Kitabı oku: «Ned Wilding's Disappearance: or, The Darewell Chums in the City», sayfa 3
CHAPTER VIII
GETTING SQUARE WITH SANDY
“Come Alice, help me carry this game into the house,” said Bart when the excitement over their arrival had quieted down a bit. His rabbits and the turkey were on the sled with the camp stuff.
“Is that all the luck you had?” asked Mr. Keene, as he came out on the porch to greet his son. “Why I thought you’d come loaded down. We didn’t buy anything for dinner, thinking you’d have enough.”
Bart knew by his father’s tone that he was only joking.
“We did have fine luck,” the boy replied, and then he told about the widow and how they had left her with plenty of food.
“Humph!” exclaimed Mr. Keene. “If you’d brought home any more game than you did, and hadn’t left her some I’d make you go back to Mrs. Perry without your dinner. You did right, Bart. I’m glad to hear it.”
Bart ate his Thanksgiving dinner with an appetite that astonished even himself. Jennie Smith remained, as the guest of Alice, and she kept those about the table in lively mood, reciting bits of verse.
During the course of the meal Bart told of their trip, and more about the widow.
“We didn’t hardly know what to do when that blizzard came up,” he said. “Wonder if Jim went to meet us.”
“No, he came here and said he was expected to be at the end of the corduroy road for you,” Mr. Keene explained. “I said I guessed you boys would know what to do. Besides, it is doubtful if he could have gotten his wagon through the drifts.”
In the afternoon Bart’s chums came over. Ned said he had spoken to his father about the Perry family, and Mr. Wilding was going to get Jane a place to work. Mr. Keene expressed a wish to help the widow, and arrangements were made to see that she did not suffer any more for lack of food or clothing for herself and daughters. When the roads were better Mrs. Keene went to visit Mrs. Perry, and Jane secured a place in a store in Kirkville, so she could come home every night.
“Now if we could only find the widow’s son for her we’d have that family in pretty good shape,” remarked Bart to his chums one morning early in December as they were on their way to school after the Thanksgiving holidays. “Accidentally we were able to do quite a lot for them, but I’d like to do more.”
“I’m glad Jane has a place,” observed Fenn.
“Good thing it isn’t in Darewell,” said Frank.
“Why?” asked Fenn.
“Because you’d be hanging around the store where she was whenever you had the chance, Stumpy, to see her home.”
Frank did not dodge quickly enough to escape the snowball Fenn threw at him, and caught it on the head. But he laughed good-naturedly. It was the price for his joke and he was willing to pay it.
“Let’s go skating this afternoon,” suggested Bart. “The river edge is fine almost up to the Riffles.”
“Good!” exclaimed Ned. “We’ll have a race.”
School was dismissed for the day at three o’clock and as soon as they were out the boys hurried home for their skates. The weather was crisp and cold, just right for a fine spin up the frozen stream.
The four chums were soon gliding over the smooth surface on which were a number of other boys and girls enjoying the sport.
“We haven’t room to expand here,” said Bart, after they had skated around on the broad expanse of the river near the town. “Let’s go up a mile or two.”
His chums agreed, and they were soon racing up the stream toward the “Riffles” a shallower place where, in summer, there was good fishing.
“Let’s see who’ll be first to the dead pine!” cried Bart, pointing to a lightning-blasted tree on the river’s edge about a mile up. All four dashed off at top speed.
There was little difference in the ability of the boys when it came to skating. They were as much at home on the steel runners as they were on the baseball diamond, and were speedy skaters. Forward they went, stooping over to avoid the wind resistance as much as possible, the metal of their skates singing merrily in the crisp winter air.
“Now for the last rush!” cried Bart, as he put on an extra burst of speed. His companions responded to the call, but Bart had a little the best of them, and was first at the goal.
“I’ll beat you going back!” cried Ned.
“Let’s rest a while,” suggested Frank. “What’s that?”
The boys turned suddenly at the sound of loud shouting on the road which, at this point, ran close to the river. It was someone trying to stop a team of horses, attached to a sleigh and, to judge by the noise, the animals were running away.
“Whoa! Whoa there!” cried the driver.
An instant later the team dashed from the road and came straight for the river, the driver trying in vain to stop them.
“It’s Sandy Merton!” exclaimed Bart.
Before the boys could say any more the horses had run out on the ice of the river, near the chums. Fortunately it was thick enough to bear the weight of the animals or it might have proved a disastrous runaway. As it was, Sandy, in trying to stop the horses, lost one rein. He pulled sharply on the other and the steeds, obeying it, turned quickly to the left. In an instant the sleigh, with its load of feed, in bags, was overturned on the ice and Sandy was spilled out.
“Quick! Grab the horses!” cried Bart, and the chums were soon at the bridles. But the animals appeared satisfied with the damage they had done, and stood still. Sandy picked himself up, for he was not hurt, and came to the heads of the horses. He looked at the overturned sleigh, with the bags of feed scattered on the ice, and murmured:
“I’ll catch it for this.”
“I rather guess he will,” said Bart in a low tone, as the temper of Silas Weatherby, for whom Sandy worked, was well known in that locality.
For a few moments Sandy stood surveying the scene. It looked as if it would take several men to set matters right, even if the sleigh was not broken. Then Sandy, with a sigh, set to work unhitching the horses. He led them from the ice and tied them to a tree on shore. Then he began moving the bags of feed so as to get a clear place around the vehicle. The chums watched him for a few minutes. They were thinking, as no doubt Sandy was, of that day when he had refused them a lift.
“It’s a good chance to get square,” murmured Bart to his companions. “We could sit down and watch him sweat over this, and laugh – but we won’t!” he added quickly. “That isn’t our way. We’ll get square with Sandy by helping him out in his trouble. That’ll make him feel just as badly as if we sat and laughed at him.”
It was an application of the Biblical injunction of heaping coals of fire, but it is doubtful if the boys thought of it in that light.
“Come on!” cried Bart. He began to take off his skates, and his chums followed his example. Then, to the great surprise of Sandy, they began to help him move the bags away so they could get at the sled.
“Say – say – fellows – ” began Sandy, as the thought of his own mean conduct, that day on the road, came to him. “Say – I don’t deserve this. I’m – ”
“You dry up!” commanded Bart.
CHAPTER IX
SANTA CLAUS IN SCHOOL
The four chums pitched in with a will and helped Sandy. They did not talk much, for, take it all in all, it was rather an embarrassing situation. Sandy did not know what to say, and the boys did not feel like entering into friendly conversation.
They did not care to be sociable with Sandy after what he had done, not only in regard to refusing them a ride, but in the matter of the oil barge. But they could not see anyone in such a plight as Sandy was, through no fault of his own, and not render assistance.
“The horses took fright and ran away,” Sandy explained, when most of the bags had been piled on shore. “I couldn’t stop ’em. The load was too heavy, and it was down hill.”
The chums did not answer. Sandy did not expect they would. The situation was too novel. But he was grateful for their help, and, doubtless resolved not to act meanly toward them in the future. The trouble with Sandy was he had no strength of character. He was mean in spite of himself, and couldn’t help it.
When the bags were out of the way the five boys, by dint of hard work, managed to right the sleigh, which was a big double bob. It was not damaged to any extent and soon was ready to receive the bags of feed. They were piled in and the horses hitched up again.
“I’m – I’m much obliged to you fellows,” said Sandy in a mumbling tone. “I’m sorry I didn’t give you a ride that day.”
Sandy meant that. He was much softened by what the chums had done.
“We’d made up our minds to get square with you,” said Bart, as he fastened on his skates. “And I think we did, Sandy,” and with that the four chums started off down the river, while Sandy drove the horses up into the road.
“Queer way to get square,” murmured Ned. “I’d like to punch his face.”
“This was the best way,” Bart replied, and, somehow, though perhaps they didn’t know just why, the chums agreed with him.
Christmas was approaching, and mingled with the joys of the holiday season, were thoughts in the minds of the four chums and all the other pupils, that school would close for two weeks.
“Next Wednesday is Christmas,” observed Bart one afternoon as the chums were on their way home. “School closes Tuesday for the two weeks, and we ought to mark the occasion in some way. Have you fellows heard of any celebration?”
“Nary a one,” replied Fenn.
“Well, there’s going to be something doing, all right.”
“Who’s going to do it?” asked Ned.
“Well, not the fellow who invited the cow to school,” replied Bart, referring to an incident for which Ned was responsible.
“You, maybe, eh?”
“Maybe,” and Bart winked his left eye.
There was little studying done on Monday of Christmas week, and less was in prospect for the following Tuesday. Some of the classes had arranged for informal exercises in their rooms and later there was to be a general gathering of all the pupils of the school in the large auditorium, at which Mr. McCloud the principal would make an address.
Monday night Bart was very busy in his room. There were odd noises proceeding from it, and when he came down a little later, and asked Alice to sew some strips of red cloth for him, she asked:
“What in the world are you up to, Bart?”
“I’m a knight, getting my armor ready for the conflict of battle,” he replied gravely. “Be ready for me when I return, for I may be covered with wounds and you can get lots of first-aid-to-the-injured practice.”
“Now, don’t do anything silly,” Alice advised.
“Far be it from me to do any such thing. You girls can attend to that part.”
“As if we girls were anywhere near as silly as boys are when they get started,” commented Alice, sewing away at the cloth. “Ouch! There, I’ve pricked my finger!” and she wiped away a few drops of blood.
“Here! Don’t get my uniform all spotted!” exclaimed Bart, as he saw Alice wipe her finger with the red cloth.
“Silly! How is blood going to show on this old red flannel?” asked Alice. “You’ll have to wait, Bart, until I wash my finger in an antiseptic solution,” and, laying aside the cloth, Alice hurried for her little box of remedies.
“I can sew it myself,” declared Bart, and he tried to, but he made awkward work of it, for he used a five cent piece in place of a thimble, at which Alice laughed when she returned. Under her skillful fingers, even though one was done up in a cloth, the work was soon completed.
It was about two o’clock when the pupils were assembled in the auditorium of the High School Tuesday afternoon. Professor McCloud delivered an address on the meaning of Christmas, telling of how ancient people celebrated it, and relating stories of the various nations that had beliefs in myths corresponding to Santa Claus, or St. Nicholas.
“Speaking of Santa Claus,” Mr. McCloud went on, as the closing remarks to his lecture, “I am reminded of – ”
At that instant there was a jingle of bells out in the corridor, and before pupils or teachers, the latter all sitting on the raised platform in front, knew what it portended, a strange sight was presented.
Into the big room came a personage dressed in the usual Santa Claus costume, red flannel striped with white, a big white beard, his clothing sprinkled with something to represent snow, and, over his back a big bag.
But, oddest of all, was a little sleigh which St. Nicholas pulled in after him by a string. Hitched in front of it were eight tiny reindeer, made of plaster-of-paris, properly colored. Each animal was on a stand on wheels, and as St. Nicholas pulled them in with the sleigh, he shook the leading string, on which were bells, so that they jingled musically.
“Merry Christmas to all!” exclaimed St. Nicholas in a deep bass voice. “May I speak to them, sir?” and the figure turned to Professor McCloud, who, entering into the spirit of the occasion, nodded an assent. Neither he nor any of the teachers were prepared for the advent of Santa Claus. Some of the boys had suspected, but they were not sure.
“My sled and reindeer shrunk as soon as I struck this climate,” Santa Claus went on in his deep tones, which Ned was puzzling his brain over. He was wondering where he had heard them before. “Still I managed to come,” the red-coated figure went on. “I have a few gifts for some of the more faithful of my subjects.”
He slung the bag from his shoulder and began groping in it.
“Is Lem Gordon here?” he asked.
“Step up, Lemuel,” said Professor McCloud, for, though he did not know what was coming, he was willing to let the pupils have fun on such an occasion as this.
Rather sheepishly Lem, the pitcher on the High School nine, left his seat.
“I have heard of your good work last season,” Santa Claus went on, “and, as a reward for it I have brought you this. May it help you to win many games.”
With that he handed Lem a red, white and blue striped rubber ball, the kind given to babies so they can not hurt themselves.
The other pupils burst into laughter, and Lem blushed. He acted as though he was going to throw it at the head of St. Nicholas, but thought better of it and went to his seat.
“Fenn Masterson,” Santa Claus called next, and Stumpy went forward. “Fenn, I have heard how devoted you are to the ladies,” the speaker went on. “So I bring you this that you may never forget them,” and Fenn was given a doll dressed in the height of fashion. On the neck was a card which read: “I love Fenn and Fenn loves me.”
“Kiss her, Fenn!” called out Ned in a loud whisper, and poor Fenn, blushing to his ears, carried the doll back to his seat.
“I have here something for Ned Wilding,” the figure went on, and, as Ned, in response to the remorseless urging of his fellow pupils, went forward he was given a tin rattle box.
“Now James Eaton,” called Santa Claus, and James, who was very fond of dogs was given a little woolly one that emitted a squeaky bark when gently punched in the stomach.
“William Sanderson!” called St. Nicholas, and a lad who did little else than fish in his spare time, was presented with a small pole and line, from which dangled a tin trout.
So it went on, until a score of the boys and several girls had been given toy presents bearing on their particular traits of character.
Meanwhile Ned and Fenn had been whispering to each other.
“Shall I do it now?” asked Ned, as St. Nicholas seemed to have reached the bottom of his bag.
“Yes,” whispered Fenn.
As Santa Claus prepared to leave, thinking perhaps his identity had not been penetrated, Ned walked forward.
“One moment,” he called, and St. Nicholas halted in the act of dragging out his tiny reindeer and sleigh.
“Though you have remembered us, you have forgotten yourself,” Ned went on. “Therefore, Mr. Bart Keene, alias St. Nicholas, on behalf of the pupils of the school I present you with this.”
Before Bart could get away Ned had torn the false beard from his chum’s face. Then, holding out what seemed to be a basket-ball, Ned suddenly raised it high in the air and brought it down on Bart’s head. It broke with a loud sound, for it was paper blown up, and out flew a shower of confetti, which covered Bart’s red flannel uniform with tiny scraps of colored paper. Ned had brought it to use in playing a joke on someone else, but, at the last minute, discovering the identity of St. Nicholas, he had resolved on a different plan.
CHAPTER X
WRECK OF THE TOWER
A loud shout of laughter went up at the surprised look on Bart’s face. He did not know what to say, and he shook his head to get rid of the confetti that clung even to his eyebrows. He had hoped to get away undiscovered but his chums had been too smart for him. He opened his mouth to speak, and the hickory nut he had placed in it to make his voice sound deep, dropped out and rolled on the floor. At this there was more laughter.
“Very well done, Bart,” observed Principal McCloud. “I think school is dismissed,” he added, as he and the other teachers joined in the laughter.
“Come again, Bart,” said Ned, as he and the other boys crowded about the impersonator of Santa Claus.
“Off with his uniform!” one of the boys called, and, before Bart could defend himself, he was being pulled this way and that, until the red suit he had gone to such trouble to make was a thing of shreds and tatters.
“It’s just like poor King Lear, being all torn apart by the winds,” exclaimed Jennie Smith, though some of her companions could not quite see the simile. “Oh, I would love to recite something,” she went on.
“Go ahead,” said Mary Tedwell. “I guess no one will hear you,” and she laughed rather maliciously.
“Mean old thing!” exclaimed Jennie. “She’s mad because she can’t recite poetry.”
Now Bart was entirely stripped of his Santa Claus suit, and the boys and girls, securing pieces of it, formed a ring about the lad and marched around singing any tune that came into their heads. The teachers had retired, leaving the pupils to finish in their own fashion the celebration attendant upon closing of school for the holidays as they knew there would be little trouble.
But all things must have an end and the merry frolic of the boys and girls was gradually brought to a close. Those who had received the odd presents from Bart were made to exhibit them, and many were the jibes and quips that accompanied the display.
On all sides and from scores of girls and boys came the greeting, “Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year,” for school would not assemble again until the second week in January.
One by one the pupils left for home. The big auditorium became quieter and soon only the four chums, Alice and Jennie, and a few of their friends remained.
“Come on,” said Bart. “I’ll stand treat for hot chocolate at Fanton’s Drug Emporium.”
The boys and girls were a little later on their way to the “Emporium” as the sign in the window declared it to be.
“Coming to the entertainment Friday night?” asked Jennie of Fenn, when they were sipping the hot beverage.
“What entertainment?”
“The Y. M. C. A. is going to give one in the school auditorium. Moving pictures and some music. Alice and I are going.”
“Sure I’m coming,” Stumpy replied, though it was the first he had heard of it. But Stumpy wasn’t going to be left out if there were girls in it.
“Where you going?” asked Bart, overhearing the talk.
“Entertainment – school hall – Y. M. C. A. – Mov – ing pict – ures.”
The breaks Fenn made, in imparting the information, were caused by the sips of chocolate he took between his words.
“We’ll all go,” decided Bart. “We’ll be over our Christmas dinners by then.”
Finishing their chocolate the boys and girls walked together down the street on their way home. As they separated they wished each other the joys of the season.
Christmas, which came next day, was celebrated in Darewell much as it is celebrated every where in Christian lands. There was happiness in the homes of the four chums, not only at the gifts which they received, but also over those they gave. Each one remembered Mrs. Perry and her two girls, and, it is safe to say, it was the best Christmas the widow’s family had experienced since trouble came.
“If only Willie was home now,” Mrs. Perry said to Jane as they looked at the gifts which had come so unexpectedly to them, “we would be very happy.”
“Perhaps he will be with us next Christmas,” Jane remarked, trying to comfort her mother. “Let us hope so anyhow. We are much more happy than we were the day before Thanksgiving when everything seemed so black.”
“Yes, thanks to those good boys,” the widow replied. “Well, we will trust in Providence. Perhaps Willie may come back to us.”
The day of the Y. M. C. A. entertainment proved to be one of the coldest of the winter. It dawned with a dull leaden sky, filled with lowering clouds, and there was a nip to the air that made thick wraps a necessity. The wind, which had been blowing strongly in the morning, increased in violence as the day advanced until by evening it was blowing half a gale.
But the boys and girls who crowded into the school auditorium did not mind this. It only made their cheeks redder, and though the wind did toss and tumble the hair of the girls it only caused them to look all the prettier, at least so Fenn thought, and he ought to know.
“B-r-r-r! It’s a regular hurricane!” exclaimed Bart as he and Alice entered the hall, where they found a number of their friends. The entertainment had not yet begun.
“It must be getting colder,” observed Ned.
“What makes you think so?” asked Bart.
“Your nose is as red as a beet.”
“It feels half frozen,” Bart answered. “That comes of having such a big one. But it’s a sign of greatness you know.”
“If we let you tell it,” interposed Frank.
The hall soon filled up and the entertainment was started. There was vocal and instrumental music and recitations. Jennie Smith rendered “Horatius at the Bridge” with all the energy she was capable of, and the four chums applauded vigorously.
The wind was increasing in violence, and it rattled the windows so that at times it interfered with the singing. The janitor went about tightening the fastenings.
“It’s going to be a bad storm,” Bart heard the man murmur as he adjusted the catches. “I hope it doesn’t blow some of the chimneys down. One or two of ’em need pointing up, for the mortar’s most out of ’em.”
“Is there any danger?” asked Bart in a whisper.
“No, I hope not. The old tower – ” but what the janitor would have said about the tower Bart did not hear, for the man had passed on and there came the chorus of a song which drowned his words.
But the janitor’s prophecy seemed likely to be true. The noise of the wind could be heard more plainly now. The windows did not rattle so much after being attended to, but the gale fairly made the school building vibrate. The old tower the janitor spoke of was a tall, square affair, at one corner of the building. It was for ornamental purposes only, though it contained a large clock, and there was a winding stair in it that gave access to the mechanism.
A white screen was adjusted and moving pictures thrown upon it. The first series was that of battleships in practice evolutions and as the smoke rolled from the muzzles of the big guns a man behind the scenes beat a bass drum, to simulate the distant roar of the ordnance.
The audience watched one great ship as it came into view on the screen. A broadside was fired, and, as the white smoke rolled out there came a tremendous concussion that shook the entire school.
“He must have busted the drum that time,” thought Bart.
An instant later there came a terrifying crash so near at hand that everyone knew it was not the sound of the drum, nor their excited imagination. Nor was it the noise of the wind.
Then, down through one corner of the auditorium, fortunately in a place where no one was seated, crashing through the ceiling, came a mass of brick and mortar.
Before the echoes of that had died away there sounded another noise; a deep, dull sound, and the school again vibrated with the shock. Then the auditorium was in darkness, and through it came the voice of the janitor shouting:
“The tower has been wrecked and has fallen!”
