The nine Lakerimmers who had set forth to the rescue of Tug and History had no more clue as to the whereabouts of the kidnapped twain than some broken furniture and an open door; and even one who was so well versed in detective stories as B.J., had to admit that this was very little for what he called a "slouch-hound" to begin work on. There had been no snow, and the frost had hardened the ground, so that there were no footprints to tell the way the crowd of hazers had gone.
As Jumbo said:
"It's like looking for a needle in a haystack after dark; and it wouldn't do you any good to sit down in this haystack, either."
The only thing to do, then, was to scour the campus in all its nooks and crannies, pausing now and then to look and listen hard for any sign or sound of the captives. But each man heard nothing except the pounding of his own heart and the wheezing of his own lungs. Then they must up and away again into the dark.
They had scurried hither and yon, and yonder and thither, until they were well-nigh discouraged, when, just as they were crashing through some thick underbrush, B.J. stopped suddenly short. Sawed-Off bumped into him, and Jumbo tripped over Sawed-Off; but B.J. commanded them to be silent so sharply that they paused where they had fallen and listened violently.
Then they heard far and faint in the distance to the right of their course a little murmur of voices just barely audible.
B.J.'s quick ear made out the difference between this far-off hubbub and the other quiet sounds of the night.
That dim little noise his breathless fellows could just hear was the wild hullabaloo the foolish Crows had set up to drown out the voices of Tug and History, as they gave the Lakerim yell.
B.J.'s ear was correct enough not only to understand the noise but to decide the direction it came from, though to the other Lakerimmers it came from nowhere in particular and everywhere in general. Before they had made up their minds just how puzzled they were, B.J. was striking off in a new direction at the top of his speed, and was well over the stone wall before they could get up steam to follow him. Across the road and through the barbed-wire fence he led them pell-mell. There was a little pause while Jumbo helped the lubberly Sawed-Off through the strands that had laid hold of his big frame like fish-hooks. B.J. took this chance to vouchsafe his followers just one bit of information.
"They're at Roden's Knoll," he puffed.
Roden's Knoll was a little clearing in the woods that marked the highest point of land in the State, though it was approached very gradually, and nothing but a barometer could have told its elevation.
It was a long run through the night, over many a treacherous bog and through many a cluster of bushes, which, as Jumbo said, had finger-nails; and there was many a stumble and jolt, and many a short stop at the edge of a sudden embankment. One of these pauses that brought the whole nine up into a knot was the little step-off where Tug and History had thought they were being shoved over the precipice of a Grand Cañon.
At length Roden's Knoll was reached, but there the weary Lakerimmers were discouraged to find nothing but a smoldering fire and the signs of a hard straggle.
"We're too late; it's all over," sighed Pretty, thinking sadly of the mud and the rips and tears that disfigured his usually perfect toilet.
"I move we rest a bit," groaned Sleepy, seconding his own motion by dropping to the ground.
"Shh!" commanded B.J.; "d'you hear that?"
Instantly they were all in motion again, for they heard the noise of many runners crashing through the thicket.
Soon they saw a shadowy form ahead of them and overtook it, and recognized one of the Crows. They gave him a glance, and then shoved him to one side with little gentleness, and ran on. Two or three of the Crows they overtook in this manner, but spent little time upon them.
They were bent upon a rescue, not upon the taking of prisoners. Then, just as they were approaching the edge of the woods, they heard a cry that made their weary blood gallop. It was the "L`¨¡y-krim! L`¨¡y-krim!" of Tug making his last charge on the flock of Crows.
In a moment they had reached the mass of humanity that was writhing over him, and they began to tear them off and fling them back upon the ground with fierce rudeness. Man after man they peeled off and flung back till they got down to one fellow with his knee on somebody's nose.
That nose was Tug's, and they soon had the boy on his feet, and turned to continue the argument with the Crows. But there were no Crows to argue with. The Dozen had made up in impetus and vim what it lacked in numbers, and the Crows had fled as if from an army. A few black ghosts flying for their lives were all they could see of the band that had been so courageous with only History and Tug to take care of.
So the ten from Lakerim gathered together, and while B.J. beat time they spent what little breath was left in them on the club yell. It sounded more like a chorus of bullfrogs than of young men, but it was gladsome enough to atone for its lack of music, and it was loud enough to convince History that it was safe to come out, of the bushes where he had been crouching in ghostly terror.
The Lakerimmers were inclined to laugh at History for his fears, but Tug told them that if it had not been for his seizing the red-hot pokers there would have been a different story to tell; so they hugged him instead of laughing at him, and Sawed-Off clapped him on the back such a vigorous thump that History thought the hazers had hold of him again.
Now they took up their way back to the Academy, and B.J. began to plot a dire revenge on the cowardly Crows. But Tug said:
"I move we let the matter drop. They're the ones to talk now of getting even, for they have certainly had the worst of it. It'll be just as well to keep a sharp eye on them, though, and it is very important for us to stand together."
When they had reached the dormitory they all joined in straightening up and rearranging Tug's room before they went to their well-earned sleep.
* * * * *
I am afraid the Lakerim eleven had the bad taste to do a little gloating over the Crows. Their wit was not always of the finest, but they enjoyed it themselves, though little the Crows liked it, and it kept them all unusually happy for many days—
All except Reddy. He showed a strange inclination to "mulp"—a portmanteau word that Jumbo coined out of "mope" and "sulk."
To see the hilarious Reddy mulping was very odd. About the only subject in or out of books that seemed to interest him in the slightest degree was the mention of the name of his twin brother, Heady; and that, too, in spite of the fact that the two of them had quarreled and bickered so much that their despairing parents had finally sent them to different schools. But now Reddy seemed to be inconsolable, grieving for the other half of his twin heart.
Finally the boy's blues grew so blue that no one was much surprised when he announced his desperate determination to journey to the town where Heady was at school, and visit him. Reddy got permission from the Principal to leave on Friday night and return on Monday. He had been saving up his spending-money for many a dismal week, and now he went about borrowing the spending-money of all his friends.
One Friday evening, then, after class hours, all the Lakerimmers went in a body down to the railroad-station to bid Reddy a short good-by.
Jumbo felt inclined to crack a few jokes upon Reddy's inconsistency in struggling so hard to get away from his brother, and then struggling so hard to go back to him, but Tug told Jumbo that the subject was too tender for any of his flippancy.
On reaching the depot they found that Reddy's train was half an hour late, and that a train from the opposite direction would get in first. So they all stood solemnly around and waited. When this train pulled into the station you can imagine the feelings of all when the first one to descend was—
Was—
Heady!
The Twins stood and stared at each other like tailors' dummies for a moment, while the strangers on the platform and on the train wondered if they were seeing double.
Then Reddy and Heady dropped each his valise, and made a spring. And each landed on the other's neck.
Now Sawed-Off seized Heady's valise, and Jumbo seized Reddy's, and then they all set off together—the reunited Twins, the completed Dozen—for the campus. The whole Twelve felt a new delight in the reunion, and realized for the first time how dear the Dozen was.
The Twins, of course, were blissfulest of all, and marched at the head of the column with their arms about each other, exchanging news and olds, both talking at once, and each understanding perfectly what the other was trying to say.
Thus they proceeded, glowing with mutual affection, till they reached the edge of the campus, when the others saw the Twins suddenly loose their hold on each other, and fall to, hammer and tongs, over some quarrel whose beginning the rest had not heard.
Jumbo grinned and murmured to Sawed-Off: "The Twins are themselves again."
But Sawed-Off hastened to separate and pacify them, and they set off again for Reddy's room, arm in arm. Later Heady arranged with his parents to let him stay at Kingston for the rest of the school-year.
* * * * *
Heady had not been back among his old cronies long before they had him up in a corner in Reddy's room, and were all trying at the same time to tell him of the atrocious behavior of the Crows, their harsh treatment of Tug and History, the magnificent resistance, and the glorious rescue.
"It reminds me," said History, "of one of Sir William Scott's novels, with moats and castles, and swords and shields, and all sorts of beautiful things."
But B.J. broke in scornfully:
"Aw, that old Scott, he's a deader! It reminds me of one of those new detective stories with clues and hair-breadth escapes. And Tug is like 'Iron-armed Ike,' who took four villyuns, two in each hand, and swung them around his head till they got so dizzy that they swounded away, and then he threw one of 'em through a winder, and used the other three like baseball bats to knock down a gang of desperate ruffians that was comin' to the rescue. Oh, but I tell you, it was great!"
"'Strikes me," Bobbles interrupted, "it's more like one of Funnimore Hooper's Indian stories, with the captives tied to the stake and bein' tortured and scalluped, and all sorts of horrible things, when along comes old Leather-boots and picks 'em all off with his trusty rifle."
Two or three others were evidently reminded of something else they were anxious to describe; but Heady was growing impatient and very wrathful, and he broke in:
"Well, while you fellows are all being reminded of so many things, I'd like to ask just one thing, and that is, what are you going to do about it?"
"Nothing at all," said History. And thinking of his unexpected escape from his terrible adventure, he added quickly: "I think we did mighty well to get out of it alive."
"Pooh!" sniffed Heady, getting madder every moment.
"Well, Tug says the same thing," drawled Sleepy. "He says that we got the best of it all around, and that if anybody's after revenge it ought to be the Crows, because we wiped 'em off the earth."
"Bah!" snapped Heady. "It isn't enough for the Lakerim Athletic Club to get out of a thing even, and call quits. Leastways, that wasn't the pollersy when I used to be with you."
This spirit of revolt from the calm advice of Tug seemed to be catching, and the other Lakerimmers were becoming much excited. Tug made a speech, trying to calm the growing rage, and he was supported by History, who tried to bring up some historical parallels, but was ordered off the floor by the others. Tug's plan, which was seconded by History from motives of timidity, was thirded by Sleepy from motives of laziness.
But Heady leaped to his foot and delivered a wild plea for war, such another harangue as he had delivered during the famous snow-battle at the Hawk's Nest. He favored a sharp and speedy retaliation.
"Well, how are you going to retaliate?" said Tug, who saw his let-her-go policy losing all its force, and who began to grow just a bit eager himself to give the Crows a good lesson. Still, he repeated, when Heady only looked puzzled and gave no answer:
"How are you going to retaliate, I say?"
"A chance will come," said Heady, solemnly.
And Reddy, who had been burning up with patriotic zeal for the glory of Lakerim, was so proud of his brother's success in stirring up a warlike spirit that he moved over, and sat down beside him on the window-seat, and put his arms around him, and they never quarreled again—till after supper.
But the chance came—sooner than any of them expected.
For Quiz, whose curiosity threatened to be the death of him some day, and who was always snooping around, learned, not many days later, that the Crows were planning to give a great banquet in a room over the only restaurant in the village. This feast had been intended as a grand finale to the season of hazing, and it was to be paid for by the poor wretches who had been given the pleasure of being hazed, and taxed a dollar apiece for the privilege. Strange to say, the two Lakerim men whom the Crows had tried to haze were neither invited to pay the tax nor to be present at the banquet. In fact, the unkind behavior of the Lakerimmers had hurt the feelings of the Crows very badly, and cast a gloom over the whole idea of the banquet.
As soon as Quiz learned, in a roundabout way, where and when the feast was to be held, he came rushing into Tug's room, where the Dozen had gathered Saturday evening after a long day spent in skating on the first heavy ice of the winter.
Quiz crashed through the door, and smashed it shut behind him, and yelled: "I've got it! I've got it!" with such zeal that Sleepy, who was taking a little doze in a tilted chair, went over backward into a corner, and had to be pulled out by the heels.
History spoke up, as usual, with one of his eternal school-book memories, and piped out:
"You remind me, Quiz, of the day when Archimeter jumped out of his bath-tub and ran around yelling, 'Euraker! Euraker!"
But Heady shouted:
"Somebody stuff a sofa-cushion down History's mouth until we learn what it is that Quiz has got."
"Or what it is that's got Quiz," added Jumbo.
When History had been upset, and Sleepy set up, Quiz, who had run several blocks with his news, found breath to gasp:
"The Crows are going to have a banquet!"
Then he flopped over on the couch and proceeded to pant like a steam-roller.
The rest of the Dozen stared at Quiz a moment, then passed a look around as if they thought that either Quiz was out of his head or they were. Then they all exclaimed in chorus:
"Well, what of it?"
And Jumbo added sarcastically:
"It'll be a nice day to-morrow if it doesn't rain."
Quiz was a long time getting his breath and opening his eyes; then it was his turn to look around in amazement and to exclaim:
"What of it? What of it? Why, you numskulls, don't you see it's just the chance you wanted for revenge?"
"What do you mean?" exclaimed the others. "Do you mean that we should go down and eat the banquet for 'em?" queried Sleepy, whose first thought was always either for a round sleep or a square meal.
"I hadn't thought of that," said Quiz. "That would be a good idea, too. What I had in my mind was doing what they do in the big colleges sometimes: kidnap the president of the crowd so that he can't go to the dinner."
"Great head! Great scheme!" the others exclaimed; and they jumped to their feet and indulged in a war-dance that shook the whole building.
When they had done with this jollification, Tug, who objected to doing things by halves, asked:
"Why not kidnap the whole kit and boodle of them?"
Then there was another merry-go-round. But they all stopped suddenly, and Quiz expressed the sentiment of all of them when he said:
"But how are we going to do it?"
Then they all put their heads together for a long and serious debate, the result of which was a plan that seemed to promise success.
The banquet was to be held on the next Friday night at night o'clock, and the Dozen had nearly a week for perfecting their plot.
Sawed-Off suggested the first plan that looked feasible for taking care of the whole crowd of the Crows, about two dozen in number. The chapel, over which Sawed-Off had his room, had a large bell-tower—as Sawed-Off well knew, since it was one of his duties to ring the bell on all the many occasions when it was to be rung. In this cupola there was a loft of good size; it was reached by a heavy ladder, which could be removed with some difficulty. Under the chapel there was a large cellar, which seemed never to have been used for any particular purpose, though it was divided into a number of compartments separated by the stone walls of the foundation or by heavy boarding. A few hundred old books from the library were about its only contents. The only occupant of the chapel, except at morning prayers and on Sundays, was Sawed-Off. The gymnasium on the ground floor was not lighted up after dark, and so the building was completely deserted every evening.
Some unusual scheme must be devised to enable twelve men to take care of twenty-four. Fortunately it happened that half a dozen of the twenty-four took the six-o'clock train for their homes in neighboring towns, where they went to spend Saturday and Sunday with their parents. This reduced the number to eighteen. Friday evening a number of the Crows appeared at the "Slaughterhouse," though there was to be a banquet at eight o'clock. With true boyhood appetite, they felt, that a bun in the hand is worth two in the future; and besides, what self-respecting boy would refuse to take care of two meals where he had been in the habit of only one? It would be flying in the face of Providence.
Now, Sawed-Off, who, as you know, was paying his way through the Academy, earned his board by waiting on the table. He had an excellent chance, therefore, for tucking under the plates of all the Crows a note which read:
The Crows will meet at the Gymnasium after dark and go toMoore's resteront in a body.
N.B. Keep this conphedential.
To half a dozen of the notes these words were added:
You are wanted at the Gymnasium at a 1/4 to 7 to serve on a cummitty.Be there sharp.
The Crows naturally did not know the handwriting of every one of their number, and did not recognize that the notes were of History's manufacture. They were a little mystified, but suspected nothing.
The Dozen gathered in full force at the gymnasium as soon after supper as they could without attracting attention. Sawed-Off, who had the keys of the building, then posted a strong guard at the heavy door, and explained and rehearsed his plan in detail.
At a quarter of seven the six who had been requested to serve on the "cummitty" came in a body, and finding the door of the gymnasium fastened, knocked gently. They heard a low voice from the inside ask:
"Who's there?"
And they gave their names.
"Do you all belong to the Crows?"
Of course they answered: "Yes."
They were then admitted in single file into the vestibule, which was absolutely dark. As each one stepped in, a hand was laid on each arm and he was requested in a whisper to "Come this way." Between his two escorts he stumbled along through the dark, until suddenly the door was heard to close, and the key to snap in the lock; then immediately his mouth was covered with a boxing-glove (borrowed from the gymnasium), his feet were kicked out from under him, and before he knew it his two courteous escorts had their knees in the small of his back and were tying him hand and foot.
One or two of the Crows put up a good fight, and managed to squirm away from the gagging boxing-gloves and let out a yelp; but the heavy door of the gymnasium kept the secret mum, and there was something so surprising about the ambuscade in the dark that the Dozen soon had the half-dozen securely gagged and fettered. Then they were toted like meal-bags up the stairs of the chapel, and on up and up into the loft, and into the bell-tower. There they were laid out on the floor, and their angry eyes discovered that they were left to the tender mercies of Reddy and Heady. The only light was a lantern, and Reddy and Heady each carried an Indian club (also borrowed from the gymnasium), and with this they promised to tap any of the Crows on the head if he made the slightest disturbance.
The ten other Lakerimmers hastened down to the ground floor again just in time to welcome the earliest of the Crows to arrive. This was a fellow who had always believed up to this time in being punctual; but he was very much discouraged in this excellent habit by the reception he got at the gymnasium. For, on saying, in answer to the voice behind the door, that he had the honor of being a Crow, he was ushered in and treated to the same knock-down hospitality that had been meted out to the Committee of Six.
The wisdom of using the words "after dark" on the forged invitation was soon made evident, because the Crows did not come all at once, but gradually, by ones and twos, every few minutes between seven and half-past. In this way eleven more of the Crows were taken in. These were bundled down into the dark cellar, and stowed away in groups of three or four in three of the compartments of the cellar, each with a guard armed with a lantern and an Indian club.
By a quarter to eight the Lakerimmers believed that they had accounted for all of the twenty-four Crows except the president, MacManus. Six had left town, six were stowed aloft in the cupola, and eleven were, as B.J., the sailor, expressed it, "below hatches." Five of the Dozen were posted as guards, and that left seven to go out upon the war-path and bring in the chief of the Ravens.
He had felt his dignity too great to permit him to take two meals in one evening; besides, he was very solemnly engaged in preparing a speech to deliver at the banquet; and his task was very difficult, since he had to make a great splurge about the glories of the campaign, without reminding every one of the inglorious result of the attempt to haze the Dozen.
No note had been sent to him, and it seemed necessary to concoct some scheme to decoy him from his room, because any attempt to drag him out would probably bring one of the professors down upon the scene.
Tug had an idea; and leaving three of the seven to guard the door, he took the other three and hurried to the dormitory where MacManus roomed, and threw pebbles against his window. The chief Crow soon stuck his head out and peered down into the dark, asking what was the matter. A voice that he did not recognize—or suspect—came out of the blackness to inform him that some of the Crows were in trouble at the gymnasium, and he must come at once.
After waiting a moment they saw his light go out and heard his feet upon the stairs, for he had lost no time in stuffing into his pocket the notes for his address at the banquet, and flying to the rescue of the captive banqueters. As soon as he stepped out of the door of the dormitory, History's knit muffler was wrapped around his mouth, and he was seized and hustled along toward the gymnasium.
Tug felt a strong desire to inflict punishment then and there upon the man who had tortured him when he was helpless, but that was not according to the Lakerim code. Another idea, however, which was quite as cruel, but had the saving grace of fun, suggested itself to him, and he said to the others, when they had reached the gymnasium:
"I'll tell you what, fellows—"
"What?" said the reunited seven, in one breath.
"Instead of putting MacManus with the rest of 'em, let's take him along and make him look on while we eat the Crows' banquet."
"Make him 'eat crow' himself, you mean," suggested Jumbo.
The idea appealed strongly to the Lakerimmers, who, after all, were human, and couldn't help, now and then, enjoying the misery of those who had made them miserable. While MacManus was securely held by two of the Dozen, Sawed-Off and Tug went to the cupola to summon the Twins. The knots with which the "cummitty" were tied were carefully looked to and strengthened, and then the Lakerimmers withdrew from the cupola, taking the lantern with them, dragging a heavy trap-door over their heads as they descended the ladder, and then taking the ladder away and laying it on the floor. They hurried down the stairs then, and went to the cellar, looking alive again to the fetters of the Crows, and closing and barring the heavy wooden doors between the compartments as securely as they could.
They came up the stairs, and put down and bolted the cellar door, and moved upon it with great difficulty the parallel bars with their iron supports, from the gymnasium, and several 25-pound dumb-bells, as well as the heavy vaulting-horse. Reddy and Heady were in favor also of blocking up the narrow little windows set high in the walls of the cellar, well over the head of the tallest of the Crows; but Tug said that these windows were necessary for ventilation, and History was reminded of the Black Hole of Calcutta, so it was decided to leave the windows open for the sake of the air, even if it did give the Crows a loophole of possible escape.
"There's no fun in an affair of this kind if the other side hasn't even a chance," said Tug; and this appealed to the Lakerim theory of sport.
So they all left the gymnasium with its prisoners, and Sawed-Off locked the door firmly behind him. Then they went at a double-quick for Moore's restaurant and the waiting banquet, which, they suspected, was by this time growing cold.
When MacManus left his room he had thrown on a long ulster overcoat with a very high collar. When this was turned up about his ears it completely hid the gag around his mouth, and Tug and Sawed-Off locked arms with him and hurried him along the poorly lighted streets of Kingston without fear of detection from any passer-by. MacManus dragged his feet and refused to go for a time, till Tug and Sawed-Off hauled him over such rough spots that he preferred to walk. Then, without warning, when they were crossing a slippery place he pushed his feet in opposite directions and knocked Sawed-Off's and Tug's feet out from under them. But inasmuch as all three of them fell in a heap, with him at the bottom, he decided that this was a poor policy.
The Dozen were soon at Moore's restaurant; and there, at the door, they found waiting one of the Crows whom they had forgotten to take into account. He was the fat boy whom Tug and History had seen hazed just before their turn came, on the eventful night at Roden's Knoll.
Having been hazed, and having been taxed, this boy who was known as "Fatty" Warner, was entitled to banquet with the Crows; but he had been invited out to a bigger supper than he could get at the "Slaughter-house," and so he did not receive his note, and escaped the fate of the Crows who had been put in cold storage in the gymnasium.
B.J. and Bobbles, however, took him to one side and told him that they were afraid they would have to tie him up and put him in a corner with MacManus. But the tears came into his eyes at the thought of sitting and looking at a feast in which he could not take part, and he reminded the Lakerimmers that he had had no share in the attack on Tug and History, and had done nothing to interfere with their escape from Roden's Knoll, and besides, he had been compelled to pay out his last cent of spending-money to the Crows for this banquet: So the Lakerimmers decided to invite him to join them in eating the feast of the enemy.
Mr. Moore, the proprietor of the village restaurant, had a very bad memory for faces, and when the Lakerimmers came into the room where the table was spread, and told him to hurry up with the banquet, it never occurred to him to ask for a certificate of character from the guests. He was surprised, however, that there were only twelve men where he had provided for eighteen or more; but Jumbo said, with a twinkle in his eye:
"The rest of them couldn't come; so we'll eat their share."
The Lakerimmers grinned at this. Mr. Moore suspected that there was some joke which he could not understand; but the ways of the Academy boys were always past his comprehension, so he and the waiters came bustling in with the first course of just such a banquet as would please a crowd of academicians, and would give an older person a stomach-ache for six weeks.
Besides, the wise Mr. Moore knew the little habit students have of postponing the payment of their bills, and he had insisted upon being paid in advance. Poor MacManus suddenly remembered how he had doled out the funds of the Crows for this very spread, and he almost sobbed as he thought of the hard time he had spent in collecting the money and preparing the menu—and all for the enjoyment of the hated Lakerimmers, who had already spoiled the final hazing of the year, and were now giggling and gobbling the precious banquet provided at such expense! Mr. Moore wondered at the presence of such a sad-looking guest at the feast, and wondered why he insisted on abstaining from the monstrous delicacies that made the tables groan; but he reasoned that it was none of his affair, and asked no questions.
Before they had eaten much the Lakerimmers grew as uncomfortable over the torment they were inflicting on poor MacManus as the poor MacManus was himself. And Tug explained to him in a low voice that if he would promise on his solemn honor not to make any disturbance they would be glad to have him as a guest instead of a prisoner. MacManus objected bitterly for a long time, but the enticing odor drove him almost crazy, and the sight of the renegade fat boy, who was fairly making a cupboard of himself, finally convinced the president that it was better to take his ill fortune with a good grace. So he nodded assent to the promises Tug exacted of him, his muffler and overcoat were removed, and he was invited to make himself at home; and his misery was promptly forgotten in the rattle of dishes and the clatter of laughter and song with which the Dozen reveled in the feast of its ancient enemies.
The delight of the Lakerimmers in the banquet was no greater than the misery of the Crows whose wings had been clipped, and who had been left to flop about in the dark nooks of the chapel. The feast of the Dozen had just begun when two of the Crows in the cupola and two others in the cellar bethought themselves to roll close to each other, back to back, and untie the knots around each other's wrists. They were soon free, and quickly had their fellows liberated and the gags all removed. But the liberty of hands and feet and tongues, though it left them free to express their rage, still left them as far as ever from the banquet which, as they soon suspected, was disappearing rapidly under the teeth of the Lakerimmers. They groped around in the pitch-black darkness, and finally one of the men in the cupola found a little round window through which he could put his head and yell for help. His cry was soon answered by another that seemed to come faintly from the depths of the earth.
The far-off cry which the six Crows in the cupola heard coming from the depths of the earth was raised by the eleven Crows in the cellar. By dint of much yelling the two flocks made their misery known to each other. The trouble with the cellar party was that it could not get up. The trouble with the cupola crowd was that it could not get down. And they seemed to be too far apart to be of much help to each other, for the cupola Crows had lost little time in lifting the trap-door of the belfry and finding that the ladder was gone, and none of them was hardy—or foolhardy—enough to risk the drop into the uncertain dark. So there they waited in mid-air.
The cellar Crows, when they had released each other's bonds, and groped around the jagged walls, and stumbled foolishly over each other and all the other tripping things in their dungeons, had succeeded in forcing apart the wooden doors between their three cells and joining forces—or joining weaknesses, rather, because, when they finally found the cellar stairs, they also found that, for all the strength they could throw into their backs and shoulders, they could not lift the door, with all the heavy weights put on it by the Dozen. There were a few matches in the crowd, and they sufficed to reveal the little cellar windows. These they reached by forming a human ladder, as the Gauls scaled the walls of Rome (only to find that a flock of silly geese had foiled their plans). But there were no geese to disturb the Crows, and the first of their number managed to worm through to the outer air and help up his fellows in misery.
It seemed for a time, though, as if even this escape were to be cut off; for a very fat Crow got himself stuck in a little window, and the Crows outside could not pull him through, tug as they would. Then the Crows inside began to pull at his feet and to hang their whole weight on his legs.
But still he stuck.
Then they all grew excited, and both the outsiders and the insiders pulled at once, until the luckless fat boy thought they were trying to make twins of him, and howled for mercy.
He might have been there to this day had he not managed, by some mysterious and painful wriggle, to crawl through unaided.
Before long, then, the whole crowd of cellar Crows was standing out in the cold air and asking the cupola Crows why they didn't come down.
One of the Crows (Irish by descent) suddenly started off on the run; the others called him back and asked what he was going for.
"For a clothes-line," he said.
"What are you going to do with it?" they asked.
And he answered:
"Going to throw 'em a rope and pull 'em down."
Then he wondered why they all groaned.
The word "rope," however, suggested an idea to the cupola prisoners, and after much groping they found the bell-rope, and one of them cut off a good length of it. They fastened it securely then, and slid down to the next floor, whence they made their way without much difficulty down the stairs to the ground. There they found the outer door firmly locked. Then they felt sadder than over.
But by this time the hubbub they had raised had brought on the scene several of the instructors, one of whom had a duplicate key of the gymnasium. And they suffered the terrible humiliation of being released by one of the Faculty!
On being questioned as to the cause of such a breach of the peace of the Academy, all the seventeen Crows attempted to explain the high-handed and inexcusable conduct of the wicked Dozen which had picked on eighteen defenseless men and made them prisoners. The instructor had been a boy himself once, and he could not entirely conceal a little smile at the thought of the cruelty of the Lakerim Twelve. Just then MacManus came by, and with one accord the Crows exclaimed:
"Where did they tie you up?"
"Down at Moore's restaurant," said MacManus, sheepishly.
"Well, what has happened to the banquet?" they exclaimed.
"It's all eaten!" groaned MacManus.
"Who ate it?" cawed the Crows.
"The Dozen!" moaned MacManus.
And that was the last straw that broke the Crows' backs.
They threatened all sorts of revenge, and some of the smaller-minded of them went to the Faculty and suggested that the best thing that could be done was to expel the Lakerim men in a body. But, by a little questioning, the Faculty learned of the attempted hazing that had been at the bottom of the whole matter, and decided that the best thing to do was to reprimand and warn both the Crows and the Dozen, and make them solemnly promise to bury the hatchet.
Which they did.
And thus ended one of the bitterest feuds of modern times.
Now, Heady, who had set the whole kidnapping scheme on foot as soon as he joined the Dozen at Kingston, had brought to the Academy no particular love for study; but he had brought a great enthusiasm for basket-ball.
And this enthusiasm was catching, and he soon had many of the Kingstonians working hard in the gymnasium, and organizing scrub teams to play this most bewilderingly rapid of games.
Most of the Lakerimmers went in for pure love of excitement; but when Heady said that it was especially good as an indoor winter exercise to keep men in trim for football and baseball, Tug and Punk immediately went at it with great enthusiasm.
But Tug was so mixed up in the slight differences between this game and his beloved football, and so insisted upon running (which is against the rules of basket-ball), and upon tackling (which is against the rules), and upon kicking (which is against the rules), that he finally gave up in despair, and said that if he became a good basket-ball player he would be a poor football-player. And football was his earlier love.
Sleepy, however, who was the great baseball sharp, made this complaint, in his drawling fashion:
"The rules say you can only hold the ball five seconds, and it takes me at least ten seconds to decide what to do with it; so I guess the blamed game isn't for me."
Out of the many candidates for the team the following regular five were chosen: For center, Sawed-Off, who was tall enough to do the "face-off" in excellent style, and who could, by spreading out his great arms, present in front of an ambitious enemy a surface as big as a windmill—almost. The right-forward was Heady, and of course the left-forward had to be his other half, Reddy. Pretty managed by his skill in lawn-tennis to make the position of right-guard, and the left-guard was the chief of the Crows, MacManus. The Dozen treated him, if not as an equal, at least as one who had a right to be alive and move about upon the same earth with them.
The Kingston basket-ball team played many games, and grew in speed and team-play till they were looked upon as a terror by the rest of the Interscholastic League.
Finally, indeed, they landed the championship of the various basket-ball teams of the academies. But just before they played their last triumphant game in the League, and when they were feeling their oats and acting as rambunctious and as bumptious as a crowd of almost undefeated boys sometimes chooses to be, they received a challenge that caused them to laugh long and loud. At first it looked like a huge joke for the high-and-mighty Kingston basket-ball team to be challenged by a team from the Palatine Deaf-and-Dumb Institute; then it began to look like an insult, and they were angry at such treatment of such great men as they admitted themselves to be.
It occurred to Sawed-Off, however, that before they sent back an indignant refusal to play, they might as well look up the record of the deaf-and-dumb basket-ball men. After a little investigation, to their surprise, they found that these men were astoundingly clever players, and had won game after game from the best teams. So they accepted the challenge in lordly manner, and in due time the Palatiners appeared upon the floor of the Kingston gymnasium. A large audience had gathered and was seated in the gallery where the running-track ran.
Among the spectators was that girl to whom both Reddy and Heady were devoted, the girl who could not decide between them, she liked both of them so immensely, especially as she herself was the champion basket-ball player among the girls at her seminary. Each of the Twins resolved that he would not only outdo all the rest of the players upon the gymnasium floor, but also his bitter rival, his brother.
There was something uncanny, at first, in the playing of the Palatines, all of whom were deaf-mutes, except the captain, who was neither deaf nor dumb, but understood and talked the sign language.
The game opened with the usual face-off. The referee called the two centers to the middle of the floor, and then tossed the ball high in the air between them. They leaped as far as they could; but Sawed-Off's enormous height carried him far beyond the other man, and, giving the ball a smart slap, he sent it directly into the clutch of Reddy, who had run on and was waiting to receive it half over his shoulder. Finding himself "covered" by the opposing forward, he passed the ball quickly under the other man's arm across to Heady, who had run down the other side of the floor. Heady received the ball without obstruction, and by a quick overhead fling landed it in the high basket, and scored the first point, while applause and wonderment were loud in the gallery.
The Kingstonians played like one man—if you can imagine one man with twenty arms and legs. Sawed-Off made such high leaps, and covered so well, and sent the ball so well through the forwards, and supported them so well; the twin forwards dodged and ran and passed and dribbled the ball with such dash; and the guards were so alert in the protection of their goal and in obstructing the throwing of the other forwards, that three goals and the score of six were rolled up in an amazingly short time.
Sawed-Off was in so many places at once, and kept all four limbs going so violently, that the spectators began to cheer him on as "Granddaddy Longlegs." A loud laugh was raised on one occasion, when the Palatine captain got the ball, and, holding it high in the air to make a try for goal from the field, found himself covered by the towering Sawed-Off; he curved the ball downward, where one of the Twins leaped for it in front; then he wriggled and writhed with it till it was between his legs. But there the other Twin was, and with a quick, wringing clutch that nearly tied the opposing captain into a bow-knot, he had the ball away from him.
At the end of the three goals the Kingstonians began to whisper to themselves that they had what they were pleased to call a "cinch"; they alluded to the Palatines as "easy fruit," and began to make a number of fresh and grand-stand plays. The inevitable and proper result of this funny business was that they began to grow careless. The deaf-mutes, unusually alert in other ways on account of the loss of hearing and speech, were quick to see the opportunity, and to play with unexpected carefulness and dash.
The swelled heads of the Kingstonians were reduced to normal size when the Palatines quickly scored two goals. It began to look as if they would add a third score when the desperate Reddy, seeing one of the Palatine forwards about to make a try for goal, made a leaping tackle that destroyed the man's aim and almost upset him.
Reddy was just secretly congratulating himself upon his breach of etiquette when the shrill whistle of the referee brought dismay to his heart. His act was declared a foul, and the Palatines were given a "free throw." Their left-forward was allowed to take his stand fifteen feet from the basket and have an unobstructed try at it. The throw was successful, and the score now stood 6 to 5 in favor of Kingston.
The game went rapidly on, and at one stage the ball was declared "held" by the referee, and it was faced off well toward the Palatine goal. Sawed-Off made a particularly high leap in the air and an unusually fierce whack at the ball.
To his chagrin, it went up into the gallery and struck the girl to whom the Twins were so devoted, smack upon her pretty snub nose. Though the blow was hard enough to bring tears to her bright eyes, she smiled, and with a laugh and a blush picked up the ball and dropped it over the rail.
The Twins both made a dash to receive this gift from her pretty hands, and in consequence bumped into each other and fell apart.
The ball which they had robbed each other of fell into the clutch ofPretty, who made the girl a graceful bow that quite won her heart.Pretty was, by the way, always cutting the other fellows out. This wasthe only grudge they ever had against him.
The Twins were now more rattled than ever; and Heady determined to do or die. He saw one of the Palatines running forward and looking backward to receive the ball on a long pass, and he gave him a vicious body-check. He knew it was a foul at the time, but he thought the referee was not looking. His punishment was fittingly double, for not only did the referee see and declare the foul, but the big Palatine came with such impetus that he knocked Heady galley-west. Heady went scraping along a row of single sticks and wooden dumb-bells, making a noise like the rattle of a board along a picket fence.
Then he tumbled in a heap, with the Palatine man on top of him. As the Palatine man got up, he dislodged a number of Indian clubs, which fairly pelted the prostrate Heady. This foul gave the Palatines another free throw, and made the score a tie.
The Twins were now so angry and ashamed of themselves that they played worse than ever.
Everything seemed to go wrong with them. Their passes were blocked; their tries for goal failed; the Palatines would not even help them out with a foul. In their general disorder of plan, they could do nothing to prevent the Palatines from making goal after goal till, when the referee's whistle announced that the first twenty-minute half was over, the score stood 12 to 6 against Kingston.
The Twins were feeling sore enough as it was, but when they went to the dressing-room dripping with sweat and gasping for breath from their hard exertions, Tug appeared to rub salt into their wounds by a little lecture upon their shortcomings and fargoings.
"Heady," he said, "I guess you have been away from us a little too long. The Lakerim Athletic Club never approved of foul playing on the part of itself or any one else, and you got just what you deserved for forgetting your dignity. I suppose Reddy got the disease from you. But I want to say right here that you have got to play like Lakerim men or there is going to be trouble."
The Twins realized the depths of their disgrace before Tug spoke, and they were too much humiliated in their own hearts to resent his lofty tone. They determined to wipe the disgrace out in the only way it could be effaced: by brilliant, clean playing in the second half of the game.
When the intermission was over, they went in with such vim that they broke up all the plans of the Palatines for gaining goal, and put them to a very fierce defensive game. Heady soon scored a goal by passing the ball back to Reddy and then running forward well into Palatine territory, and receiving it on a long pass, and tossing it into the basket before he could be obstructed.
But this ray of hope was immediately dimmed by the curious action of MacManus, who, forgetting that he was not on the football field, and receiving the ball unexpectedly, made a brilliant run down the field with it, carrying it firmly against his body. He was brought back with a hang-dog expression and the realization that he had unconsciously played foul and given the Palatines another free throw, which made their score 13 to 8.
A little later Reddy, finding himself with his back to the Palatine goal, and all chance of passing the ball to his brother foiled by the large overshadowing form of the Palatine captain, determined to make a long shot at luck, and threw the ball backward over his head.
A loud yell and a burst of applause announced that fortune had favored him: he had landed the ball exactly in the basket.
But Heady went him one better, for he made a similarly marvelous goal with a smaller element of luck. Finding himself in a good position for a try, he was about to send the ball with the overhead throw that is usual, when he was confronted by a Palatine guard, who completely covered all the space in front of the diminutive Heady. Like a flash Heady dropped to the floor in a frog-like attitude, and gave the ball a quick upward throw between the man's outspread legs and up into the basket.
And now the audience went wild indeed at seeing two such plays as have been seen only once or twice in the history of the game.
With the score of 13 to 12 in their favor, the Palatines made a strong rally, and prevented the Kingstonians from scoring. They were tired, and evidently thought that their safety lay in sparring for time. And the referee seemed willing to aid them, for his watch was in his hand, and the game had only the life of a few seconds to live, when the ball fell into the hands of Heady. The desperate boy realized that now he had the final chance to retrieve the day and wrest victory from defeat. He was far, far from the basket, but he did not dare to risk the precious moment in dribbling or passing the ball. The only hope lay in one perfect throw. He held the ball in his hands high over his head, and bent far back. He straightened himself like a bow when the arrow of the Indian leaves its side. He gave a spring into the air, and launched the ball at the little basket. It soared on an arc as beautiful as a rainbow's. It landed full in the basket.
But the force of the blow was so great that the ball choggled about and bounded out upon the rim. There it halted tantalizingly, rolled around the edge of the basket, trembled as if hesitating whether to give victory to the Palatines or the Kingstons.
After what seemed an age of this dallying, it slowly dropped—
To the floor.
A deep, deep sigh came from the lips of all, even the Palatines. And down into the hearts of the Twins there went a solemn pain. They had lost the game—that was bad enough; but they knew that they deserved to lose it, that their own misplays had brought their own punishment. But they bore their ordeal pluckily, and when, the next week, they met another team, they played a clean, swift game that won them stainless laurels.
Snow-time set Quiz to wondering what he could do to occupy his spare moments; for the drifts were too deep for him to continue his beloved pastime of bicycling, and he had to put his wheel out of commission. So he went nosing about, trying a little of everything, and being satisfied with nothing.
The Academy hockey team, of which Jumbo was the leader, was working out a fine game and making its prowess felt among the rival teams of the Tri-State Interscholastic League. But hockey did not interest Quiz; for though he could almost sleep on a bicycle without falling over, when he put on a pair of skates you might have thought that he was trying to turn somersaults or describe interrogation-points in the air.
It was a little cold for rowing,—though Quiz pulled a very decent oar,—and the shell would hardly go through the ice at an interesting speed. Indoor work in the gymnasium was also too slow for Quiz, and he was asking every one what pastime there was to interest a young man who required speed in anything that was to hold his attention.
At length he bethought him of a sport he had seen practised during a visit he paid once to some relatives in Minnesota, where the many Norwegian immigrants practised the art of running upon the skies. At first sight this statement looks as if it might have come out of the adventures of that trustworthy historian, Baron Münchhäusen. But the skies you are thinking of are not the skies I mean.
The Scandinavian skies are not blue, and they are not overhead, but underfoot. Of course you know all about the Norwegian ski, but perhaps your younger brother does not, so I will say for his benefit that the ski is a sort of Norwegian snow-shoe, only it is almost as swift as the seven-league boots. When you put it on you look as if you had a toboggan on each foot; for it is a strip of ash half an inch thick, half a dozen inches wide, and some ten feet long; the front end of it pointed and turned up like that of a toboggan.
When you first get the things on, or, rather, get on them, you learn that, however pleasant they may grow to be as servants, they are certainly pretty bad masters; and you will find that the groove which is run in the bottom of the skies to prevent their spreading is of very little assistance, for they seem to have a will of their own, and also a bitter grudge against each other: they step on each other one moment, and make a wild bolt in opposite directions the next, and behave generally like a pair of unbroken colts.
Quiz had once learned to walk on snow-shoes. He grew to be quite an adept, indeed, and could take a two-foot hurdle with little difficulty. But he soon found that so far from being a help, his familiarity with the snow-shoe was a great hindrance.
The mode of walking on a Canadian snow-shoe, which he had learned with such difficulty, had to be completely unlearned before he could begin to make progress with the Scandinavian footgear. For in snow-shoe walking the feet must be lifted straight up and then carried forward before they are planted, and any attempt to slide them forward makes a woeful tangle; to try to lift the ski off the ground, however, is to invite ridiculous distress, and the whole art of scooting on the ski is in the long, sliding motion. It is a sort of skating on incredibly long skates that must not be lifted from the snow.
Quiz had the skies made by a Kingston carpenter; and he was so proud of them that, when a crowd gathered to see what he was going to do with the mysterious slats, he proceeded to make his first attempt in an open space in the Academy campus. He put the skies down on the snow, slipped his toes into the straps, and, sweeping a proud glance around among the wondering Kingstonians, dashed forward in his old snow-shoe fashion.
It took the Kingstonians some seconds to decide which was Quiz and which was ski. For the skittish skies skewed and skedaddled and skulked and skipped and scrubbed and screwed and screamed and scrawled and scooped and scrabbled and scrambled and scambled and scumbled and scraped and scrunched and scudded and scuttled and scuffled and skimped and scattered in such scandalous scampishness that the scornful scholars scoffed.
Quiz quit.
The poor boy was so laughed at for days by the whole Academy that his spunk was finally aroused. He got out again the skies he had hidden away in disgust, and practised upon them in the fields, at a distance from the campus, until he had finally broken the broncos and made a swift and delightful team of them. He soon grew strong enough to glide for hours at a high rate of speed without weariness, and the ski became a serious rival to the bicycle in his affections.
He learned to shoot the hills at a breathless rate, climbing up swiftly to the top; then, with feet apart, but even, zipping like an express-train down the steep incline and far along the level below.
He even risked his bones by attempting the rash deeds of old ski-runners. Reaching an embankment, he would retire a little distance, and then rush forward to the brink and leap over into the air, lighting on the ground below far out, steadying himself quickly, and shooting on at terrific pace.
But this rashness brought its own punishment—as fool-hardiness usually does.
[Illustration: "QUIZ LEARNED TO SHOOT THE HILLS AT A BREATHLESSRATE."]
At dinner, one Saturday, Quiz had broken out in exclamations of delight over his pet skies, and had begun to complain about the time when spring should drive away the blessed winter.
"I can't get enough of the snow," he exclaimed.
"Oh, can't you?" said Jumbo, ominously.
Quiz could hardly finish his dinner, so impatient was he to be up and off again, over the hills and far away. When he had gone, Jumbo asked the other Lakerimmers if they had not noticed how exclusive Quiz was becoming, and how little they saw of him. He said, also, that he did not approve of Quiz' rushing all over the country alone and taking foolish risks for the sake of a little solitary fun.
The Lakerimmers agreed that something should be done; and Jumbo reminded them of Quiz' remark that he could not get enough snow, and suggested a plan that, he thought, might work as a good medicine on him.
That afternoon Quiz seemed to have quite lost his head over his ski-running. He felt that there were signs of a thaw in the air, and he proposed that this snow should not fade away before he had indulged in one grand, farewell voyage. He struck off into the country by a new road, and at such a speed that he was soon among unfamiliar surroundings.
As the day began to droop toward twilight he decided that it was high time to be turning back toward Kingston. He looked about for one last embankment to shoot before he retraced his course.
Far in the distance he thought he saw a fine, high bluff, and he hurried toward it with delicious expectation. When he had reached the brink he looked down and saw that the bluff ended in a little body of water hardly big enough to be called a lake. After measuring the drop with his eye, and deciding that while it was higher than anything he had ever shot before, it was just risky enough to be exciting, he went back several steps, came forward with a good impetus, and launched himself fearlessly into the air like the aëronaughty Darius Green.
He launched himself fearlessly enough, but he was no sooner in mid-air than he began to regret his rashness. It was rather late now, though, to be thinking of that, and he realized that nothing could save him from having a sudden meeting with the bottom of the hill.
He lost his nerve in his excitement, and crossed his skies, so that when he struck, instead of sailing forward like the wind, he stuck and went headforemost. Fortunately, one of his skies broke—instead of most of his bones; and a very kind-hearted snow-bank appeared like a feather-bed, and somewhat checked the force of his fall. But, for all that, he was soon rolling over and over down the hill, and he landed finally on a thin spot in the ice of the lake, and crashed through into the water up to his waist.
Now he was so panic-stricken that he scrambled frantically out. He cast one sorry glance up the hill, and saw there the pieces into which his ski had cracked, as well as the pathway he himself had cleared in the snow as he came tumbling down. Then he looked for the other ski, and realised that it was far away under the ice.
He was now so cold, that, dripping as he was, he would not have waded into the lake again to grope around for the other ski if that ski had been solid gold studded with diamonds.
Plainly, the only thing to do was to make for home, and that right quickly, before night came on and he lost his way, and the pneumonia got him.
It was a very different story, trudging back through the snow-drifts in the twilight, from flitting like a butterfly on the ski. He realized now that his legs were tired from the long run he had enjoyed so much. He lost his way, too, time and again; and when he came to a cross-roads and had to guess for himself which path to take, somehow or other he seemed always to take the wrong one, and to plod along it until he met some farmer to put him on the right path to Kingston. But though he met many a farmer, he seemed to find never a wagon going his way, or even a hospitable-looking farm-house.
He was still miles away from Kingston when lamp-lighting time came. A little gleam came cheerfully toward him out of the dark. He hurried to it, thinking of the fine supper the kind-hearted farmers would doubtless give him, when, just as he reached the gate of the door-yard, there was a most blood-curdling uproar, and two or three furious dogs came bounding shadowily toward him.
He lost no time in deciding that supper, after all, was a rather useless invention, and Kingston much preferable.
Previously to this, Quiz had always understood that the dog was the most kind-hearted of animals, but it was months after that night before he could hear the mere name of a canine without shuddering.
Well, a boy can cover any distance imaginable,—even the path to the moon,—if he only has the strength and the time. So Quiz finally reached the outskirts of Kingston.
His long walk had dried and warmed him somewhat; but he was miserably tired, and he felt that his stomach was as empty as the Desert of Sahara. At last, though, he reached the campus, and dragged heavily along the path to his dormitory.
He stopped at Tug's to see if Tug had any remains left of the latest box of good things from home; but no answer came to his knock, and he went sadly up to the next Lakerim room. But that was empty too, and all of the others of the Dozen were away.
For they had become alarmed at Quiz' absence, and started out in search of him, as they had once before set forth on the trail of Tug and History.
[Illustration: "Jumbo saw a pair of flashing eyes glaring at him over the coverlet."]
By the time Quiz reached his room he was too tired to be very hungry, and he decided that his bed would be Paradise enough. So, all cold and weary as he was, he hastily peeled off his clothes, and blew out the light. He shivered at the very thought of the coldness of the sheets, but he fairly flung himself between them.
Just one-tenth of a second he spent in his downy couch, and then leaped out on the floor with a howl. He remembered suddenly the look Jumbo had given him at dinner when he had said he could not get snow enough.
Jumbo and the other fiends from Lakerim had filled the lower half of his bed with it!
* * * * *
Late that night, when the eleven Lakerimmers came back, weary from their long search, and frightened at not finding Quiz, Jumbo went to his room with a sad heart. When he lighted his lamp and looked longingly toward his downy bed, he saw a pair of flashing eyes glaring at him over the coverlet. They were the eyes of Quiz; and within easy reach lay a baseball bat and several large lumps of coal. But all Quiz said was:
"Excuse me for getting into your bed, Jumbo. You are perfectly welcome to mine."