CHAPTER XIV.A RECKLESS YOUTH.
Chester did not return to the academy that night. This was nothing remarkable, for his mother had made arrangements which enabled him to frequently stop with her without obtaining permission. A written excuse from Mrs. Arlington was all that Chester needed to present in case of such infringements on the rules of the school.
Nevertheless, when he failed to appear the following day, Fraser worried, and knew that more than the ordinary excuse would be required from him.
Dick watched in vain for Arlington. Obtaining leave the following evening, he went into town. He contemplated calling at Mrs. Arlington’s before returning to the academy, with the intention of asking June about her brother.
The necessity of doing this was avoided, for, as he was leaving the post office, he saw June pass on the opposite side of the street. She was alone, and immediately Dick hastened after her. To his surprise, she turned into the street that led toward the harbor. Wondering where she could be going, he followed, until the crest of the small hill was reached, and the harbor lights lay twinkling beyond.
By this time she had discovered that some one was behind her, and Merriwell noticed that she quickened her steps. Immediately he made haste to overtake her, at the same time calling her name.
In surprise she stopped.
“Is it you, Dick?” she exclaimed. “Why, I saw some one coming, and I was afraid.”
“Afraid, June? Then why did you choose this street? Why did you come this way alone? I was surprised when I saw you take such a course.”
She seemed at a loss for a reply.
“Surely you know this part of the town is not safe for you to be in after dark without an escort?” he said.
“My mother’s yacht is down there,” she murmured. “I didn’t know but what I might find Chester on——”
“He has not appeared at the academy to-day, June.”
“I know it. He told me he was not going back there to-day.”
“Then you saw him?”
“Yes. He came to the house near noon. I was surprised to see him. Oh, Dick, I am afraid it is no use. I am afraid Chester may as well leave Fardale.”
“Perhaps it would be better for him,” Dick admitted.
“But father should know—father should take him in hand. If he goes away of his own accord, as he has threatened, there is no telling what he may do.”
“You fear that he is contemplating something of the kind?”
“I do. He must be kept here a little longer. Mother expects father to come on in a week or two.”
“In your anxiety about your brother, June, you are rashly venturing into a dangerous part of the village. Better wait until morning before seeking him.”
“I can’t!” she exclaimed. “I am sure he is again with bad companions. I can’t ask you to do anything more for me.”
“But I will do anything for you, June. Let me see you safely home, and then I will try to find your brother.”
“Oh! will you?”
“I give you my promise.”
“Dick! Dick! you have done so many things for me. I am grateful, be sure of that.”
“Don’t talk about gratitude, June. Come, let’s turn back.”
She permitted him to accompany her until they were again in the vicinity of the post office. There she paused and begged him to leave her and go in search of Chester. This he finally consented to do.
Passing once more over the hill, Merriwell came again into the disreputable portion of the village, wondering if Arlington could be found on board his mother’s yacht, and, if so, how he could be approached.
Passing one of the cheap saloons of that locality Dick paused, for to his ears came the sound of singing. The voice was a melodious one, and he was sure he recognized it as that of the boy he sought. The song was a reckless drinking melody, and the singer was joined when it came to the chorus by several hoarse voices, roaring as follows:
"We’ll send her round again, boys,So drink your bumpers dry;“Whisky was made for men, boys,And men will drink and die!”
"We’ll send her round again, boys,So drink your bumpers dry;“Whisky was made for men, boys,And men will drink and die!”
"We’ll send her round again, boys,So drink your bumpers dry;“Whisky was made for men, boys,And men will drink and die!”
"We’ll send her round again, boys,
So drink your bumpers dry;
“Whisky was made for men, boys,
And men will drink and die!”
“He is in there,” muttered Dick, “and it is plain he is carousing with a lot of desperate characters.”
Approaching the place, Dick quickly discovered why he had heard the singing so plainly, for a window stood open. He did not enter, but passed round the corner and paused near this window, where he looked into the low, smoky barroom. It was a sailor’s resort, and a number of rough-looking men were inside.
Standing in front of the bar, glass in hand, was Chester Arlington, swaying slightly as he sang the second stanza of the drinking song.
Again the sailors joined in the chorus, some of them thumping the tables at which they were seated, while Arlington beat time in an extravagant manner.
As they finished, Arlington hurled his glass, liquor and all, crashing against the wall.
“That’s the stuff!” he cried. “It takes men to drink fire-water. It’s not pap for babies. I know a chap who thinks he is a man, and who is proud because he doesn’t drink. Bah! he makes me sick. I’d like to fill him to the chin. I’d like to put him under the table. Have another one on me, boys! Set ’em up, Johnnie, old man—set ’em up!”
“You’re all right, my hearty!” huskily cried one of the sailors, reeling up and slapping Chet on the shoulder.
“Look here, my friend,” said Chet, bracing with his feet wide apart and giving the sailor a savage look, “don’t get so free with me. I will treat you all right, but keep your distance. I am Chester Arlington! I am the son of D. Roscoe Arlington. My mother’s yacht lies off Gibb’s wharf.”
“You’re all right,” reiterated the sailor. “’Scuse me. Didn’t mean anything particular. You spend your money.”
“You bet your life I do! I know how to spend it. I know how to live while I live. I don’t dry up and die, and think I am still living. Say, Johnnie, this is awful booze. Haven’t you anything better?”
“This is good enough for my customers,” answered the bartender. “They don’t kick. You claim to be a man, and this is the sort of stuff men drink.”
“All right; I can drink as much as anybody else.”
He dashed off the vile stuff that was provided, then crossed the door toward the window, where two or three men were sitting at a table.
Already Dick had recognized one face at the table as that of Tom Moran.
“Hello, boys!” said Chet, as he dropped on a chair. “What’s the matter with me? I’m all right! Who said I was intoxicated?”
“Not a soul,” laughed Moran. “Certainly, you’re all right.”
“Rotten bad booze, just the same,” asserted Chet. “Wouldn’t I like to drive a quart of that stuff into Dick Merriwell! He is a model chap, he is. He never drinks. If I had him where I wanted him I’d make him drink and I’d make him smoke. Have a cigarette?”
Fumblingly Chester produced a package of cigarettes, which he offered to his companions, none of whom accepted.
“All right,” he said; “I will smoke alone. Have cigars on me? Johnnie, give these gentlemen cigars.”
CigarsCigarswere provided, and all began to smoke.
“Wish I had Merriwell where I could get my hands on him to-night,” growled Chet, thumping the table. “Captain Long’s ashore, and I can run the old yacht myself. I’d like to get Merriwell onto her. I’d carry him out to sea, and I’d fill him to the muzzle.”
“When does Long return?” asked Moran.
“He won’t be back for two days. Gone to New York on business. Old lady sent him. Sailors will stand by me. They’ll do anything I want them to do—all but that dago, Tony. He can’t be trusted. Can’t trust a dago, anyhow. Say, you fellers! will you stand by me? I’ll pay. I can get the coin. Will you help me shanghai this Merriwell? I will fix it up somehow; I will get him in the trap. We’ll run him off.”
“Why, of course,” said one of the sailors. “You can count on this crowd for anything.”
“Then I’ll do it!” vowed Chet, again striking the table. “You bet your life! I know how. I’ll fake up a letter from my sister. I’ll make appointment for him, and we’ll jump on him. Then we’ll sack him onto the yacht and give him a little cruise. That’s the stuff! He’ll smoke cigarettes! He’ll drink booze before I am through with him!”
In his present condition any sort of a wild scheme seemed feasible to Arlington.
“You ought to have it in for him, Tom,” he said, nodding at Moran. “You bear marks of his knuckles on your mug now.”
“That’s right!” growled the young bruiser; “but you told me he was easy!”
“Ought to have been easy for you. You ought to do him up without half trying. Wait till we get him on the yacht. Then you can thump him if you want to. Then you can get square with him. What do you say?”
“Go ahead,” said Moran. “Give me the chance.”
“I’ll fix it,” averred Chet. “I’ll soak him if it is the last thing I ever do around here! Might as well get out of this old town, anyway! Got to leave this rotten old school! When I do leave I want to have Merriwell fixed so he can’t hold up his head again and say he don’t drink and don’t smoke. If it wasn’t for Tony we’d be all right. I can depend on the rest of the crew. Where’s Lazaro? He is my right-hand man. He ought to be here now. Where is he?”
No one seemed to know.
“Told him to be here,” Chet mumbled, dropping his cigarette and looking around in vain for it.
While he was searching for the cigarette a slim, dark-faced man entered and approached the table.
“Here comes Tony,” said one of the sailors.
Arlington braced up and stared at the newcomer.
“Who invited you?” he demanded.
“I beg da pard, Mist’ Arlington,” said the Italian, respectfully touching his cap. “I t’ink I better tella you. Nobod’ on da yacht. I t’ink you better know. Mebbe your mother no lika it.”
“What’s that to you, you dago dog!” snarled Chet. “You pay attention to your own business!”
Instantly the dark face of the Italian grew darker and his black eyes glittered.
“Tony no dago doga!” he hissed. “He no gita drunk! He minda his bis’!”
“What’s that?” growled Chet, pushing back from the table.
“Your sist’ very fina girl,” asserted the Italian. “You maka her feel very bada. You ought to be ashameda.”
Somehow Arlington managed to throw off, for a moment, the effects of the liquor, and he rose quickly to his feet, taking a single step. Evidently Tony was unprepared for what happened, for he fancied Chester was too intoxicated to do anything of the sort. At any rate, he could not avoid Arlington’s blow, which made him stagger.
“You cur!” snarled the enraged youth. “Don’t dare speak of my sister! Don’t dare refer to her!”
With a savage Italian oath, Tony plunged his hand into his pocket, and the lights flashed on a glittering blade of steel, which his shaking fingers brought forth.
Fortunately for Arlington, the two sailors and Tom Moran seized the enraged Italian.
“Leta go! Leta go! He strika me!”
“Put up that knife!” growled one of the men. “Do you want to hang?”
“He strika me!” palpitated Tony, struggling to get at Chet.
The sight of the knife caused Chester to pale a little and shrink away.
“Hang onto him!” he ordered. “Don’t let the murderous fellow break away from you!”
One of the sailors attempted to reason with theItalian, but it was some moments before Tony quieted down and put up the knife. By that time several others had taken a hand, and there was no possibility that the infuriated Italian could reach Chester.
As soon as he saw this, Arlington once more became bold and reckless in his manner, and applied several scornful epithets to Tony.
“Get out of here, now!” he commanded. “Go back to the yacht and stay there!”
Without a word the Italian turned and left the saloon.
Dick had been prepared to leap through the window to Arlington’s protection in case it was necessary, and he was relieved when the affair terminated in this manner. At the same time, he felt that Chester had made a desperate and bitter enemy in Tony.
When the Italian was gone Arlington sat down at the table and once more ordered drinks.
“I will have that fellow discharged,” he declared.
“If you don’t,” said Moran, “the chances are that he will stick a knife between your shoulders some dark night.”
“Oh, I am not afraid of the dog!” averred Chet. “I am afraid of no one! The man doesn’t live that I am afraid to face!”
“How about Dick Merriwell?” inquired Moran.
“Why, I don’t give a rap for him! He’s a common bruiser, and that’s why I don’t fight with him! I paid you, didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what are you kicking for? You have no kick coming. Drink up.”
By this time Dick had decided that it would be anything but an easy task to get Arlington away from his companions while in such a condition. He could not return and tell June, and he was wondering what could be done when suddenly, without the least warning, he was struck to the ground by some one who had noiselessly approached from behind.