“Good!” came the response. “Bring ’im here to the light. If he’s a spy, I’ll pull out his little throat, blast ’im!”
Helpless and too weary to fight any more, Blackie felt himself being picked up roughly and carried toward the hut on Black Pond that was the hiding-place of the two murderous vagabonds who had done to death the harmless old hermit of the Lenape hills.
“Bring ’im over here to the fire, Lew,” directed Reno, “and we’ll just have a look at his ugly mug.”
The younger tramp carried Blackie to the hearth and threw him down on his back, still gripping him about the body with both hands. Reno, the man with the patch over his eye, stood up against the fireplace the bar he had been using as a weapon. Blackie recognized that bar at once. It was the object the hermit had shown them when the campers visited him—his prized “thunderbolt” that had been the direct cause of his death. Dazed, he watched Reno stir up the fire and draw forth a blazing brand which he held up for a torch, close to the boy’s features.
“Glory be, it’s just a young kid!” snorted Lew. “From the way he was fightin’ me, I thought it was a wildcat at least! What’s he doin’ here?”
Reno spat, wiped his mouth, and swore terribly with his face close to Blackie’s. “You, now! Who sent you here?”
“N-N-Nobody,” the boy managed to stammer.
“No tricks, now!” warned the loathsome tramp. “If you’re alone, what are you doin’ here?”
Blackie was terribly frightened, but kept his head. These men were dangerous; he was alone with them, miles from any help. They could not guess that of all the people in the world, he alone had witnessed the death of the hermit at their hands. But if he admitted that he came from Camp Lenape, they would wonder why he was away from camp by himself, and would suspect that there were others near. He must depend upon his wits, now; and with the shadow of the great lie at camp hanging over him, he felt that one lie more or less would not matter now.
“I’m on the road, Mister Reno,” he said. “I didn’t know you were here—I’m bumming around by myself, honest!”
The tramp laughed nastily. “On the road, huh? Well, we need a kid about your size. Stick with us, see, and you’ll be rich some day. Frisk ’im, Lew.”
The weak-chinned man called Lew was rapidly going through Blackie’s pockets and unstrapping his belt. “We’re in luck!” he said. “Grub and a light and blankets! An ax, too; the kid can use it to chop more wood for our fire. Look, Reno—we’ll have a regular banquet—peas and ham and spuds!”
“About time,” yawned Reno, moving back to the fire. “Get a move on and dish up supper. Blast my eyes if I ain’t sick to death of livin’ on fish and berries.”
Lew permitted Blackie to get up. “Well, what did ya expect to live on while we was waitin’ for the Big Job to blow over——” he began, but Reno stopped him with a hasty gesture.
“Shut up! If the sheriff was to hear ya say that——” he threatened. Lew turned away, muttering, and with Blackie’s hand-ax chopped open the can of peas and began cooking the meal at the fire.
Blackie, unharmed for the present but stripped of his supply of food and all his equipment, was allowed to sit in a corner and wonder how he could get out of his plight. Escape for the present was impossible; he was too closely guarded to get out of the hut, and even if he did so, he would be lost in the dark wilderness where every horror in the world might lurk.
The supper cooked, the two tramps set to in surly silence and gobbled up every scrap of food Blackie had brought. He did not dare ask for a share, but hungrily watched them devour the meal to the last morsel. Reno finished first, wiped his greasy mouth on the back of his sleeve, yawned loudly, took one of Blackie’s blankets and an old quilt he picked up somewhere, and laid out his bed on the floor of the hut. His back was against the low door, the only means of exit from the place, and before turning in, he took the ax and placed it under his ragged coat, which he had doubled to serve as a pillow. Lew, leaving the dirty dishes on the rough table, took the remaining blanket and sprawled out on the floor near the fire.
Blackie ventured a question. “Excuse me, Mister,” he said, “but where can I sleep?”
Reno rolled over and glowered. “A lot I’d care if ya never slept, ya dirty whelp! Shut yer face!”
“But—you have all the blankets, and——”
Lew reached out a booted foot and kicked the boy viciously. “I’ll kill ya if ya don’t stow yer gab!” he growled. “Kids like you don’t need covers. If I hear any more out of ya, I’ll jam my foot in yer mush!”
Blackie spent that unforgettable night squatting on the hearth beside the fireplace. Now and then he would drift off into a restless sleep, troubled by dreadful dreams and startled awakenings. His finger-tip ached continually, and the nail had turned so black that he knew he would lose it. He crouched miserably by the dead fire, shivering from the damp chill that rose from the pond and listening to the heavy breathing of the two sleepers who barred his way to escape. His teeth chattered as much from fear as from the cold, for he could not forget that he was in the terrible company of a pair of desperate murderers who would twist his throat if they guessed he knew anything about their crime. Once he dreamed that he was back in Camp Lenape, lying stretched out in his bunk at Tattoo, with the stars bright over the pines, the friendly feel of happy boys about him, and Wally sitting beside the tent-pole reading vespers out of his Bible. He woke with a start, and saw the two ugly figures sprawled on the floor in the dim firelight. Camp was behind him; he had left all that, and was “on the road.” His cheeks were wet; he had been crying softly to himself in his sleep.
Gray dawn came at last. The two hoboes roused themselves, and permitted Blackie to wash his face and hands at the edge of the pond, making fun of him for a delicate greenhorn as they watched him. Shortly after, Reno disappeared into the woods and after about an hour, returned with a hat full of huckleberries, upon which he and Lew breakfasted, neither offering any to Blackie nor allowing him to find any for himself. He was not out of the sight of one of them during that whole dragging day. Save for a muttered curse or a blow on the head, they treated him as though he did not exist. The men played with a grimy deck of cards most of the morning, making large wagers against each other and swearing blasphemously when they lost, although the boy could not see that either of them had a penny to win or lose. Around noon, as near as Blackie could judge, Lew took a fishing line and rowed out upon the pond in the leaky old boat. He was gone for several hours. Reno spent the time chewing tobacco and playing a game of solitaire, or else snoring with his back against the door.
Lew returned from his fishing expedition empty-handed and in an ugly humor, and conferred with the older tramp in muttered whispers. Blackie was driven to the other end of the small hut while they spoke, but listened as hard as he could and managed to catch a word now and then. Once he heard distinctly the phrase, “Flatstone Creek,” and again, “the kid can do it.” At the end of the talk, Reno rose angrily and shouted, “I’m sick of yer snivelling like a yellow cur! The whole thing has all blown over by now—anyways, they haven’t anything on us to prove we done it!” He began stamping out the fire, rolled the blankets in an ungainly bundle, and stuck the ax in his belt. Lew also made up his blankets, to which he attached the flash-lamp.
“Here, you kid!” he said, “grab these bundles and tote ’em for us. We’re clearin’ out of here.”
This completed the preparations for departure. Leaving the hut in a litter, with the door hanging open, the two tramps led the way north around the edge of the pond, followed by Blackie, who stumbled along blindly under the burden of the blankets and quilt and the lantern. Reno led at a lazy gait, turning west after the end of Black Pond was rounded and strolling through the forested ridge for about three hours. At each step Blackie grew more weary; he was, after more than twenty-four hours of fasting, almost ready to keel over with starvation. He was only allowed to drop his bundles and rest a few minutes now and then, when the men felt like stopping. He had no idea where the hoboes were going or what they intended to do.
At sundown, Reno called a halt. Blackie wondered if the mountain would ever end. He threw down the blankets and fell upon them wearily; but to his surprise the two tramps lay on their faces and peered out westward through a clump of bushes. His curiosity overcoming his fatigue, Blackie crawled over to their side, dodged a kick from Lew, and looked in the direction Reno was pointing with outstretched arm.
They were on the edge of a steep bluff fronting on a pretty little green valley in the center of which ran the silver ribbon of a brook. Beyond rose, purple-clad, a low range of hills that Blackie judged might fringe the Delaware. He was sure the creek below must be the Flatstone—they had been heading into the sunset for the past hour. To the boy, enslaved by the loathsome vagrants and unable to escape from their abuse and dangerous company, the peaceful valley looked like a promised land. Green, cool pastures spread on each side of the brook, where cattle grazed, fat little cows looking small enough, viewed from the grim cliff, to have come out of a toy Noah’s ark.
Almost under them, at the base of the steep mountainside, a white farmhouse lay near an orchard of gnarled apple trees fronting on a yellow dirt road running north and south. Across the road was a rambling red barn, a farmyard full of chickens, and the remains of an old lime-kiln.
“That’s the place I saw yesterday,” said Reno. “Nobody there at night but the old guy and his wife—the hired man lives up at the Center. I found out that much.”
“I’m starved,” muttered Lew. “How long have we got to wait?”
“Aw, these hicks go to bed early. If we wait a couple hours, they’ll be so much asleep you couldn’t wake ’em up with a cannon. We’ll take anything they got, and then beat it over to Pennsylvania for a while. Lots of good places across the river where we can lay low—this district will be gettin’ too hot to hold us pretty soon.”
Nothing further was said for some time. Smoke curled from the chimney of the farmhouse; evidently the people inside were eating dinner. A hearty country meal it would be, Blackie thought, and his mouth watered as he visioned smoking joints of meat, thick bread and jam, rich creamy milk, golden-crusted slabs of pie, corn and squash and pickles and beets, chocolate cake—— He tried to pass the time thinking of all the dishes in the world that he liked; but soon had to stop because of the clawing pangs of hunger that gripped him.
Reno and Lew lay watching the house like wolves awaiting the coming of night before attacking a defenseless sheepfold. Once a horse-drawn buggy with one occupant passed along the road, driving away from the Center that showed dimly as a cluster of white houses and a church tower to the north, where a bridge spanned the stream. The sun disappeared; a few lights blinked forth in the house below, giving it a cheerful, friendly look amidst the mysterious dark of the valley.
Blackie, left to himself, thought of nothing but the chances of escape from the ugly pair he had been thrown in with by the fortunes of the road. If he could squirm away unnoticed, and make a sudden dash down the side of the cliff, he might get clear and find his way to one of the houses in the valley. He was more than willing to risk a broken ankle in the dark to win free of the tramps. He rolled over as quietly as he could, and began to worm his way across the ground; but he made the mistake of putting his weight upon a branch which snapped and gave way beneath him, and Reno jumped up and caught him by the collar with a snarl.
“No tricks like that, my hearty!” he muttered. “Try that again, and you’ll be black and blue for a month! I’ll skin ya, so I will!”
Blackie bowed his head under a rain of blows that stunned him and made his ears ring. He lay quietly after that, and did not move until, after about an hour, the two men rose to their feet with an air of determination. By this time the lights in the farmhouse below had disappeared, one by one; evidently the inhabitants were all fast asleep. Reno led the way to the left, picking his path by the aid of Blackie’s flash-lantern shielded under his coat; Blackie followed, still stumbling beneath the weight of the blankets; while Lew brought up the rear, cursing softly when he stumbled on the treacherous ground. They picked their way down the steep slope of the mountainside, and after half an hour of slow going, came out on the dirt road near the barn. Here Reno snapped off the light, and without even a moon to guide them the tramps, like the thieves and night marauders they were, sneaked cautiously through the orchard until they reached the back of the farmhouse, and stopped a few yards from the low cellar-door.
Here they paused for a brief consultation, and then Reno crept toward the house, while Lew watched him, meanwhile holding Blackie’s arm in a vise-like grip. No sooner had he vanished in the direction of the house than the night was full of the rousing bark of a dog.
“Curse the luck——” began Lew; but on the instant the bark died away in a blood-curdling, stricken howl; and afterwards there was silence again. He listened in a strained attitude, still clutching Blackie, who could hear his heart beat so loudly that it seemed as if the inhabitants of the house must hear those throbbing thumps between his ribs and waken in alarm. Finally Reno came back to them, moving like a shadow in the starlight.
“It’s all clear!” Blackie heard him whisper hoarsely. “The watch-dog heard me and almost give the show away, but I cut his throat right quick. I tried all the doors and windows, and everything is tight as a drum—but there’s a little window in the kitchen that the kid might be able to get through.”
“Send him along,” said Lew. “Does he know what to do?”
“He’d better know!” whispered Reno sharply. “Listen, kid—ya got to help us. I’m goin’ to boost ya through a window into the kitchen, and you pass out all the grub you can find. While I was around lookin’ at the windows, I found a gunny-sack they use for a doormat, and we can stuff it full of grub and take it with us.”
“But—but that’s stealing!” exclaimed Blackie.
Reno grasped his throat swiftly, and choked the words in the boy’s throat. “Shut yer trap—do ya want the whole house down on us? And what if it is stealin’? Ya ain’t above that, are ya, ya little ladylike brat?”
“But what if they catch me in there?” moaned Blackie through his teeth.
“Ya better not let them catch ya, that’s all. But let me tell ya, it’d be a sight better to have the old farmer catch ya and put a shotgun full of buckshot into ya than to come back to me without a pile of grub!” There was an edged threat in his voice, and Blackie did not dare say another word. If only he had stayed at camp and obeyed the rules, he would not now have to choose between robbing a house and being beaten within an inch of his life by a murderous tramp!
He allowed Reno to push him around to a small, high window at the rear of the house. “There it is, kid,” whispered the man in his ear, “and if ya see anything else worth takin’, pass it out to me!” He lifted the boy to the ledge, and Blackie fumbled with the catch. The window opened outwards with a slight creaking noise, leaving an aperture about half a yard square. Making no further protest, which he knew would be useless, Blackie squirmed through after some trouble, and lowered himself slowly into the silent kitchen of the sleeping house. He had a new plan in his head now, and permitting himself to be pushed inside the farmhouse was a necessary part of it. It was his duty to rouse the owner of the farm and warn him of the danger lurking without. If there was a telephone in the place, perhaps help could be speedily summoned in time to capture the murderers outside; if not, at least the house could be barricaded and the tramps driven off. The farmer would give Blackie shelter for the night, he hoped, and anyway he would be free of the domination and driving of the two vagrants; but unless the farmer was awakened with care and quickly comprehended what Blackie would tell him, he might misunderstand and take the boy for a robber before he could explain. Nevertheless, Blackie felt that he must carry out his plan no matter at what danger to himself.
He found himself in a sort of pantry leading off from the spacious farm kitchen. A low red fire still glowed in the stove, and he could make out the walls lined with jars and cans and boxes and cooking utensils of all kinds. A low hiss from the window warned him that Reno was still on the lookout. He would have to work rapidly.
Looking about him hastily in the dull light, he found a door that seemed to lead to the other parts of the house. Tiptoeing across the uncarpeted floor one careful step at a time, he reached the door and entered a long hallway. This he followed for a yard or two, feeling his way along the wall, until his hand touched a railing that seemed to be part of the front stairs. He would have to climb those stairs to reach the bedrooms. He advanced one foot cautiously, and was just climbing the first step, when a loose board in the floor creaked with a sickening noise. It sounded to the terrified boy like the crack of Doom.
Instantly his feet were knocked out from under him as a heavy body leaped at him like a football tackle, and he fell with a toppling crash to the floor. Someone was upon him, holding him in a resistless clutch! The wind was knocked from his lungs, and he gagged and fought for breath. The stabbing glare of a flashlight hit his eyes.
Then the strangest event of all that strange night happened. His unknown assailant gave a little whistle of surprise, and broke forth into speech. Only one word, but that word the boy’s name.
“Blackie!”
The flashlight twisted around; the stranger was showing it upon his own face. Blackie gasped, and almost shrieked with relief. The person who had captured him in that dark, lonely farmhouse was his own tent leader, Wally Rawn!
“Wally! What are you doing here?”
Wally Rawn relaxed his iron grip and helped Blackie to his feet. In the glow of the flashlight the boy could see that Wally was fully-dressed in corduroy trousers, blue flannel shirt, and high woodsman’s boots with laces dangling. The councilor must have thrown his clothes on in a hurry.
“I might ask the same of you, Blackie,” he said with a slight grin. “Have you become a burglar all of a sudden?”
The words recalled Blackie to his mission in the farmhouse. “Shh! Not so loud—they’re still outside!”
“Who’s outside?”
“The two tramps! They’re the ones that killed poor old Rattlesnake Joe, and they made me climb in the window to steal some food for them. The older one stabbed the dog outside so he wouldn’t wake the house, and——”
Wally pursed his lips in a low whistle. “So that’s who shut up the dog so suddenly! The barking woke me up, and I thought I’d prowl around here and see what was happening. You say these men are—murderers?”
“Yes—the sheriff is after them! Don’t let them catch me again, Wally! They kicked and beat me all the time, and wouldn’t let me have anything to eat, and I’m scared of them!”
“Don’t worry—they can’t get in here. But if the sheriff wants these men, we might have a try at capturing them. You say they’re waiting for you outside? Well, you might be able to get them to bite on the hook. Are you game to take a chance on locking them up where they belong?”
Blackie’s face fell. “Why, sure, I’ll try if you help me. But how can I catch them? They’d kill me in a minute if they thought I was giving them away.”
Wally considered. “I’ve got it!” he exclaimed softly. “Listen—out there in the orchard there’s a spring-house where the farmer’s wife keeps butter and meat and stuff to cool. I remember it has a strong lock on the door. If you could get them in there, and snap the bolt on them, we could hold them there until Kingdom Come. It’ll be touch-and-go with you if you can’t get them inside, but a pair like that should be under lock and key as soon as possible. Will you try?”
Blackie nodded. “If you think that’s the best way——”
“Good. I’ll wake up the old man, and we’ll be on the lookout at an upstairs window to protect you in case the scheme doesn’t work. We can’t show ourselves or they’ll get suspicious and we’ll never have the chance again. Now, skip back to the kitchen—they’ll be wondering where you went. Good luck!”
Wally began to tiptoe silently up the stairs, and Blackie hastened back down the hallway to the kitchen. On his way to the pantry window he grabbed two or three jars of preserved vegetables and a loaf of bread. He found Reno at the window, almost crazy at the delay.
“What took ya so long, ya little fool?” he raged under his breath. “I thought I heard noises inside, and thought ya were bagged for sure.”
Blackie handed out the jars. “I was just looking around for grub, Mister Reno,” he said. “There isn’t very much here—at least I can’t find it in the dark. This is all I saw.”
Reno grew ferocious with anger. “Well, that’s better than nothin’—but after all our trouble, all ya could get was a mouthful! I’ll fix you for this later! Come on, climb out—don’t stand here jabberin’ all night!”
He helped the boy out through the narrow window, and together they crept back to where Lew was standing guard.
“Any trouble?” he asked.
“Aw, the brat couldn’t find enough to make a lunch for a flea.” Reno held out the jars and the bread. “We’ll have to try this game somewheres else.”
Disgruntled, he led the way back through the orchard toward the road. Blackie could barely make out the white-washed side of the spring-house to their left. He plucked Reno’s ragged sleeve.
“Say, I bet that place is full of grub! Let’s have a look!”
Reno turned with a sneer. “Go and see.”
Blackie knew that if he argued, it might breed suspicion. He waded through the tall grass to the low door and felt its rough face with his hand. Sure enough; the outside bore a strong bolt. As he opened the door, a draft of chill, damp air came forth, mingled with the smell of fresh cream and cheese. He stumbled in.
It was the usual type of country spring-house. In the center bubbled up a rill of icy water that was contained in a deep stone basin, filled with tall cans of milk. The two men, attracted by Blackie’s easy entrance into the place, followed him quickly, and found him busily gobbling a generous chunk of apple pie, washing it down with milk from a pitcher at his elbow. Hungry as he was, however, Blackie had not lost sight of the deed he had to do; it was part of his plan to entice the men inside. Lew rose to the bait, and began seizing foodstuffs with both hands; but Reno cautiously stood square in the doorway, covering the retreat. His mouth full, Blackie pushed past him, stuffing cookies into his pockets.
“Pass the stuff out, Lew,” Reno was saying “I’ll stick it all in our bag here.”
Blackie had meanwhile gained the outside, and stood facing the back of the man in the doorway. “Why don’t you go in too, Mister Reno?” he asked. “You might miss something if you don’t.”
Something in his tone made the man whirl about suspiciously. “What do you mean, you little roach? If you think you can——”
Blackie saw his only chance, and took it. With a sturdy rush, he butted against Reno’s legs. The tramp, caught off balance, grabbed at the doorway to right himself, and Blackie, with all the force of his body behind it, plunged his doubled fist into the man’s stomach. It was a lucky blow that landed right on the solar plexus, and for a moment Reno was paralyzed. He gave a pained grunt and keeled backwards into Lew, who fell over a tall milk-can and tumbled sidewise into the pool of icy water. Before either of them could flounder to their feet, Blackie had slammed the strong door and shot the bolt upon his prisoners.
He sat down in the trampled, dewy grass, overcome with the reaction that sets in after a trying period of strain and excitement. And suddenly, without knowing why, he began to laugh, laugh until his sides hurt, unable to stop.
Wally Rawn came to him on the run from the house, carrying a long-barreled shotgun in his hands. He tested the soundness of the lock on the spring-house door, and then clapped Blackie on the shoulder.
“Neat work, son! You’ve got them shut up in there like a couple of sardines in a can. Say, what’s the matter with your funny bone?”
“He—he looked so crazy!” gurgled the boy. “I knocked the wind out of Reno, and he fell over and pushed Lew into the water!”
From within the spring-house came an angry racket. Reno must have scrambled to his feet again and was shouting at the door; both men were cursing a blue streak, and Reno was making the most terrifying threats as to what he should do if Blackie did not release the bolt on the instant.
Wally patted Blackie’s arm soothingly. “Don’t you worry your head about that.” He stepped to the door and called commandingly, “Listen, you inside there! I’ve got a gun here, and if you make one more sound I’ll wing you both! You’re here to stay, and don’t forget it!”
The serious depth of his voice must have impressed them, for they maintained a puzzled silence while Wally strolled back to Blackie with a cheerful smile.
“Guess that’ll stop their howling for a while. Now, as I was telling you, I woke up the old farmer—he was snoring away as peaceful as a sheep—and now he’s telephoning to Sheriff Manders at the Center. The sheriff will be along in his car as soon as he can make it, and until then I guess these birds will stay in their cage. They’d better!” he finished grimly. “Now tell me how you happened to be housebreaking here in the dead of night in such bad company.”
Growing more calm, Blackie began his tale, relating how on the night of the snipe hunt he had overheard the two hoboes planning to rob the old hermit, and how he had followed them and heard the scuffle in the house and the scream which had driven him to fly in horror.
“You should have told me or the Chief about that,” was Wally’s only comment. “It would have saved a lot of trouble.”
“I was too scared,” confessed Blackie, “and besides it all seemed like a dream that couldn’t be true.”
He told briefly how he had fallen in with the tramps again at Black Pond, and how they had later forced him to enter the house to plunder it. When he had finished, Wally said nothing for a while, but shook his head once or twice in somber amusement.
“Well,” he said finally, “guess after all these adventures you won’t mind going back to old Lenape for a rest. I’ve come to take you back to Tent Four.”
“But—how did you know where I was? Why are you here?”
“I didn’t know where you were, but I had a pretty good guess. You slipped away from camp, and I figured it was up to me to catch you again. The Chief sent Mr. Lane in the car toward Elmville to look out for you along the road to the railway, and there were quite a number of fellows scouting around for your tracks on the campus. I wasted some time after supper down at the south end of the lake, thinking you might have headed that way toward home, and it wasn’t until this morning that I got the brilliant idea that you would head right into the big timber for a while. I found your trail up on the ridge, and believe me, you hit some pretty rough going in spots! Right in the middle of a swamp I found a hat with your name on it, stuck in some bushes; and then I knew my guess was right. But after clawing my way through a regular jungle of rhododendrons I lost your track, and naturally thinking you would make for Newmiln, I raced over to the Center. I had no idea you would swing down into Black Pond.”
“What did you do then? Gee, you must have been a wizard to follow me that far!”
“I spent the rest of the day sweeping the Flatstone valley for traces of you; I knew that if you had passed this way somebody must have seen you. When I got no news, I came back over this side and the old farmer—his name’s Jacob Woods, and he’s a friend of mine; I brought a group of bikers over here last year—he offered to let me stay here to-night and to go back into the mountain with me in the morning to look for you. He was telling me tales of lost hunters and mysterious accidents back in these hills until I almost went out to look for you with a lantern. It was just a crazy coincidence that your hobo friends decided to pick this house for their midnight robbery—but I’m glad I was the one that hopped on you in the dark; somebody else might have been rough.”
Blackie had been drinking in every word. “Say, Wally,” he said, “those tramps are awful quiet. I wonder if they’re up to anything?”
“We’ll see.” Wally, with his gun held at ready, circled about the little stone building warily, and was just in time to see Lew, the weak-chinned younger tramp, sticking his head through an aperture he had made by removing a stone where the overflow from the spring found its way out. “Get back there, you!” shouted Wally. He pretended to aim a kick, and the startled hobo, who had counted on tearing away the stones and escaping by the back way, withdrew his head so speedily that he bumped it. Wally closed the opening with several rocks.
The sound of an auto horn from the road made Blackie jump. “That must be the sheriff!” cried Wally. “Hi! Over this way, Mr. Manders! Over here in the orchard!”
Three men came tramping across through the grass, two of them carrying rifles. The taller of them Blackie recognized as the man who had been conferring with the Chief on that fateful rainy Tuesday when he had fought with Chink and smoked with Gallegher. It was Sheriff Manders, and he pulled out two pairs of handcuffs while Wally was explaining things to him. Another man he introduced as his deputy, a rugged farmer with red chin-whiskers showing in the light of the lantern he carried. The third, garbed in a pair of overalls hastily donned over his night-clothing, proved to be Mr. Woods, owner of the farm, who since telephoning had been watching at the roadside to direct the officers of the law as soon as they arrived.
The sheriff heard Wally to the end, and then turned to Blackie. “You’re a real smart boy, if what Mr. Rawn says is true. I’ll be over to your camp-ground later and get your affidavit on all you’ve told him; and likely you’ll be wanted at the trial.”
He stamped over to the door and knocked upon it loudly. “In the name of the law, I call upon you to submit to arrest!”
When the door was flung open, two cowed and shaken vagabonds shambled out to face the weapons of Wally and the officers. Their short imprisonment had broken what spirit of bravado they possessed, and under the watchful eyes of the law they appeared as a brace of craven and revolting blackguards caught in the midst of crime. They submitted to being handcuffed, and were bundled off toward the car in short order.
“I’ll go with you and see these fellows safe in jail,” volunteered Wally. “No—you won’t be needed, Blackie; you’ve done more than your share this night. You just trot off to bed with Mr. Woods here, and forget all about everything.”
He disappeared after the two prisoners and their guards, leaving Blackie with the aged farmer. The latter led Blackie back to the house, where his wife was fussing about the kitchen in a faded red wrapper, stirring up the fire and raising a most tantalizing smell of cooking. Mr. Woods, with rare forbearance, did not bother Blackie with questions, but every now and then he caught the farmer looking at him with a puzzled frown, shaking his head and muttering to himself, “Wal, who would have thought it?” His wife mothered Blackie, making him wash his face and hands and seating him at the table, where she piled hot food before him and watched him gorge himself on sausage and fried potatoes, pressing him to eat more pie and cookies until he felt as though his eyes must be bulging with repletion. When he could eat no more, she packed him off upstairs to bed, and left him with a gentle good-night. He undressed, almost dozing off once or twice in the process, climbed into a high four-poster bed, and lay snugly stretched out under a brilliantly-colored old-fashioned crazy quilt. He fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.
A short time later Wally returned and woke him to say that he had seen the tramps safely under lock and key in the jail at Newmiln Center, and that he need not worry any more. Blackie hardly heard the words before he was asleep again. Wally blew out the lamp and crawled in beside the sleeping boy, and once more all was peaceful in the farmhouse at the foot of the mountain.
Blackie and Wally were up at the first crack of dawn; it was to prove an active day for them, and they had no mind to get a late start. After a hearty breakfast provided by Mrs. Woods, they took the road south on foot. The grateful farmer offered to harness his team and drive them back to camp, but Wally knew that he was needed to tend his stock, and courteously refused.
“We’ll take the road down the valley and over the mountains,” explained Wally as the two hiked side by side down the yellow road. “It’s a bit longer than straight over the ridge, but we’ll avoid a lot of tough going, and save time in the long run.”
Blackie was not sorry to be tramping along in Wally’s company on that bright summer morning. His clothing had been neatly brushed and cleaned by the farmer’s motherly wife, and his rescued blankets were strapped over one shoulder. The sky was a lustrous, enamelled blue; the fields and thickets sparkled with dewdrops; and a cheerful chorus of birds chirruped a marching song for them. The way led down the valley of the Flatstone, running on a wooded height above the wandering creek. Occasionally they passed orchards and farmhouses, lazy in the sun; once they climbed a spur of the hills and looked down upon a great red mill, with a plashing race of water leaping down through the dripping teeth of a clacking wooden wheel. Several times they were passed by farmers driving wagons or cars, but always they were heading the opposite way, toward the Center; and the two hikers were not fortunate enough to get a lift. As they went they chatted gaily, and all the grim hours of Blackie’s flight and bondage seemed like the half-remembered fragments of a nightmare.
By ten o’clock they had reached the crossroads, beside a steepled little schoolhouse with a yard overgrown with weeds, and halted several minutes before turning eastward.
“This route is longer than I thought,” observed Wally. “We’re only about half-way back to Lenape now, and we still have the hardest part of the journey ahead. I thought we might be back in camp by this time. You see, to-day we hold the big regatta and water-sports. Every fellow in Camp Shawnee will have come down from Iron Lake to compete with our swimmers and divers, and I should be on hand to take the entries and run the meet.”
“It’s my fault you’re not there now,” said Blackie. “If I hadn’t run away, everything would have been all right.”
“If you hadn’t run away, two desperate characters wouldn’t be in jail to-day, facing trial for murder,” pointed out the leader. “That’s the way of the world—there’s no situation so bad that courage and brainwork can’t mend it, and many a bad start has ended with a whirlwind finish.”
“Then if I hadn’t told a lie in camp, I wouldn’t have been kangarooed and would never have left, and would never have found Lew and Reno up in the mountains. But all the same, I’m done with lying—forever.”
“That’s a peach of a resolution to make,” agreed Wally. “Lying is either cowardly or silly, and a Lenape camper doesn’t want to be either. And now let’s be off; we won’t get back to camp just by talking about it.”
He leaped to his feet and they trudged off up the mountain road at a smart pace. Blackie’s short legs had some difficulty in matching the mile-devouring stride of the councilor, but he did not complain, although it had grown exceedingly hot and dusty, and it seemed as if the succession of ridges across which they passed would never end. Each time they would surmount a summit, Blackie told himself that it must be the last; and each time he would find another belt of road stretching on ahead and another ridge to cross. A little after noon they sighted a fine-looking farm in the center of the hills, and on the shady porch sat a red-cheeked man with drooping mustaches. He was clinking out a lively tune on a banjo, but dropped the instrument when he saw them approach, and called out a cheery hail.
“Hi, Mr. Rawn! Ain’t seen you sence last year! Come on in and talk things over—the old woman’ll lay a couple extra dishes for dinner. It ain’t often we have the honor of company for meals, and we like to make the most of them!”
Wally accepted the invitation, and after he and Blackie washed the dust from their faces, they sat on the porch and chatted with the farmer until the smoking hot meal was served. The leader was impatient to be off, but the pleasure of the farmer and his wife at having visitors was so great that it was some time before he could break away. The dinner was leisurely and abundant, and afterwards nothing would do but they must chat with the garrulous farmer about every subject he could think of, from hog cholera to philosophy; and he insisted on playing his entire stock of old country tunes on his banjo before they finally parted.
“It’s not far now,” said Wally as they again took the road. “The last ridge is only about a mile ahead.”
This cheered the plodding Blackie a little, but all the same it seemed as if that mile was the longest in the world. At last they reached the summit, and instead of another dreary stretch ahead they were rewarded with an exhilarating prospect of the lake below and the flat countryside beyond in the direction of Elmville. As they paused to get their breath, a bugle call trilled up to them from the lodge.
“Come down and wash your dirty neck——” sang Wally, keeping time to the trumpet-call. “He’s sounding Swim Call. That means they must be starting the swimming meet! Hurry, Blackie—it must be at least two o’clock; everybody will be streaking down to the dock. See that bunch of fellows over in the baseball field? That must be the gang from Camp Shawnee.”
The two broke into a run which took them past the spring and down to the signal tower. Here they left the road, which bent at right angles, and plunged down the hillside through the green woods, following the trail beside the pipe-line. Inside of twenty minutes they were stumbling into Tent Four, where they sat on their bunks to catch their breaths.
They found the tent rows deserted; evidently every camper was assembled down beside the lake. Wally recovered his breath first, and urged by the necessity of going on duty at the dock, slipped out of his clothes and into his swimming suit. Blackie, after five minutes’ rest, began to undress slowly.
“You’re not so crazy for a swim you want to hustle right down now, are you?” asked Wally in surprise. “You better take a nap, son.”
Blackie shook his head. “I’ve got to get in the meet, Wally! It’s my last chance—you know I have to leave camp to-morrow; I’m only signed up for the first two weeks. And you’ve put in a lot of time teaching me the Australian crawl stroke, and I want to show what I can do in a real swimming meet. Will you enter me in the distance swims and the high dive?”
The councilor grinned. “You sure are a glutton for punishment! I wouldn’t think, after the last couple of days, you’d have steam enough left for swimming contests! But I admire your gameness, and I’ll sure put your name down.” He buttoned the strap on his bathing suit, thrust his feet into a pair of tennis shoes, and dashed off down the path toward the dock, from the direction of which came a confused babble of shouting and cheering. The swimming meet was already in full swing.
Blackie went down to the lake only a few minutes later, meeting no one on his way. The boat dock and the shore were lined with swimmers and spectators; about a hundred of them were strange boys and leaders, wearing the red arrowhead of Camp Shawnee, who had hiked down from Iron Lake to accept Lenape hospitality for the day and contest Lenape superiority in the water. The life-saving boats were stationed further out than usual, and Wally Rawn, with a whistle about his neck and papers and a megaphone in his hands, was stationed on the upper deck of the tower, directing the events, assisted by the chiefs of the two camps.
The first person Blackie encountered as he stepped on the dock was Ken Haviland. The aide gave him a stare of contempt.