and bringing forth his cigarettes. “Thought it
wasn’t best for anybody to see us talkin’ together
around the academy to-day. Say, do you know
some sneak was spyin’ on us?”

“Spying?” questioned Grant. “What do you
mean?”

“I mean that somebody saw that mix-up at the
camp.”

“Impossible!”

“They did,” persisted Davis. “Four or five
fellers asked me about it just as soon’s I got to
the academy this morning.”

“I don’t see how any one could know,” muttered
the boy from Texas, in perplexity.

“I’ve been thinkin’ it over. There was only
one way: somebody must have followed us and
peeked in at the winder.”

“I hope not,” said Rod, tapping the chair restlessly
with his knuckles. “What did you tell the
fellows who questioned you?”
.bn 223.png
// 223.png
.pn +1

“Nothin’; I just denied everything flat. Say,
have you seen Bunk to-day?”

“No.”

“Nor I. Jingoes! but you did slam him around
fierce. You scat me when you took to chokin’
him that way. I never saw anybody look so
savage in my life as you did, and I swear I
thought you meant to kill him.”

Rodney Grant shrugged his shoulders, and it
almost seemed as if he shivered a bit.

“I lost my temper, Spotty, and that’s a bad
thing for anybody to do—especially bad for me.
I’m glad you grabbed my wrists and shouted at
me just as you did, for it sort of brought me to
my senses.”

“I bet Bunk was astonished. He didn’t think
you’d do anything like that—didn’t think you
could. I don’t understand why you’ve taken so
much sass off Rollins and Barker. I’ll guarantee
you could wallop either one of them in a
minute and a half. No, sir, I don’t understand
it.”
.bn 224.png
// 224.png
.pn +1

“Perhaps you don’t, but I do, Spotty, and
that’s plenty sufficient.”

“Lander was a chump to get mad the way he
did.”

“But he caught you slipping a card off the
pack. Really, you were to blame, Davis—and I
was to blame, too.”

“You? Why, you didn’t play.”

“No; but I sat there and looked on, knowing
all the time that card playing for money is bad
business, just as I think I told you once before.”

“Bunk didn’t really have no kick comin’, for
he’s slippery with the pasteboards himself. I
was just tryin’ to hold up my end with him.”

“The chap who plays cards with any one he
knows to be crooked is doubly foolish, as there’s
only one way for him to escape being trimmed:
he must cheat also. Where did you get the
money to play with, Spotty?”

“I—oh, I got it by—by sellin’ something.
What makes you ask?”

“I knew you were broke a few days ago,” said
Grant, his steady eyes fixed on Spotty’s flushed
and confused face.
.bn 225.png
// 225.png
.pn +1

“Sometimes I have a little change in my
clothes. Occasionally the old man digs up for
me, you know.”

“Well, I hope that hereafter you’ll know better
than to play cards for money. It’s dead sure
you’ll not play while I’m around, for I got my
lesson. You weren’t at school this afternoon.”

“No; ain’t comin’ no more this term. There’s
only another week of it, anyhow.”

“Not coming any more? Why not?”

“Didn’t you hear about it? I had a mix-up
with Barker to-day noon, and the old prof took
a hand in it.”

“What sort of a mix-up?”

“Oh, Barker happened to catch me lookin’ into
his desk, and he proceeded to put his paws on
me.”

“Why were you looking in his desk?”

“Lost my algebra,” answered Spotty glibly,
“and I was lookin’ ’round for it. Barker come
up behind me, and we was tumblin’ ’round in the
aisle when the old prof appeared and dipped
right in. Jinks! I was hoppin’ mad. But he
wasn’t fair, anyhow; he went for me and hardly
.bn 226.png
// 226.png
.pn +1
said a word to Barker. When I answered back
he told me to go home and stay there until I was
ready to apologize. I don’t care a rap. I shan’t
apologize now, for I’ll dodge the final examinations,
and I don’t believe I could pass ’em. But,
say! you just wait till I get some kind of a chance
to square up with Barker! I’ve got it in for
him, and I’ll make him pay. He’ll wish he never
put his fins on me.”

“You’re sure revengeful, Spotty,” laughed
Rod; “but I opine it’s mostly hot air with you.
You talk a plenty, but you wouldn’t really do
anything.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I! You don’t know me. Perhaps
you’ll change your mind about me some
day. I don’t forgit things, and I don’t forgive,
either.”

“That’s a right bad policy.”

“You needn’t talk! It don’t strike me that
you’re one of the forgivin’ kind. I hain’t seen
you snoopin’ ’round after any of the fellers that’s
done you dirt.”
.bn 227.png
// 227.png
.pn +1

“Hardly. I’m not disposed to beg my enemies
to accept my forgiveness, but if they should come
to me man-fashion and ask to be forgiven, that
would be different.”

“I don’t s’pose you’re chump enough to fancy
they’ll ever do anything like that?”

“No, indeed. Still, as long as they let me alone
things will move along right placid and serene.”

“But Barker didn’t let me alone. He won’t let
you alone, either. He’s got it in for you, and he’s
goin’ to soak you any chance he gets. He don’t
like me because I told the truth about his chum,
Bern Hayden, and saved my own neck by it.
That’s a peach of a necktie you’re wearin’, Rod.
Where’d you git it? Didn’t buy it ’round these
parts, did ye?”

“Oh, no; I had it when I came here. Put in a
full supply, you know.”

“You’re sort of dressin’ more’n you did at
first. I don’t blame ye; I’d wear swell togs if I
had ’em. This old tie of mine is gittin’ on the
bum, but it’s all I’ve got.”

Smiling, Grant rose, opened a drawer and
brought forth a number of neckties, which he
tossed on the table. “Take your pick out of
those,” he said. “You may have your choice.”
.bn 228.png
// 228.png
.pn +1

“Thanks,” cried Spotty eagerly. “This bright
blue one just about hits me.”

“You seem to like bright colors.”

“I guess I do, reds and blues in particular.”

“Well, I’ve got a red one somewhere that you
may have also,” said Rod, rummaging in the
drawer, from which he removed handkerchiefs,
collars and various other articles. “I don’t care
for it much. I wonder where the thing is. I believe
I threw it on the top shelf in the closet.” He
opened the closet door and stepped inside, leaving
Davis, who had risen to his feet, inspecting and
admiring those articles of personal adornment
which had been brought forth from the drawer.

In a few minutes, discovering the red necktie,
Rod reappeared and passed it over, Spotty again
expressing his thanks.

“I’ll cut a swell with this,” grinned the visitor.

They chatted a while longer, and finally Davis
took his departure.

The following day Spotty loafed around the
village, proudly wearing the red necktie.
.bn 229.png
// 229.png
.pn +1

Saturday dawned cold, bleak and threatening;
the sky was heavy and the air chill and penetrating;
it was one of those depressing winter
mornings which gives a person in the country a
feeling of loneliness.

Springer and Piper, on their way past Barker’s
home, saw Berlin appear in the open stable door
with a piece of rope in his hand. They stopped
and called to him, and he beckoned.

“Cuc-come on,” said Springer, leading the way
toward the stable.

“Seen anything of my dog, fellows?” asked
Berlin.

“I haven’t,” answered Phil.

“Nor I,” said Sleuth. “Lost him?”

“He chewed off his rope and got out. It’s the
second time he’s done it this week. Sawyer lets
his old hound run loose, and when Silver Tongue
gets out they go off into the woods together and
run rabbits. I don’t like it. I’ll have to get a
chain for Silver Tongue, and I’m going to tell
Sawyer he’d better keep his hound tied up. It
spoils a young dog to range the woods without
his master. Going to snow, isn’t it?”
.bn 230.png
// 230.png
.pn +1

“My deduction is that it will,” nodded Sleuth.
“By the inclement aspect of the weather, I should
say we were due to get a stiff old storm.”

“That will spoil the sus-sliding,” complained
Springer. “The hill has just got into good shape,
too. Don’t seem as if a fellow can more than
begin to have good fuf-fun before something happens
to spoil it. Snow fixed our skating, and
now if we get a big lot of it it will put our sliding
on the punk for a while. Then what will we
do?”

“We’ll have to get our fun indoors. There’s
basketball, you know, and it’s time we were at
it. Wonder if Stone is going to play?”

“I dunno,” said Sleuth; “but my deduction
is——”

“Your deductions are generally bad.”

“Is that so!” cried Piper resentfully. “Perhaps
you’ve forgotten my remarkable work in
the Ben Stone-Bern Hayden case? I received
the unqualified and flattering approval of the
judge for that.”
.bn 231.png
// 231.png
.pn +1

“Oh, it was accidental; you just happened to
guess right once in your life. I’m going down
town to see if I can get trace of Silver Tongue.
Come on with me.”

But barely had they started when Sleuth Piper
uttered a cry and pointed: “There’s your dog
now! What’s the matter with him? He’s
hurt.”

The young hound had appeared, and he was
barely dragging himself along as he crept staggering
toward the stable, an occasional low,
moaning whine coming from his lips.

Barker uttered a shout and ran toward the
dog. As he approached he saw that Silver
Tongue was leaving a bloody trail behind him,
and also that there was a shocking gory wound
in the animal’s side. At Bern’s feet the creature
sank on the snow, uttering a mournful, quavering,
heart-piercing howl.

Three agitated, sickened boys gazed down at
the stricken dog. Barker’s face was ghastly
white, and he choked as he cried:

“Somebody has shot him! Oh, the whelp—the
wretch!”
.pb
.bn 232.png
// 232.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 23 XXIII. "FOLLOWING THE TRAIL."
Half an hour later, lying on a blanket in the
stable, the dog breathed its last, while the three
enraged and sorrowful lads stood looking on.
Barker’s face was grim and bitter, his heart
bursting with the wrath his lips could find no
words to express.

Springer drew Piper aside. “Who do you
sus-suppose would do a miserable, dirty thing
like that, Sleuth?” he asked in a whisper.

“Not having had time to investigate the affair
thoroughly, I’m not fully prepared to answer
your question, Phil; but my deduction is that
some one shot the poor hound with malice aforethought,
or words to that effect.”

“It doesn’t require extreme perspicacity to arrive
at that conclusion,” returned Springer sarcastically.
“It was a low-down, murderous trick,
and the contemptible sneak who did it ought to
smart for it. The thing is to find out who it
was.”
.bn 233.png
// 233.png
.pn +1

“Berlin isn’t popular. He has a number of
enemies, and any one of these before-mentioned
enemies might have——”

“Not any one of them; only a fellow of the
very lowest and most vicious type would shoot
a harmless dog in order to hurt the creature’s
master. Of course I wouldn’t make any accusations—yet;
but there are two fellows in town
I’d suspect more than any one else.”

“In full and complete assurance of confidence,
you may mention their names for my listening
ear.”

“Oh, you can guess. I mean Lander and
Davis.”

“H’m!” said Sleuth, leaning his chin on his
clenched fist and puckering his brow into an expression
of profound meditation and thought.
“There’s yet another whose name has flashed
comet-wise through my mind.”

“You mean——”

“Grant!” whispered Piper, straightening out
his index finger and pressing it against his lips.
.bn 234.png
// 234.png
.pn +1

Phil shook his head. “No, Sleuth, I can’t think
it of that fuf-fellow. As unpopular as Grant is,
I don’t believe he’d do such a contemptible thing.”

“Perhaps not,” admitted Sleuth; “but it’s the
method of great detectives to take every suspicious
person into consideration. I’ll stake my personal
reputation on it that one of the three parties
mentioned is the culpable wretch. If you had
seen what my eyes beheld over at Bunk Lander’s
old camp on a certain dark and dismal night, if
you had witnessed the venomous rage with which
Rod Grant fastened his clutches on the throat of
said Lander, you might now be disposed to think
him capable even of such an act as this.”

“But Davis denied that story; he said there
wasn’t a word of truth in it.”

“And lied in his false throat,” growled Sleuth
hoarsely. “I know what I saw, and I likewise
know that Mr. Grant and Mr. Lander have not
been on particularly friendly terms since that
narrowly averted tragedy. On the other hand,
the before-mentioned Davis and the before-said
Grant have been very chummy indeed. Why,
Davis has even called on Grant at the domicile
of Miss Priscilla Kent—called privately, secretly,
surreptitiously, under cover of darkness.”
.bn 235.png
// 235.png
.pn +1

“How do you know?”

“Oh,” answered Sleuth, throwing out his chest,
“I’ve been keeping a vigilant and sleepless eye
upon those parties.”

“But I can’t believe Grant would dud-do it,”
persisted Springer. “Davis might, and he’s particularly
sus-sore on Berlin since that little mix-up
at the academy Thursday.”

“Is it not possible—indeed, probable—that
both these persons were concerned?”

“I won’t believe it of Rod Grant until I see
pup-proof,” said Phil.

Barker, having thrown one end of the blanket
over the body of the dog, stood frowning a few
moments in the open stable door, then turned
suddenly to the others.

“I’m going to follow that crimson trail,” he
announced. “Will you fellows come along with
me?”

“You bet,” answered Springer.

“Sure we will,” nodded Sleuth eagerly.
.bn 236.png
// 236.png
.pn +1

“Then get your snowshoes, Phil, for we may
need them. Here are my old ones, which I loaned
Rollins last Saturday; Piper can use those. I
shall take my gun.”

“You won’t nun-need a gun, will you?” faltered
Springer.

“Can’t tell; I may. Hurry up after your snowshoes.
We’ll be ready to start by the time you
get back.”

Phil went off at a run, while Berlin and
Sleuth made preparations to start out.

“My prediction is,” said Piper, “that we’ll have
to hustle, for, if I mistake not, I see a feathery
flake or two in the air already. It will be snowing
hard in less than an hour, something on
which I’ll stake my professional reputation.”

Soon Springer returned, panting and flushed,
bringing his snowshoes. They were waiting for
him, Berlin having his shotgun tucked under his
arm. By this time the occasional snowflakes had
grown more plentiful, and, in apprehension that
the sanguine trail would soon be obliterated, they
set forth with all possible haste.
.bn 237.png
// 237.png
.pn +1

For a short distance the crimson drops on the
snow took them along the main highway, but
presently they were led away across the fields
toward the distant woods. More than once they
found a spot where Silver Tongue, weakened and
nearly exhausted, had lain for a few moments
upon the snow. Over a high ridge they went,
and then, having to make more speed across a
drifted valley, they finally paused to step into
their snowshoes. With each passing minute the
snowflakes steadily grew thicker, but in the shelter
of the woods this was hardly perceptible, and
the red drops still guided them easily.

Few words were spoken; even Sleuth’s loquacious
tongue was stilled. Their heart-beats
quickened, they penetrated deeper and deeper into
the woods. To Piper it seemed like a genuine
man hunt, descriptions of which he had often
perused with tingling nerves and intense satisfaction
in the favorite stories of his choice, and in
his lively imagination they were officers of the
law pressing close at the heels of a fleeing malefactor.

At times the evergreen thickets were so dense
that they pressed through them with no small
difficulty. Once the trail led through some white
.bn 238.png
// 238.png
.pn +1
birches which stood gleaming like silent ghosts
there in the shadows. They came out at last to
the open meadows beyond the woods and found
that it was now snowing so heavily that the next
strip of timber could be but dimly seen, as
through a veil.

“It’s no use,” muttered Springer; “this old
snowstorm is going to balk us.”

Barker, his cap pulled low over his eyes and
his body bent forward to catch the occasional red
stains which could still be seen through the film
of snow that had already fallen, strode on without
comment.

And then, at the very edge of the next timber,
they found the spot where Silver Tongue had
been shot. Beyond that there was no trail of
blood, but Piper, searching, quickly uttered a
shout of satisfaction, bringing the others hurrying
toward him.

“Here’s the scoundrel’s tracks!” cried Sleuth,
pointing downward. “He was on snowshoes. He
stood right here behind this bunch of cedars and
fired at the dog.”
.bn 239.png
// 239.png
.pn +1

“No question about it,” agreed Barker grimly.
“Now we must try to follow the tracks.”

It quickly became evident that, after doing the
shooting, the unknown had made off in great
haste, his long strides indicating this. The tracks
followed the edge of the woods for some distance
and then turned into an old path, along which
the pursuers were able to make considerable speed—so
much, indeed, that Sleuth, who had heretofore
kept close at Barker’s heels, finally dropped,
panting, behind Springer. As he fell back Piper
called a warning to Berlin.

“If we catch him, be careful what you do,
Barker, old man; don’t lose your head, for you’ve
got a loaded gun in your hands.”

Berlin made no reply.

Suddenly the snowshoe trail turned sharply off
the path, and once more they found themselves
pressing through tangled thickets. They came to
a clearing, where there was a small, frozen, snow-buried
pond, and there it was no small matter,
even then, to follow that snowshoe trail.

“Five or ten minutes in the open, and he will
have us bub-baffled,” muttered Springer.
.bn 240.png
// 240.png
.pn +1

“He was making for the big swamp back of
Turkey Hill,” panted Piper from the rear.
“There’s no shadow of doubt but he’s one of the
three suspects we mentioned, Phil; and I’m dead
sure I know which one.”

Once more they brushed and crashed through
bushes and low-hanging branches. Finally, as
they again came forth, Barker, amid a perfect
tangle of brush, uttered a cry, pointing at something
red which dangled from a branch.

“What is it?” questioned Springer.

“A handkerchief,” answered Berlin, securing
it—“a silk handkerchief. Look here, fellows,
I’ve seen this same handkerchief before. The
chap we’re after must have been wearing it round
his neck. He didn’t notice when it slipped off or
was pulled off by catching on that bush.”

“Let me look,” begged Phil eagerly. “By jove!
I’ve sus-seen it before myself! I saw it tied
round the neck of a fellow only last Saturday.”

“That’s right,” nodded Berlin triumphantly.
“I’m glad you were there, Phil; I’m glad you saw
it, too. The name of the miserable sneak who
owns this handkerchief is——”
.bn 241.png
// 241.png
.pn +1

“Rodney Grant,” finished Springer.

“My deduction was correct,” said Piper, well
pleased with himself. “He’s the feller who shot
Silver Tongue.”
.pb
.bn 242.png
// 242.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 24 XXIV. "THE PROOF."
In the silence which followed the soft, muffled
sound of a wood-chopper’s axe drifted to their
ears from the northern slope of Turkey Hill.
Even the snow, which was now falling thickly,
could be heard making an almost imperceptible
rustling and whispering amid the bushes. Slowly
Barker folded the red silk handkerchief and put
it carefully away in a pocket.

“I think this will be sufficient evidence,” he said
harshly; “but we may as well locate the contemptible
whelp if we can, and I fancy we’ll find him
with his pals at Lander’s camp. It won’t be possible
to follow the snowshoe tracks more than two
or three minutes longer, but he was certainly
heading for that camp.”

“If we do find him, be careful with that gun
of yours,” again warned Piper. “Don’t lose your
head, Berlin, old man.”
.bn 243.png
// 243.png
.pn +1

“I’m not a fool,” returned Barker. “Come on.”

The snowshoe trail was soon obliterated, but
the last faint tracks were plainly seen to be
pointing toward the island in the heart of the
swamp, and they pushed straight on. Finally the
old camp came into view through the film of falling
snow, and in a hoarse whisper Piper called
attention to the fact that smoke was rising from
the piece of rusty stovepipe which served as a
chimney. With all possible caution the three
trailers crept forward.

Not a sound came from within the camp; the
smoking chimney was the only token which gave
evidence that a human being had been there in
many hours—possibly many days. After wasting
some time in vain listening, Berlin suddenly
made a bold move, advancing toward the door.

“Hello!” he muttered, stopping as the others
came up behind him. “Look at this!”

There was a padlock on the door, securing it
by means of a staple and clasp.

“My deduction is,” said Piper, “that the den is
deserted and the miscreant flown.”

“He’s sus-skipped already,” said Springer.
.bn 244.png
// 244.png
.pn +1

Investigation revealed that the padlock was
really locked. Then they peered in through the
dingy window, and, their eyes after a time becoming
accustomed to the gloomy interior, they
saw beyond question that no living person was
there.

“He hasn’t been gone long,” decided Barker
disappointedly, “for the smoke proves that.
There’s still a smoldering fire in the old stove.”

“Let’s bub-bust the door open and look the
place over,” suggested Springer.

“Let me hasten to caution you against such a
proceeding,” interposed Sleuth, as Barker seemed
to hesitate. “The complete details of our morning’s
work will doubtless be laid before the public
eye, and we must take every precaution not to
perpetrate any act that will rebound to our discredit.
Let it not be said that, like the owner of
this den of iniquity, we broke and entered.”

“It wouldn’t do any good, anyhow,” said Berlin.
“We couldn’t learn anything further, and I
feel certain I already have the proof that will
nail the sneak fast.”
.bn 245.png
// 245.png
.pn +1

“What are you going to do about it?” questioned
Phil.

“Do?” cried Barker. “I’m going to make him
settle—handsomely. I’ll teach him he can’t shoot
my dog without paying for it.”

“This will come pretty near fuf-fixing Mr.
Grant for good around Oakdale. He’d better
pull up stakes and get out.”

“He was practically fixed before this,” said
Barker; “but this will certainly satisfy every
doubter as to his character. Even Stone can’t
have anything to say in his defense after this.”

By the time the swamp was left behind the
snow was coming down in such an impenetrable
mass that they could barely see a few feet in
advance, and the wind was rising, forcing them
to hold their heads down and bend forward as
they breasted the storm.

“It’s going to be a ripper,” said Springer.
“Winter came in early this year, and it’s sus-soaking
it to us good.”

Down the Barville road they went, Barker silently
planning his course of action toward
Grant.
.bn 246.png
// 246.png
.pn +1

Until late in the afternoon the storm continued,
the wind piling the snow in drifts; between three
and four o’clock, however, it abated far more suddenly
than it had begun. The wind died down,
and the sun, setting beyond Turkey Hill, shot red
gleams through a rift in the clouds, gilding the
arrow-vane on the steeple of the Methodist
church. Men and boys appeared everywhere
with shovels, opening paths to houses and clearing
the sidewalks. The loafers, who had spent
the greater part of the day around the roaring
stove in Stickney’s store, discussing national politics,
high finance, and arguing vociferously over
original methods for busting the trusts, gradually
melted away until only two rheumaticky old codgers
who could not wield shovels were left.

Even before the snow had ceased to fall, Rodney
Grant was out and at work on the path leading
to his aunt’s house, and, having begun thus
early, he was able to complete the task before
darkness came on. He had just disposed of the
last shovelful when, straightening up, he perceived
two persons plowing toward him, almost
waist deep, along High Street. One was a tall,
.bn 247.png
// 247.png
.pn +1
husky-looking man, and the other Rod recognized
with some surprise as Berlin Barker. He flung
the shovel to his shoulder and turned, but the
voice of the man hailed him.

“Hold on, young feller! We want to see you
a minute.”

His surprise redoubled, Grant dropped the
blade of his shovel to the snow, leaned lightly
on the handle and waited. The man he had often
seen around Oakdale, but did not know his name.
He fancied that Barker’s cold, grim face wore an
expression of malignant, but repressed, triumph.

“You’re Rod Grant, old Aunt Kent’s nevvy,
ain’t ye?” questioned the man, coming up.

“I am Rodney Grant, Miss Priscilla Kent’s
nephew,” was the calm answer, although the
man’s tone and Barker’s appearance forewarned
the boy from Texas that something disagreeable
was about to take place.

“I’ve got a few questions I want to ax ye,
young man, and I advise ye to answer ’em truthfully.”

“Save your advice; I’m not in the habit of
lying.”
.bn 248.png
// 248.png
.pn +1

Barker laughed shortly, sneeringly, and Rod
was seized, as he had been scores of times before,
by an intense and almost irresistible desire to lay
hands on the fellow.

“All right,” said the man. “Now what I want
to know fust is this: Did you go out gunnin’
early this morning?”

“Although I consider it none of your business,
I’ll answer. I did not.”

“What? You didn’t? Now be keerful. Take
keer. You’re li’ble to git yourself into a mess.”

“What’s the game, Mr. Man?” indignantly demanded
Rod.

“You’ll find out purty quick. What did you do
this morning, if you didn’t go out gunnin’?”

“I don’t mind telling you that I started to go
fishing.”

“Fishin’? Ho! ho! Where was you goin’?”

“That also is none of your business, but I see
no reason why I shouldn’t state truthfully that
we started for Coleman’s Pond. We were going
to cut holes and fish through the ice.”

“We? Who? Who was with ye?”

“Bunk Lander.”
.bn 249.png
// 249.png
.pn +1

“Didn’t you start out alone?”

“No, sir.”

“Didn’t you take a gun with ye?”

“No, sir.”

“Now hold on, hold on. Be keerful. You’re
li’ble to git twisted.”

“Let me inform you, my friend, that you make
me plenty tired. I don’t know what you’re driving
at, but I do know that your insinuations that
I am lying are insulting. There’s no reason why
I should lie.”

“Mebbe not. Did you go over to Coleman’s
Pond? That’s a right long distance; ’bout five
miles or a little more.”

“No, we didn’t go over there.”

“Why not?”

“Because after we reached Lander’s camp,
where we stopped a while, this storm began, and
we decided it would be right foolish to attempt
any fishing through the ice to-day.”

“H’m!” grunted the inquisitor skeptically.
“Did the Lander boy have a gun with him?”

“No, sir.”

“How’d you happen to stop at his camp?”
.bn 250.png
// 250.png
.pn +1

“We went there for fishing tackle.”

“And built a fire?”

“Yes. We weren’t in any hurry and the place
was cold, so Bunk started a fire.”

“H’m! You’ve got it fixed up purty well,
ain’t ye?”

Rod felt his cheeks burn. “I don’t know what
you mean, for there was nothing to fix up. I do
know that you’re making me right sore with your
questions and your nasty doubting manner, and
I don’t propose to answer anything further until
you inform me what all this is about. What are
you driving at?”

The man reached into his pocket and brought
forth a red silk handkerchief, which he offered
to Rod.

“I guess you dropped this handkercher on your
way, didn’t ye? It’s yourn, ain’t it?”

Grant took the handkerchief and looked at it.
“Yes,” he replied, forgetting his determination
to answer no more questions, “it’s mine.”
.pb
.bn 251.png
// 251.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 25 XXV. "SETTLEMENT DAY DRAWS NEAR."
Once more Barker laughed, this time triumphantly,
exultantly, for he felt sure that Rodney
Grant had trapped himself by that admission.

“I think that’s sufficient, Mr. Pickle,” he said,
addressing the man. “You’ve done very well.”

“Jest wait a minute,” advised the man, holding
up his hand; “I ain’t quite through yet.” He
turned, with a manner intended to be impressive
and awesome, upon Rod. “My name is William
Pickle,” he announced, “and I’m the deputy sheriff
of this town.”

If he expected that this statement would cause
the young Texan to quail or betray alarm, disappointment
was his portion, for Rod remained
wholly self-possessed and undisturbed.

“Permit me, Mr. Pickle,” he said earnestly, “to
inquire how my handkerchief came into your
possession. I sure think it’s about time you
answered a few of <i>my</i> questions.”
.bn 252.png
// 252.png
.pn +1

“You sometimes wear that handkercher tied
round your neck when you’re out gunnin’—or
fishin’—don’t ye?”

“I may have done so,” admitted Rodney; “but
you haven’t answered <i>my</i> question. How did
you come to have it?”

“’Twas found this mornin’ over on Andrew
Dodd’s land, back of Turkey Hill. I guess you
must have lost it there, didn’t ye?”

“I don’t think so. In fact, I’m right certain I
did not, for I don’t remember having it with me
to-day. I don’t know precisely where Andrew
Dodd’s land is located, but unless it takes in the
swamp west of Turkey Hill I was not on his land
to-day. I’m right curious to know what you’re
driving at, Mr. Pickle, and I opine it’s about time
for you to come out open and frank, so that I
may get your drift.”

“I cal’late, young feller, you’d better come
down to Lawyer Frances’ office with us and settle
up with young Barker for killin’ his hound which
you shot this mornin’.”
.bn 253.png
// 253.png
.pn +1

It was out at last. Grant, still completely self-possessed,
looked the officer straight in the eyes.

“You’ve sure got another think coming to you,”
he retorted indignantly. “Not knowing anything
whatever about this matter you mention, I’ll not
come to Lawyer Frances’ office and settle. I do
not own a gun, and I haven’t had one in my hands
to-day. If Barker’s dog was shot, somebody
else did it, and you’re barking up the wrong
tree.”

“Of course he’ll say that,” cried Berlin; “but
he caught himself foul when he owned up that
the handkerchief was his. I found it hanging
from a bush while, with Springer and Piper, I
was following his tracks after he shot Silver
Tongue. Phil and Sleuth both saw me pick the
handkerchief off the branch, and they’ll swear
to it.”

Grant’s steady, unflinching eyes were fixed on
Barker now, and he seemed to be trying to read
the thoughts and motives of this fellow, who since
his arrival in Oakdale had so persistently and
venomously harassed him. The limits of his endurance
had about been reached; the strain was
.bn 254.png
// 254.png
.pn +1
too much, and something threatened to snap.
Nevertheless, he still struggled to maintain a
desperate hold on himself—struggled to restrain
and master the cyclonic Grant temper, which invariably
wrought havoc when it broke loose. In
his ears at that very moment seemed to echo his
father’s words of warning, but the hammering
of his outraged heart promised to drown those
echoes into silence. Despite his outward appearance
of self-control, his voice shook a little as he
said:

“You’ve never let up on me an instant, have
you, Barker? Well, you sure have no idea of the
dangerous ground you’re treading on. I tell you
now I can account for every minute of my time
since leaving my aunt’s house this morning, and
I can prove that I didn’t shoot your dog.”

“How will you prove it?”

“By Lander. He met me at the house, and we
were together all the time until we returned from
his camp after the storm began.”

“By Lander!” scoffed Barker. “Why, he’s the
biggest liar I know—excepting you.”

“If you say I shot your dog, you’re a liar!”
.bn 255.png
// 255.png
.pn +1

Teeth set, fists clenched, Barker started; but
Pickle’s gnarled hand gripped his collar, and the
deputy sheriff snapped:

“Hold on, my boy! Go slow.”

Grant had dropped his shovel, and now his
face was almost as white as the snow beneath his
feet.

“Let him come,” he begged. “He may as well
have it now as any time, and it’s plain he’ll never
be satisfied till he gets it.”

“There won’t be no fightin’ here,” asserted
Mr. Pickle, thrusting Bern back.

“If there’s any law, I’ll make him settle!”
snarled Barker. “If the law isn’t sufficient, I’ll
take the matter into my own hands!”

“You’ve been piling up a right stiff account,
Barker,” Rod flung back; “and on settlement day
you may get all that’s coming to you in a lump
sum, which possibly will be some more than
you’re looking for.”

“So you refuse to come down to Lawyer
Frances’ office, do ye?” questioned the deputy
sheriff. “Well, you’ll be li’ble to land in the lockup
when I have the warrant to serve on ye. Come
.bn 256.png
// 256.png
.pn +1
on, Barker, we’ll go see Frances and fix things
up. That’s the proper way to proceed, now that
you’re dead sartain of your ground.”

They turned back toward the village, leaving
the boy from Texas gazing after them. As their
dark figures melted into the fast deepening darkness,
Grant spoke in a low, hard tone.

“Yes, settlement day draws near, Mr. Barker,
and when it arrives there’ll be a clean wipe-out
of the account between us.”
.pb
.bn 257.png
// 257.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 26 XXVI. "GRANT’S DEFIANCE."
It was impossible for Rod wholly to conceal
his disturbed state of mind from his aunt, but
he skillfully evaded answering her questions, by
which she sought to learn what was the trouble.
If the implicating handkerchief had been found
by Barker, Springer and Piper, as stated, he
wondered how it had come to be where it was discovered,
and slowly a suspicion and a possible
solution crept into his mind. Nevertheless, he
was not yet satisfied that a “job” had not been
put up on him by Barker, and he felt a strong
desire to question Springer and Piper. Later, if
they persisted in corroborating Barker’s words,
he would find the fellow on whom his suspicions
had turned and give him a taste of the “third
degree.”
.bn 258.png
// 258.png
.pn +1

Unable to remain inactive while his enemy was
at work, and really dreading the reappearance of
Deputy Sheriff Pickle with a warrant for his
arrest, Rod made an excuse to go for the mail
and set his feet toward the village. He was
hesitating about entering the postoffice when
some one called to him from the shadows between
two buildings.

“Davis!” he breathed. “Perhaps this is as
good a time as any.”

“’St!” hissed Spotty. “Come here, Rod, old
feller. Something doin’.”

Grant joined him. “What is it, Davis? What’s
up?”

“I don’t know just what’s up,” answered
Spotty; “but there’s something in the air, you
bet. See that light in the winder over there?”
He pointed to a lighted window over one of the
stores across the street.

“Yes.”

“That’s old Shyster Frances’ office. They’ve
got Bunk up there, and I guess they’re goin’ for
him. Wonder what he’s done now?”

“Got Lander up there, have they? Who’s got
him?”
.bn 259.png
// 259.png
.pn +1

“Old Pickle marched him up the stairs, and I
see Berlin Barker and his father foller. Can’t
be they’re doin’ anything about that old affair,
and I’m guessin’ what Bunk’s been into lately.”

“I reckon I know what they’re trying to do,”
growled Rod, “and I judge it’s about time I
strolled in on them myself.”

He started, and Davis, springing forward,
grabbed his arm.

“What are you goin’ to do, Rod?” palpitated
Spotty. “It ain’t nothin’ to you. You better
keep away.”

The boy from Texas shook him off. “Let go!
Bunk stood by me when I was in a right bad
scrape. Perhaps you’d better come along, too.”

“Not on your life!” said Spotty, hurriedly retreating
in great alarm. “They don’t get me
into no mess.”

Rodney crossed the street and unhesitatingly
mounted the stairs leading to the door of Lawyer
Frances’ office. Perhaps William Pickle was prepared
with the warrant for his arrest, but that
did not lead him to hesitate or falter for a second.
He saw the lawyer’s name lettered in black
on the ground glass of the door, through which
the light from within faintly shone, and his
steady hand found the knob.
.bn 260.png
// 260.png
.pn +1

The lawyer was sitting at his desk with his
swivel chair turned sidewise so that he could face
Lander, who, wearing a sullen look of defiance,
stood a few feet away. Berlin Barker’s father
was also seated, with Berlin standing beside his
chair. Deputy Sheriff Pickle was posted within
four feet of the office door. As that door swung
open and the new arrival stepped boldly in, every
eye switched from Lander, and Bunk, seeing
Rod, uttered an exclamation of relief and satisfaction.

“Here he is!” he cried. “Now you can question
him yourselves. This bunch has been trying
to force me into lying about what was done this
morning, Rod. Somebody shot Barker’s hound,
and——”

“Be quiet, Lander!” ordered the lawyer, bringing
his knuckles down sharply on the edge of his
desk. “Close the door, Pickle. It is rather fortunate
this young man chose to come here at
this time. Perhaps he has decided to make a
confession, which is certainly the wisest course
he can pursue.”
.bn 261.png
// 261.png
.pn +1

“I haven’t anything whatever to confess, Mr.
Frances,” said Rodney boldly. “Hearing that
Lander had been brought here, I knew well
enough what you were trying to do with him,
and so——”

“And so he come running, for fear Lander
would peach,” interrupted Berlin Barker.

“I didn’t have nothing to tell, and if I had I
wouldn’t ’a’ told it,” said Bunk.

“You can see the disposition of the boy, Mr.
Frances,” said Berlin’s father. “He brazenly
acknowledges that he wouldn’t tell under any
circumstances.”

“But,” put in Rod at once, “he states the truth
when he says he has nothing to tell. Where are
Springer and Piper? I’d like to ask them if they
saw Berlin Barker find my silk handkerchief, as
he claimed he did, somewhere back of Turkey
Hill.”

“They have already made such a statement in
my presence,” announced the lawyer. “The evidence
is against you, young man, and the easiest
.bn 262.png
// 262.png
.pn +1
way out of your trouble is to own up and settle
for that valuable dog which you maliciously
slaughtered.”

“I object to your language, sir. I know nothing
whatever about the shooting of Barker’s
dog.”

“Will you explain how your handkerchief
came to be found where it was?”

“I can’t explain that—at present,” confessed
Rod. “All I have to say is that somebody must
have stolen it from me and lost it there.”

Berlin sneered, and his father, pulling a
grieved and indignant countenance, said:

“Such a subterfuge is palpably puerile. According
to all reports, young Grant, since appearing
in this town, has plainly shown himself to be
a vicious and undesirable character—such a boy
as must contaminate those with whom he associates.
He has likewise shown what he is by
choosing as companions the worst boys of Oakdale.”

“Got your hammer out, old man,” growled
Lander. “You’re one of the kind that don’t
want to give a feller no show, and there’s plenty
of ’em ’round here. Mebbe you think your own
son is a little white saint, but——”
.bn 263.png
// 263.png
.pn +1

“Silence, you young reprobate!” cried Mr.
Barker, rising to his feet. “You’ve been watched
since you came back here, and——”

“Oh, yes, I’ve been watched—I know it. Give
a chap a black name and then kick him is the
way they do hereabouts.”

Grant’s calm defiance had stiffened Lander’s
backbone, and he was not at all terrified by the
aspect of Mr. Barker.

“Without no cause,” he went on, “your son’s
tried to soak Rod Grant, and it’s made him madder’n
a hornet ’cause he ain’t come out of his
tricks with flying colors. If I’d been in Rod’s
place, he’d found himself up against something
hot long ago.”

“Never mind taking up my battle, Lander,”
said Rodney. “I reckon I can take care of myself.
All I ask of you is that you stick to the
straight truth and don’t let any one frighten you
into lying.”
.bn 264.png
// 264.png
.pn +1

“That’s what they was tryin’ to do. They
was even callin’ up that old scrape and tryin’ to
make me believe something would be done if I
didn’t go back on you and tell a mess of stuff
that wasn’t true. They can’t prove anything
against ye, Rod; the straight facts make an
alibi, as they call it in law, and they’ll never git
only straight goods from me.”

Satisfied now that, in spite of the seeming incriminating
evidence of the handkerchief, his
enemy could prove nothing, Grant uttered a bold
defiance:

“I’m here. If they want to arrest me let them
do so. Have you a warrant for me, Mr. Pickle?”

“Not yet,” acknowledged the deputy sheriff;
“but I’m reddy to serve it as soon’s it’s placed in
my han’s.”

“Do you wish to swear out a warrant, Barker?”
asked the lawyer.

Mr. Barker cleared his throat, his manner
plainly indicating an uncertain state of mind.

“Why, I—I don’t think it’s absolutely necessary
to-night, Frances. The fellow won’t be
likely to get away, and we may obtain further
evidence bearing on the case. That hound was a
valuable dog. I paid a fancy price for him, in
.bn 265.png
// 265.png
.pn +1
order that Berlin might have a good rabbit dog,
and I’m naturally intensely outraged and highly
indignant over the action of this boy in shooting——”

“I object to your language, also, sir,” cried
Rod. “You must plainly realize that the proof
on which you base such a malicious charge is
worthless, and your persistence in it is plain
slander.”

“We’ll get him yet,” declared Berlin savagely—“we’ll
get him unless he runs away.”

“I’m not even going to run away as far as
Clearport,” returned the boy from Texas cuttingly.
“You won’t find me imitating your example,
Mr. Barker.”

“If he should run away,” said Berlin’s father,
“it might be a good thing for the town; it can
spare him and his well chosen companions.”

“Don’t you reckon on it,” advised Rod. “I’m
going to stay right here in Oakdale and see this
thing through. Maybe when the straight truth
comes out you’ll owe me an apology; but, if you’re
like your son, I don’t opine I’ll get one. Come,
Bunk, let’s pike along.”
.bn 266.png
// 266.png
.pn +1

“Sure,” said Lander, starting with great willingness.

Pickle stepped in front of the door, giving Mr.
Barker a questioning glance.

“Let them go,” said the man; and Rod passed
out, with Lander, grinning, at his heels.
.pb
.bn 267.png
// 267.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 27 XXVII. "SPOTTY REFUSES TO TALK."
As they reached the street Lander broke into
a hoarse, triumphant chuckle of satisfaction.

“They didn’t bluff us none, did they, Roddy,
old chap?” he said. “You sure did poke it to old
man Barker and his measly cub. It done me
good to see you stand up to ’em that fashion.
But say, what sort of a dirty rinktum has Berlin
Barker been tryin’ to put up on you now? He’s
the limit, that snake-in-the-grass. ’Twouldn’t
surprise me if he shot his own dog so’s to lay
it onto you.”

“No, Bunk, I hardly think he did that.”

“Well, you don’t take no stock in that handkerchief
gag, do ye? He never found your
handkerchief the way he claims he did.”

“I don’t know whether he did or not,” confessed
Rod. “Not that I believe him any too
good to try to throw the blame of this thing
.bn 268.png
// 268.png
.pn +1
onto me by a trick of that sort, but I can’t quite
come to think that Springer or Piper would back
him up.”

“Mebbe he fooled ’em. P’r’aps he had the
handkerchief in his pocket and jest flung it on
the bush when they wasn’t lookin’. Then he
could call their attention to it and make b’lieve
he’d jest seen it.”

“I have thought of that myself, Bunk, and
I’m going to ask Springer and Piper a few questions.
In the meantime, however, I’m some anxious
to interrogate another chap. I wonder where
Davis is? He told me they had you up there in
the lawyer’s office, and I left him out here.”

But Spotty had vanished, and he was not to
be found anywhere in the vicinity.

“He’s a thin-blooded rat,” said Bunk. “I always
knowed it, but he was the only feller who’d
have anything to do with me arter I come back
to Oakdale, so I picked up with him. I say, Rod,
it ain’t done you much good chummin’ with us
two; for we’re both marked, and it don’t make
no difference what we do, folks is bound to say
we’re tough nuts and can’t be any different.
.bn 269.png
// 269.png
.pn +1
That’s what makes me raw all the way through.
If a feller happens to make one bad mistake and
gits into a tight box people never seem to forget
it, and they’re always lookin’ for him to do the
same thing over again, or worse. It’s discouraging,
Rod. Why, even if I wanted to be a decent
feller and tried to be, who’d give me any encouragement?
Not a blame soul.”

“You’re mistaken, Lander, old chap; I would.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right; but then, you’re different
from these narrer-laced, hide-bound muckers
’round here. If they could only catch me foul
now, so they could put me down and out for
good, it would make ’em bust wide open with
glee. No, ’tain’t no use for a feller to try to be
square and decent.”

“Don’t you believe it, Lander; the fellow who
will try to be decent, and stick to it in spite of
everything, is right sure to come out on top and
win universal respect in the end. It’s only a
matter of strength and resolution to fight to the
finish, that’s all.”
.bn 270.png
// 270.png
.pn +1

“Mebbe so,” admitted the other boy, hunching
his shoulders and shaking his head doubtfully;
“but I ain’t never seen nothing to make me believe
it. Do you think you’re goin’ to come out
on top here in Oakdale? Have you got a notion
that you’ll succeed, in spite of Barker and everybody
else that’s turned against ye, in winnin’ the
respect of the majority of folks ’round these
parts? Say, old pal, forget it! You never will.
It’s a losing game, and you might as well make
up your mind to that fust as last. You ain’t
obliged to stay here, and if I was in your place
I own up I wouldn’t stay no longer’n I could
pack my duds and catch a train bound for other
parts.”

“Lander, my father sent me here to school because
I have an aunt in this town with whom I
can live, and unless he takes me away in opposition
to my wishes you can safely bet I’m going
to stay here and finish my course at Oakdale
Academy. I’ll admit it’s not any too pleasant
for me, but my blood is up, and I’m a Grant.
I’ve never known a quitter by that name.”

Bunk peered admiringly at the speaker, even
as he observed: “Funny the fellers ’round here
should size you up as a quitter, but I cal’late
.bn 271.png
// 271.png
.pn +1
you’re to blame for that by the way you sorter
let Barker run over you to start with. Why you
done it I can’t make out, for I’ve seen enough of
ye to know that you ain’t no coward.”

“Thanks,” said Rod, with a short laugh. “Most
persons have right good reasons for their acts,
and this was true in my case. I’m going to look
for Spotty at his home now. Will you come
along?”

“Guess I will, though you’ve got me guessin’
why you want to see him so bad.”

“If I get a chance to talk with him to-night,
perhaps you’ll find out.”

But at the home of Davis they were informed
by the boy’s mother that he had not returned
from the village. They waited a while outside
the house, only to be disappointed by the failure
of Spotty to put in an appearance. Finally Rod
said:

“I’ll see him to-morrow; it will give me more
time to think the matter over.”

Still wondering why Grant was so earnestly
desirous to see Davis, Bunk bade him good night
and they separated.
.bn 272.png
// 272.png
.pn +1

Ere Rod slept that night he spent a long time
thinking the matter over and planning out a diplomatic
method of handling Spotty and getting
the exact truth from him; for somehow he felt
strangely confident that the fellow could clear
up the mystery connected with the shooting of
Silver Tongue.

Shortly after nine o’clock Sunday morning
the boy from Texas again knocked at the door
of Davis’ home. Mrs. Davis, a thin, care-worn,
slatternly woman, answered that knock and informed
him that Spotty was still in bed.

“He ain’t very well this morning; he says he’s
sick,” she explained. “He wouldn’t git up to
eat no breakfast.”

“I’d like very much to see him for a few minutes,
Mrs. Davis,” urged Rod. “Can’t I do so?”

“Well, I dunno. He won’t like to be disturbed;
he gits awful cross and snappy when he
is. Still, seein’s you and him is friendly, I guess
you can go up to his room. It’s the open chamber
straight ahead at the top of the stairs.”
.bn 273.png
// 273.png
.pn +1

Grant opened the door at the head of the
stairs and walked into the barnlike, unfinished
chamber beneath the roof. As he did so some
one wrapped in several old quilts started up on a
bed and looked at him. It was Spotty, who immediately
sank down with a groan.

“What’s the matter, Spotty, old chap?” asked
Rod kindly, as he stopped beside the bed. “Aren’t
you feeling well this morning?”

“Oh, I’m sick—I’m sick!” moaned Davis. “Go
’way! I don’t want to see nobody.”

“What ails you?”

“I dunno, but I’m awful sick. My head aches
terrible, and I feel rotten mean all over.”

“Perhaps you ought to have a doctor.”

“I don’t want no doctor. I guess I’ll be all
right in a day or two. Don’t talk to me; it makes
me worse.”

“But I want to talk to you a few minutes,
Spotty,” said Rod, sitting down on a broken chair
close by and putting out a hand to touch the fellow’s
forehead, which caused him to shrink and
grumble. “Your head doesn’t seem to be hot.
Perhaps you’d feel better if you got up.”
.bn 274.png
// 274.png
.pn +1

“No, sir, I wouldn’t. Guess I know. How’d
you git in, anyhow? I told the old lady I was
feelin’ rotten and didn’t want nobody to bother
me.”

“Your mother knew we were friends, and so
she let me in to see you.”

“She’ll hear from me when I do get up. She
ought to know better.”

“Oh, come, come, Spotty. Of course she reckoned
I’d sympathize with you if you were sick.
Have you heard about what happened to Barker’s
dog?”

The body of the boy beneath the quilts twitched
the least bit.

“Ain’t heard nothing,” he growled. “Don’t
want to hear anything now.”

“Somebody shot Silver Tongue, and Berlin is
pretty hot over it. You know how much I like
Barker. It would do me good to find out who
killed his dog.”

One of Davis’ hands crept up to the edge of
the quilt, which he pulled down a bit, turning a
foxy eye toward the visitor; but, immediately on
meeting Rod’s gaze, he sank his head back beneath
those quilts, like a turtle pulling into its
shell.
.bn 275.png
// 275.png
.pn +1

“I don’t care,” he mumbled under the covers;
“I don’t care about nothing now.”

“He thinks I shot Silver Tongue,” said Rod,
as if it was something of a joke; “but I didn’t
get the chance.”

No sound from Spotty.

“If I had,” Grant continued—“well, I won’t
say what might have happened.”

Still the boy in the bed remained silent.

“You know he threatened to shoot old Rouser,”
Rod pursued, “and there are some persons who
might feel that he simply got a dose of his own
medicine. Don’t you say so?”

“I’m sick,” persisted Spotty in a muffled tone.
“I ain’t goin’ to talk.”

“I just thought I’d let you know about it, for
I reckoned you’d be interested. Oh, here’s one
of the neckties I gave you hanging on a hook.
Do you know, I lost my red silk handkerchief.
You didn’t borrow it, did you, Spotty?”

“Borrer it!” growled Davis. “You know I
didn’t. What are you talkin’ about?”

“Oh, I didn’t know, seeing as we’re friends,
but you took it for a joke, or something like that.”
.bn 276.png
// 276.png
.pn +1

“Well, I didn’t, and now I won’t talk no more
if you set there and chin for a week.”

Nor could Rod get another word out of Spotty,
and he was finally compelled to depart in some
disappointment, although more than half satisfied
that his suspicions concerning the fellow were
well grounded.
.pb
.bn 277.png
// 277.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 28 XXVIII. "AROUSED AT LAST."
On Monday morning Rod was early at the
academy, waiting for Springer and Piper. He
paid no apparent heed to the disdainful, contemptuous
looks of the boys who saw him posted there
on the steps; nevertheless, he took note of their
manner and felt fierce, resentful wrath burning
in his heart.

The girls likewise regarded him with open
aversion. Sadie Springer and Lelia Barker,
coming up the path together, beheld the defiant
young Texan and exchanged words concerning
him. It was natural enough that Lelia should
espouse her brother’s cause and hold the same
opinions regarding Grant; however, for some
reason which he himself could not understand,
her remark, distinctly heard as she mounted the
steps, cut him keenly.

“Why, Sadie,” she said, evidently speaking for
his ears as well as those of her companion, “he’s
a perfect young ruffian. No one else would do
things he has done.”
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// 278.png
.pn +1

In many ways Lelia was unlike her brother.
She was headstrong and impulsive, and, while
Berlin was coldly cautious and calculating, she
had often betrayed a daring and almost reckless
disposition. He had never been pronouncedly popular,
but Lelia was both liked and admired by
nearly all the girls and boys of the school. They
had never exchanged a word, but Rod, had he
analyzed his true feelings, would have found that
he also entertained a strong liking for Lelia.

He forgot her in a moment, however, as he
saw Phil Springer and Roger Eliot turn in at
the gate, with Piper and some other fellows a
short distance behind.

“Springer,” said Rod, descending the steps to
meet him, “I want to have a little talk with you.
You, too, Piper; I’d like to ask you fellows some
questions.”

They regarded him coldly, repellantly, Sleuth’s
lips taking on a curl of disdain.
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.pn +1

Rod continued quickly: “According to Barker,
you fellows were with him when he found
my silk handkerchief Saturday morning. Is that
right?”

“Absolutely correct,” answered Piper, while
Springer merely nodded.

“You were following the tracks of some one
supposed to have shot Barker’s dog, were you?”

“We were hot on the trail of the scoundrel,”
said Sleuth. “Only for the snowstorm, we’d
tracked him to his lair.”

“Did you see Barker find my handkerchief?”

“You bet we did.”

“He claims to have found it hanging on a
bush. Were you near at hand when he made
the discovery?”

“Phil was about five feet behind him, and I
was close behind Phil,” replied Sleuth.

“Are you positive Barker did not hang the
handkerchief on the bush and then call your attention
to it?”

Springer suddenly burst into derisive laughter.

“Now what do you think of that!” he cried.
“If that isn’t about the poorest attempt I ever
knew of to struggle out of a thing, I’ll eat my
huh-hat! It won’t do, Mr. Grant—it won’t
dud-do.”
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.pn +1

“Not at all,” agreed Piper sternly. “Berlin
called our attention to the handkerchief before
he’d even reached it. He didn’t have a chance to
hang it there.”

“That’s all I want to know,” said Rod quietly,
“and I’m much obliged to you.”

“Don’t mention it,” returned Sleuth cuttingly.

Barker reached the academy barely in time to
escape being late for the opening of the morning
session. As he seated himself at his desk his
eyes were turned in the direction of Rodney
Grant some distance away, but already Rod had
a book open before him and was apparently quite
oblivious to his surroundings. And all through
the forenoon the young Texan gave constant
attention to his books and recitations, not even
seeming aware of the fact that the other boys
drew away from him in classes, leaving him
alone and solitary. Even at intermission he succeeded
in maintaining his demeanor undisturbed,
although with half an eye and no ears at all he
could not have failed to take note of the sneers
and disdain of his schoolmates.
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.pn +1

As the deep snow had obliterated the path
across lots, it was necessary for him to take a
roundabout course through the village in order
to reach his aunt’s home; and, on his way for
midday lunch, turning up Main Street from the
square, he perceived several fellows blocking the
sidewalk in front of Hyde’s livery stable. Instantly
he knew there was trouble impending,
but not even for an instant did he hesitate or
slacken his steady stride. Rollins, Tuttle, Cooper,
Piper, Springer—they were all there.
Barker was there, too, standing in the middle of
the sidewalk, his gaze fixed on the approaching
lad, for whom he was plainly waiting, and Rod
knew they had made haste to reach this spot
ahead of him.

Within Grant’s heart a voice seemed calling
warningly: “Steady! Be careful! You know
what may happen if you lose your head.” But
they had sneered at him as a coward, they had
branded him as a braggart and a quitter, and
now the time had come when his manhood would
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.pn +1
no longer permit him to betray the slightest wavering;
so, with his face a trifle pale, but his eyes
shining dangerously, and every nerve in his body
keyed, he went forward.

Barker held his place in the middle of the
sidewalk; unless he turned aside a bit Rod must
brush against him. Their eyes met, and suddenly
Berlin cried:

“Hold on a minute, you dog-killing whelp! I
told you what I’d do if the law wasn’t sufficient
to make you settle for that dirty piece of business,
and now you can’t get away unless you
turn your back and run for it.”

“Barker,” said Grant, and there was something
in his voice that surprised those waiting,
staring lads, “I turned my back on you once,
and I’ve been mortally ashamed of it ever since,
even though it was for your own good, as well
as my own, that I did so. You’ve pushed me too
far, and I’ll never turn again; but I warn you
that you’d better step aside right lively and let
me pass.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Berlin, in derisive contempt.
“You’re as brave as a cornered rat.”
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.pn +1

“Sometimes a cornered rat is dangerous. Get
out of my way!”

“I will when I’m through with you—I’ll get
out of your way and let you crawl home after
you’ve had the thrashing of your life.” As he
uttered this threat Berlin, having his coat already
unbuttoned, suddenly snapped it off and
flung it into the waiting hands of Sleuth Piper.
“I’m going to smash your face!” he shouted.
“I’ll teach you to shoot inoffensive dogs, you
cheap cur!”

He sprang forward with the final insulting
word on his lips and aimed a blow at Grant’s
mouth. Quick as a flash the young Texan
ducked and sidestepped, permitting Berlin’s fist
to shoot over his shoulder. Untouched, he drove
his own right fist with staggering force against
the solar plexus of his assailant, stopping that
rush in a twinkling; in another twinkling the
knuckles of his left hand crashed full and fair
on the point of Barker’s jaw, and the would-be
avenger of Silver Tongue crumpled like a frost-struck
autumn leaf and went down.
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// 284.png
.pm illust 05 page-280.jpg 464 "THE WOULD-BE AVENGER OF SILVER TONGUE CRUMPLED LIKE A LEAF AND WENT DOWN. —Page 280."
.bn 285.png
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.pn +1

It was done so quickly that the boys who had
gathered to see Berlin thrash the Texan scarcely
had time to catch a breath before they beheld
Grant, his fists clenched, his face ashen and terrible,
his lips drawn back from his set teeth,
standing over the fallen fellow as if ready to
leap upon him as he lay and beat out of his body
what breath of life might linger there. But it
was Grant’s eyes that terrified them the most, for
they were the eyes of a wild beast aroused to the
most frightful fury; and Piper, dropping the coat
and falling back, screamed aloud:

“Stop him, fellers—stop him, or he’ll kill Bern
sure!”

Somehow it seemed as if that cry brought
Rodney Grant to his senses, for slowly his fists
unclenched and his hands dropped at his sides,
while, with a hissing sound like the intake of
steam, he drew a long breath that filled his chest
to its utmost capacity.

“Don’t worry,” he said, and there was something
of that same indescribable, awesome touch
in his voice; “I won’t touch him again. The poor
fool can’t fight, anyhow. I’ve tried to keep
peaceable and decent; but, now that you’ve made
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.pn +1
it impossible for me to do so, if there are any
friends of his present who want to take up his
fight I sure hope they won’t be backward about
it; for we may as well have the matter settled
right now, to prevent any further uncertainty
or annoyance.”

But there was no one who showed the slightest
desire to take up this challenge, even Rollins,
who had once browbeaten and insulted the boy
from Texas, slinking behind Chub Tuttle’s roly-poly
body in a way that plainly betokened an
amazing respect for Grant’s fighting powers, at
least. Seeing this, the faintest shadow of an inexpressibly
contemptuous smile flitted across the
defiant lad’s face.

“All right,” he said, “I’ll leave you to doctor
up your indiscreet friend, who, I reckon, will
come round all right in a few minutes.” He
passed on, and they took care to give him room.

“Jinks!” breathed Piper, as Barker stirred
slightly and uttered a faint sound which caused
Springer to kneel hastily beside him. “I told you
that feller was a perfect fiend to fight. I knew,
for didn’t I see him handle Lander!”
.pb
.bn 288.png
// 288.png
.pn +1
.pm chap 29 XXIX. "THE INCRIMINATING LETTER."
At the next street corner Rod hesitated a moment;
then, instead of continuing toward his
aunt’s house, he turned his steps in the opposite
direction and soon arrived at the home of Spotty
Davis. He saw and talked with Mr. Davis, who
was over from the lower mill for the midday
meal.

“My boy?” said Davis. “Oh, he’s gone to Belford.”

“Gone?” exclaimed Rod, surprised.

“Yes,” nodded the man; “I let him have the
fare, and he took the mornin’ train.”

“When will he come back?”

“Dunno; mebbe he won’t come back. You
see, he’s got some relatives over there, and his
cousin Jim said he could git him a job in a machine
shop. He ain’t never been much struck on
work, but all of a sudden last night he took a
.bn 289.png
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.pn +1
notion he’d like to try it, and he wouldn’t let
up on me till I give my consent. I guess mebbe
’twill do him good. He got into some kind of a
fuss with the perfesser at the academy and was
sent home. I cal’late he’s got about eddication
enough, anyhow, for he never was no hand to
study.”

“Belford,” muttered Grant. “How far is
that?”

“Oh, ’bout sixty mile or so. Why, what’s the
matter?”

“I would like to see Spotty and have a talk
with him.”

“Ho! Well, that would be a master long distance
to travel jest for a talk.”

“Spotty was sick yesterday morning when I
called. He must have recovered right suddenly.”

“Oh, I guess he wa’n’t very sick; he jest
wanted to lay in bed, that was all. I hope he’ll
fall into good company in Belford, for the fellers
he’s took up with ’round here ain’t done him no
good.”
.bn 290.png
// 290.png
.pn +1

Rod shrugged his shoulders with a wry smile,
bade the man good day, and turned away. So
Spotty had left town suddenly and unexpectedly;
this act seemed to confirm Grant in his suspicions
regarding the fellow.

“He stole two dollars of my money,” muttered
Rod, as he walked homeward, “and he stole my
silk handkerchief also. It was Spotty who shot
Barker’s dog, and either he lost the handkerchief
afterward or became frightened and left it hanging
on a bush in order to turn suspicion from
himself. I sure hate to think that last, even of
Spotty; but somehow I can’t help it, knowing he
would reason it out that the condition of affairs
between Barker and myself and the possible finding
of the handkerchief would make it seem a
sure thing that I did the shooting.”

Neither Barker nor Grant appeared at school
that afternoon, Berlin remaining away because
of his intense chagrin and shame, and Rod feeling
himself too disturbed to study or appear in
recitations. The boy from Texas knew his motives
might be misconstrued, but he smiled grimly
over the thought that any one should fancy that
fear had anything to do with them.
.bn 291.png
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.pn +1

School had closed for the day less than half
an hour when Grant, chancing to look out, saw
the sturdy figure of Ben Stone hurrying up the
path toward Miss Kent’s house. The young
Texan met Ben at the door.

“Come in,” he invited, and the invitation was
readily accepted.

“You didn’t show up at the academy this afternoon,”
said Ben when they were in Grant’s room.

“No; I had a reason for staying away, but you
can reckon on it that I’ll be there to-morrow.”

“Something happened,” said Stone—“something
I want to tell you about.”

“Go ahead; I’m listening.”

“Of course the fellows had lots to say about
the way you did Barker up, but I didn’t come to
talk about that.”

“For which I’m plenty thankful.”

“Something happened that gave a setback to
the fellows who thought it was you that squealed
about that hazing. Cooper, who is usually up
to something, brought two live mice in a trap.
Prof. Richardson is as scared of mice as any
woman could be, and Chipper wanted to put them
into the professor’s desk. Piper, who always
.bn 292.png
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.pn +1
seems to have a key to fit anything, had one that
would unlock the desk. You know how Sleuth
prides himself on his keen and searching eyes.
Well, in the desk he discovered a letter that had
been sent to the professor, and he recognized the
handwriting on it. Of course he didn’t have any
right to look at it, but he did just the same—he
read it and kept it, too, to show to the fellows.
It stirred up something sure enough, for it told
all about that hazing and the breaking of the
professor’s skeleton, giving the names of every
fellow who took part in that piece of business.
The writer of that letter reminded the professor
of his promise to protect any one who should tell
him the truth.”

“What a sneaking piece of business to do!”
exclaimed Rod.

“It certainly was,” nodded Ben, “and I’ll guarantee
Prof. Richardson regarded it in that light.
Perhaps that’s one reason why he declined to
pull all those fellows over the coals. You see,
he’d been forced to jump on some that he plainly
regards as his best scholars, and, as long as you
made no complaint, he let it pass by handing out
that lecture about hazing.”
.bn 293.png
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.pn +1

“Which,” said Rod, “was sure enough straight
dope. This hazing business, when it’s carried
too far, as it is right often, certainly is all to the
bad—as I have good reasons to know.”

“You haven’t asked who wrote that letter,”
reminded Ben.

“I’m not right sure I want to know.”

“Why not?”

“Because I never could regard the squealer
with an atom of respect. I don’t quite understand
why he wrote it, either.”

“You know the professor threatened to probe
into the matter and do his best to find out and
punish the guilty parties.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I suppose the fellow who blowed was
afraid some one else would do the same thing,
and simply tried to make himself immune from
punishment.”

“Likely that’s right.”
.bn 294.png
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.pn +1

“Don’t you want to know who it was? It
isn’t probable you can help finding out, for all
the fellows know now, and some of them have
told the sneak a few things.”

“I don’t opine,” laughed Rod, “they’ll break
their necks hurrying to tell me.”

“Oh, there’s been a decided change of opinion
about you. If it wasn’t for that dog-shooting
affair, I believe you’d be surprised to find a great
many chaps ready to become friendly.”

“What do you think about that dog shooting,
Stone?”

“I’m dead sure you didn’t have anything to do
with it.”

“Thanks. But of late even you have apparently
been influenced by the rising tide of popular
prejudice against one Rodney Grant.”

“No,” denied Ben—“no, indeed; but of late
you have held yourself away from everybody.
Why, you scarcely spoke to me when we met.”

“Being plenty unpopular,” said Rod, “I allowed
I wouldn’t involve you. I was independent
enough to believe I could paddle my own
canoe. I’ve observed that about nine times out
of ten things work themselves out if you let
them alone. I’ll guarantee the truth concerning
the shooting of Barker’s hound will be known
in time.”
.bn 295.png
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.pn +1

“I hope so, Rod, as that would come pretty
near putting you fully and squarely right in Oakdale.
Hunk Rollins’ letter has——”

“So it was Rollins,” said Rodney quietly.
“Well, I can’t say that I’m surprised.”

“Yes, it was Rollins,” answered Stone, “and
he’s certainly queered himself with everybody.
He knows what the fellows think of him now,
for nearly all of them have taken pains to tell
him.”
.pb
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.pn +1
.pm chap 30 XXX. "THE REASON WHY."
“That matter never worried me a whole lot,
anyhow,” said Rod, after a few moments of silence.
“I turned the laugh on the bunch that
started in to have a howling, gay old time with
me, and I was satisfied. I knew I hadn’t squealed,
and I knew the professor knew it. I will admit,
however, that this dog-shooting business has
stirred me up some, for it sure was a contemptible
thing to do, and I hate to have anybody really
think it of me. Have you heard that Spotty
Davis has left town?”

“No,” cried Ben, surprised. “Has he?”

“Yes; gone to Belford. He went this morning,
and his father says he may not come back.
Between us, Stone, I’ll admit confidential that
I’m regretful because he made his getaway before
I could put the screws on him.”

“Oh!” said Ben, sitting up straight on his
chair. “Then you think that Spotty—that
Spotty——”
.bn 297.png
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.pn +1

“I have reasons,” nodded Rod, “to be right
suspicious of him. I went to see him yesterday
morning and tried to lead him into owning up to
me, but he was in bed, pretending to be sick, and
refused to talk. I was mightily tempted to put
hands on him and choke him into telling the
truth, but with my particular failing in mind,
which is the one unfortunate failing of all Grants
belonging to my family; I kept a tight hold on
myself. I didn’t dare even to make a bluff at
violence, for fear my anger would get the best of
me and I would lose my head.”

“Didn’t dare!” muttered Ben.

“No, Stone, I didn’t dare. We had a confidential
talk once before this, and I told you something
about the Grants, but a sort of shame kept
me from owning up to this special weakness I
have just mentioned. It’s characteristic of us all
that great excitement or acts of contention or
physical violence in which we take part should
arouse us to a sort of disgraceful frenzy. This
was well known of my father, and in the old
.bn 298.png
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.pn +1
fighting days they used to say it was safer to
stir up a man-killing lion than to provoke Hugh
Grant of the Star D. I’ve told you how he
fought his enemies to a standstill and won out,
even though maimed for life. The Grants are
all fighters, Ben.”

“I guess some fellows around here are beginning
to believe that one Grant, at least, is a
fighter.”

“My mother is a gentle, peaceful woman, who
has suffered indescribably through anxiety and
worriment produced by this fighting strain in
the Grant blood. She has told me that more than
a score of times she’s seen my father leave the
ranch fully expecting that he would be brought
back dead. In my own case, I have learned by
experience that violent physical action on my
part, coupled with opposition of the same sort,
turns me into a raging creature, wholly lacking
in restraint or any thought of consequences. You
know what happened to the son of my father’s
enemy at school in Houston. I nearly killed Jennings.
When I came here to school I made a
resolve to avoid anything that would be liable to
stir me up and lead me into such folly. That’s
why I refused to play football.”
.bn 299.png
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.pn +1

“But football isn’t fighting.”

“Isn’t it?” laughed Rod. “Well, it’s fighting
for a Grant, as the case of my unfortunate
brother, Oscar, proved beyond the shadow of
a doubt. I reckon I may as well tell you about
him, for then you’ll understand things some better.
Oscar is several years older than I, and
two years ago he obtained an appointment to
West Point.”

“Oh!” cried the visitor. “Is he—is he the
Grant I’ve heard about who was hazed?”

“I reckon he’s the one, for the newspapers
printed some stuff about it, although, unlike another
certain famous hazing case at West Point,
this affair never got into the courts. My brother
was a husky fellow, and, urged to do so, he came
out for football with the plebe team. He should
have known better. It was impossible for him
to engage in any sort of a scrimmage without
slugging, and he became mighty unpopular in
double-quick time. I judge that’s why he was
singled out especially for a course of sprouts,
.bn 300.png
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.pn +1
and there’s no question but he was given some
mighty rough treatment by the hazers. We
never knew the full particulars of what happened.
However, we do know he was practically
stripped naked on a bitter November night and
nearly drowned by having ice-cold water turned
on him from a hose or a hydrant or something.
When they thought him pretty nearly finished, by
his appearance, he was taken under cover somewhere
and efforts were made to restore him.

“He came round somewhat more sudden than
those men expected, for he broke away, seized a
chair and lay about him with it like a madman.
One of the hazers was knocked stiff before Oscar
drove the others out of the room. Oscar made
his getaway, leaving that man, who had received
a terrible crack on the head, to be picked up and
cared for by his companions. His name was
Demarest, and he was taken to the hospital. Next
morning Oscar was ill and still half crazed. To
cap it all, some one brought him word that Demarest
was dead, which was a lie concocted, doubtless,
for the purpose of frightening him. A run
of brain fever followed, and, though my brother
.bn 301.png
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.pn +1
is still alive, he never recovered his normal condition;
he’s on the Star D now, hopelessly deranged,
though harmless.

“Now, Ben, I opine you can understand why
I’ve tried right hard to avoid excitement or violence
of any sort that might stir me up and make
me temporarily forgetful or reckless of consequences.
Barker forced a fight upon me, but it
sure was a good thing for him that he couldn’t
fight much, so that it was all over in a jiffy.”

“If the boys knew this,” began Ben—“if they
had known it in the first place——”

“If I had told them, they’d have thought it
more of my bragging,” laughed Rod shortly.

“I’ll tell them now.”

“Please don’t do it. I reckon I’ve satisfied
them that I will fight when driven into a corner,
and that’s enough. I’m still going to keep a tight
hand on myself, for I must learn somehow to
control my temper. I’ll own up it has hurt me
some to know that the fellows should think me
low down enough to shoot a harmless dog by
way of getting revenge on an enemy. One thing
I will claim, and that is that all Grants fight open
.bn 302.png
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.pn +1
and square and there never was a sneak among
them. Sometime I’m sure the truth will come
out concerning that dog shooting.”

It came out far sooner than Rod expected. On
the following day Joshua Haskell, who owned the
northern side of Turkey Hill, making certain
purchases at Stickney’s store, heard some loungers
discussing the shooting of Silver Tongue, and
he suddenly developed a great deal of interest in
what they were saying.

“What’s that?” he asked. “When did this ere
dorg shootin’ happen?”

“Satterday, sometime before the storm begun,”
answered Uncle Bill Cole. “The hound was
killed in one of the clearin’s near the Pond Hole
over on Waller’s land. Barker’s boy and two
other young fellers follered the blood drops to
that place, and then they tracked the whelp who
did the shootin’ almost into the Turkey Hill
swamp; but the storm come on, and they couldn’t
foller him no further.”

“Huh!” grunted Haskell. “I guess I know
who shot that dorg.”
.bn 303.png
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.pn +1

“You do!” cried several voices.

“Yep,” nodded the man, “I cal’late I do. You
see, I was cuttin’ wood on Turkey Hill Satterday
mornin’. Just before the storm begun I happened
to stop and look down, and I saw a boy
come out of the woods on Dodd’s land, which
j’ines mine. He had a gun, and he was travelin’
on snowshoes. A little while before that I’d
heared somebody fire a shot over in the direction
of the Pond Hole, and he was comin’ from that
way. Seemed to be in a mighty big hurry, too;
but all of a sudden he stopped a minute, and I see
him hang something red on a bush. Then he
hipered along again, as if he was afeared the
Old Nick was chasin’ him.”

“Well, well!” cried Stickney, thumping the
cheese box on the counter with his knuckles.
“That must have been the feller. They found a
red silk handkerchief that belonged to this yere
Grant boy, who’s stopping with old Priscilla
Kent.”
.bn 304.png
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.pn +1

“’Twan’t the Grant boy I see,” declared Haskell.
“I knowed the young rascal, fur off as he
was, and he’s been up to his shindigs ’round here
before. ’Twas old Lem Davis’ sneakin’ cub, as
I’ll swear to; and you can bate your last dollar
he shot that dorg.”
.pb
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.pn +1
.pm chap 31 XXXI. "SOMETHING WORTH DOING."
It was during the first week in January that
the great sensation of the winter took place in
Oakdale. The January thaw came on early, and
several days of warm rain, swelling the streams
and overflowing the ponds, was followed by a
freezing night or two, which left Lake Woodrim
a glare of white ice and brought out every boy
and girl who owned a pair of skates. The rising
water had forced the opening of the big gates in
both the upper and lower dams, and a flood from
Lake Woodrim poured down through the channel
into the small pond at the south of the village.
Above the dam for some distance the sweep of
the current toward the open gate had carried
away many huge cakes of ice, and all along the
shores the rise made it necessary for the skaters
to take precautions about getting out onto the
lake.
.bn 306.png
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.pn +1

Rod Grant, having found that he could skate
fairly well, was there, but he still persisted in
keeping much by himself, avoiding as far as possible
the advances of the boys, many of whom
were now more than willing to be friendly with
him. Barker also was there, but he took particular
care to keep away from Rod, whom, in spite
of Joshua Haskell’s story, he yet persisted in pretending
to believe guilty of the dog shooting.

The skaters had been warned to keep away
from the ice in the vicinity of the dam, especially
that portion of it directly above the open gate,
where the current was strong. Nevertheless,
with her usual reckless daring, Lelia Barker
skated out toward that dangerous spot, unmindful
of the pleading of Sadie Springer and the
shouted words of several boys who came hurrying
toward her. At the very edge the ice was
thick and apparently strong, but suddenly a cry
of horror went up as the skaters saw a huge
cake slowly cleave off and detach itself from the
general mass. Another followed almost immediately,
and the foolhardy girl was borne away
on that second cake.
.bn 307.png
// 307.png
.pn +1

A boy, skating with all his might, dashed past
several terrified fellows who had stopped to stare
helplessly at the trapped girl. Reaching the
edge of the ice from which the second cake was
swiftly receding, the skater made an amazing
and desperate leap across the open water. His
momentum carried him to the floating icecake,
upon which he struck sprawlingly as his skate
irons shot out from beneath him. Across the
cake almost to the far edge he slid, nearly sweeping
the girl from her feet. The heel of one skate
rasped into the ice and checked him, but only the
size of the cake prevented it from tipping sufficiently
to let him slide into the water. Swiftly
he scrambled back to the center of the cake and
stood up.

It was Rodney Grant, and his face was quite
as pale as that of the girl, although his voice was
calm and steady as he spoke.

“We’ve got to get off this thing right lively,
or it will beat the stuffing out of us when it goes
tumbling and smashing down through the gate.
There’s only one chance. You’ve got to get wet,
and you sure must trust me. Don’t grab me
round the neck.”
.bn 308.png
// 308.png
.pn +1

There was no time for another word. They
saw him seize her round the waist, lift her bodily
from her feet, and then start across the cake
with his back toward the dam. Into the icy water
he plunged, carrying her with him.

Then began a fierce fight for life, watched by
horrified boys and weeping girls. Some of the
boys had presence of mind enough to dash for the
nearest shore, tear off their skates, and attempt
to get out upon the dam to offer assistance. They
were too late, however, to be of any service in
that way.

Strong swimmer though he was, Grant, encumbered
by the helpless, frightened and half
drowned girl, could not overcome the suction of
the water, which relentlessly bore him toward the
open floodgate. Fortunately, he did succeed in
getting well clear of the huge icecake, which
broke up into several crashing, grinding pieces
as it was borne through the open gate. At last,
whirled onward, he turned all his efforts to the
seemingly hopeless task of supporting the girl
and keeping his own head above water.
.bn 309.png
// 309.png
.pn +1

Shouting boys ran down the bank of the
stream below the dam. Their cries were heard
in the village, and men came hurrying out to
learn what had happened.

For a moment or two the boy and girl disappeared
in the swirl of white water directly below
the dam. Few thought ever again to see either
of them alive, but sudden cries went up as a
human head appeared in the midst of the channel
and Rodney Grant was seen still clinging to Lelia
Barker as he battled with the current.

“The rocks,” cried Phil Springer—“they’ll be
dashed on the rocks! They’re goners!”

In the midst of the stream some ledges thrust
themselves, white and slippery, even above the
swollen torrent. Ordinarily these ledges stood
out high and dry, forming a sort of an island.
Grant knew they were there. He knew likewise
that the icy chill was benumbing him and his
strength was failing. If the stream carried them
down into the lower pond the chances were a
thousand to one that the current would suck them
beneath the ice, and that surely would be the end.
To the young Texan those ledges seemed the sole
possible means of salvation, and, regardless of
.bn 310.png
// 310.png
.pn +1
the threatening bruises or injuries that might be
sustained when cast upon them, he fought with
every atom of his strength against being borne
past.

He made it, too. The water flung them up on
the dripping ledges, and there he somehow found
a cleft into which the fingers of his right hand
gripped, while his left arm still held the girl
hugged fast.

“A rope! Bring a rope!” shouted scores of
voices.

Two boys ran panting to Stickney’s store, returning
with a huge coil of stout rope, which
some men assisted them in carrying.

“How are we going to get it out to them?” was
the question.

Then Bunk Lander appeared. He ripped off
his coat and vest and broke the laces of his heavy
shoes, which he kicked aside.

“Gimme one end of that rope!” he snarled.
“What’s the matter with ye, anyhow? Hurry
up! Do you want to see ’em drowned?”

“What are you going to do?” asked Phil
Springer.
.bn 311.png
// 311.png
.pn +1

“I’m going to swim out there. Don’t talk. Tie
that rope round my waist. Come on up-stream
farther. I’ve got to start just below the dam,
or the current will carry me past ’em. Come on,
you snails!”

“You can’t do it—you can’t ever do it!” sobbed
a voice.

“Who says I can’t?” snapped Bunk. “Oh, is it
you, Barker? You ought to be doing something.
You watch and you’ll see me do it.”

Into the comparatively still water just below
the northern end of the dam Bunk waded unhesitatingly,
with the end of the rope tied round his
waist.

“Pay it out free!” he called back. “Don’t
bother me by letting it get taut.”

In another moment, with the water almost up
to his armpits, he plunged forward and began
swimming with powerful strokes straight out
toward the current. It caught him soon and
began carrying him down the stream with increasing
rapidity as he progressed.

“He can’t do it! He’ll never make it!” cried
some of the spectators.
.bn 312.png
// 312.png
.pn +1

Bunk did not hear them, and it would have
made no difference if he had. He realized that
a single moment of hesitation or one false stroke
might defeat him, and onward he swam, still
heading across the current. Nearer and nearer
he was carried to the ledges, and as he tipped
his head sidewise to forge still farther toward
midstream a sort of mad desperation filled his
heart.

“I’ve got to do it!” his soul seemed to cry. “I
must, and I will!”

An eddy caught him. Fortunately, it helped
to bear him in the right direction. A few more
strong strokes, and, in spite of his position, he almost
laughed aloud with triumph. Now the spectators
were yelling:

“He’ll do it! He’ll make it!”

Onto the ledges Lander was borne, and he also
succeeded in getting a hold which he could maintain.
Carefully he dragged himself out upon his
hands and knees until he knelt on the very apex
of the rock. Then with one hand he gripped
Grant’s collar and assisted Rod in obtaining a
more secure position. Lelia seemed unconscious.
.bn 313.png
// 313.png
.pn +1
The two boys looked into each other’s eyes, and
what they saw there sealed a compact of friendship
as lasting as life itself.

“Good old Bunk!” chattered Rod.

“Boo!” said Lander. “This water’s awful
cold. Say,” he added, pulling in the slack of the
rope, “we’ll take a turn round under her arms
first, then under yours next, and I guess I can
hang on all right if them fellers on shore have
got gumption enough to pull us out.”

They made the rope secure beneath Lelia’s
arms, leaving enough of the free end to take a
turn round Rod and Lander also. Then, signaling
to the twenty men and boys on the shore who
were ready to pull, they slid from the ledge.

By this time Main Street bridge just above
the pond was lined with people who had been
brought out by the shouts of alarm. Gaping,
they watched the rope drawn in until Grant and
Lander, lifting Lelia Barker between them, rose
to their feet and waded to the bank. Then the
spectators cheered and shouted and screamed like
mad, for they had witnessed a double act of heroism
that would long be remembered in Oakdale.
.bn 314.png
// 314.png
.pn +1

Of the three who passed through that terrible
experience in the icy water Rodney Grant was
the first to recover, and the following day found
him apparently as well as ever. Lelia Barker
was ill for a day or two, but she likewise came
through it surprisingly well. Lander was not so
fortunate, for he caught a heavy cold, which
quickly developed into pneumonia. Everything
possible was done for him; he had the constant
attendance of two physicians, and a trained nurse
was secured to watch over him faithfully.

Having a naturally rugged constitution, Lander
made a good fight for life, and one day word
went round through Oakdale that the doctors
said the crisis was past and the boy was safely
on the road to recovery.

When the time came that Bunk could receive
visitors, Rodney Grant was the first one admitted
to his bedside. Looking somewhat emaciated
and very pale indeed, Lander was bolstered up
amid a mass of soft pillows. His eyes shone
with a light of pleasure and a grin overspread
his face as he beheld the caller.
.bn 315.png
// 315.png
.pn +1

“Hello, Roddy, old fel,” he said. “I’m glad
to see ye. I guess I’ve had a pretty tight squeeze
of it, but you know I’m the toughest feller in
town—everybody says so—and it’ll take more’n
this to kill me.”

Grant grasped Lander’s hand with a strong
yet tender pressure.

“Bunk, old chum,” he said in a voice that was
husky in spite of himself, “I can’t find words to
tell you how glad I am that you’re coming
through all right. Everybody is glad. The
whole town has heard the favorable report, and
there’s general rejoicing.”

“You don’t say!” muttered Bunk whimsically.
“That’s mighty queer, and I don’t just understand
it. They’ve told me how the fellers have
been ’round every day to ask how I was gettin’
on; they say even Barker’s been here more’n
once. Seems queer folks in Oakdale should care
a rap about me.”

“Bunk, they do care—everybody cares. You’ll
find when you get out that you haven’t an enemy
in this town—that every living soul in Oakdale
is your friend.”
.bn 316.png
// 316.png
.pn +1

“Oh, say! you can’t include Barker. I s’pose
he come ’round to ask just for a show of decency,
’cause I helped you save his sister from being
drownded.”

“You’ll find even Barker your friend. Doubtless
it was a bitter pill for him to swallow, but he
came to me like a man and owned up that he was
all in the wrong, asked my pardon, and begged
me to shake hands with him.”

“Get out!” said Bunk “You don’t mean it!
Well, come to think of it, it was just about the
only thing he could do.”

“But he was sincere, I have no doubt of that.
He acknowledged that he was satisfied I didn’t
shoot his dog, even before Cooper received the
letter from Davis.”

“The letter? What letter?”

“Oh, I forgot you didn’t know about that.
Spotty, having gone to work in Belford and decided
that he’d right likely never come back here,
wrote Chipper Cooper, owning up to the shooting
of Silver Tongue. In fact, he rejoiced in it
and wanted Barker to know that he did it.”
.bn 317.png
// 317.png
.pn +1

“Oh, say, Roddy, some of the fellers ’round
here who tried to smirch you must have felt
pretty cheap and sheepish when they heard that.”

“Without exception they have acknowledged
their mistake, and I have found them a pretty
decent bunch, after all. They’re all good friends
with me now. They’re just waiting to see you
get out, in order to give you a rousing reception.”

Bunk was silent for several moments, the look
of doubt upon his face giving way to one of
growing satisfaction and happiness. Presently
he spoke again.

“Rod, do you remember what you told me
about the feller who had strength enough to be
decent and stick to it in spite of everything, finally
comin’ out on top of the heap? I didn’t believe
it then, but now I kinder guess you was right.
I was discouraged and didn’t cal’late ’twas any
use for me to try to be decent, but I tell you
right now that I’m goin’ to turn over a new leaf,
stop wastin’ my time loafin’, and try to do something
worth doin’.”

“Bunk,” returned Rodney, “when you get out
you’ll find the whole town thinks that you have
already done something worth doing.”

.ce
<sc>THE END</sc>
.pb

.in +4
.nf l
<l>Transcriber's Notes</l>

.if t
Italicized words or phrases are presented by surrounding the text with
_underscores_.

Bold-face works or phrases are presented by surrounding the text with
equal signs (=).

.if-
Table of Contents - added apostrophe after "Rod"
orig: III. Rods Wonderful Jump

page 42 - changed semicolon to comma
orig: schoolmates; his manner had

page 75 - removed dash from "get-away" to make usage consistent throughout book
orig: having made his spectacular get-away

page 76 - changed "amuscade" to "ambuscade"
orig: with his amuscade by the fake

page 77 - changed "proceded" to "proceeded"
orig: When I heard the key turning in the lock I proceded

page 93 - added double-quote at end of sentence
orig: Said he naturally felt somewhat anxious.

page 106 - removed dash from "him-self" to make usage consistent throughout book
orig: what happened to him-self

page 121 - removed dash from "near-by" to make usage consistent throughout book
orig: near-by shore

page 133 - added dash to "hangout" to make usage consistent throughout book
orig: come over and see my old hang-out

page 195 - changed comma to period at end of sentence
orig: mad about it, too

page 259 - changed "peurile" to "puerile"
orig: Such a subterfuge is palpably peurile

page 269 - changed "be" to "he"
orig: Ere Rod slept that night be spent a long time

page 306 - added dash to "upstream" to make usage consistent throughout book
orig: Come on upstream

Note: "make-up" and "makeup" are used with and without a hyphen in the book - 
these are left unchanged - it appears that "make-up" is used 
to refer to face paint, while "makeup" is used to refer to character traits
.nf-
.in