CHAPTER XXII
UP THE MOUNTAIN
Altogether, that was a hectic day. Barry didn’t accompany the others to Watkins and Boyle’s after dinner, for Major Loring made a change in his plans and called the candidates together in the gymnasium at one-thirty. But he got a graphic account of the affair from Peaches. Mr. Benjy, declared Peaches, was superb. Reminded by Davy of the circumstances, Mr. Watkins recalled asking for the bond and being summoned to the telephone a moment later. He did not remember placing the bond in the drawer, but was convinced that he had done so.
Complete exoneration for Davy had ensued, and both Mr. Watkins and Mr. Boyle had been profuse in their apologies. They had offered reinstatement to Davy at a larger salary than he had received before, and had almost begged Mr. Benjy to return. Both invitations had, however, been refused. Mr. Benjy had been dignity personified, displaying a quite unbelievable hauteur all through the interview and, at the last, leaving the office with his arm through Davy’s and his head in the air, like a conqueror; which, when you came to think of it, he was!
Davy, said Peaches, had decided to return to Springfield, while Mr. Benjy, relieved of the necessity for making further reimbursements to Watkins and Boyle, and with a comfortable check in his pocket, representing what he had previously paid to them, was content to remain at the freight-office. The whole occasion, Peaches remarked, had been eminently satisfactory until the return. Then he had been obliged to enlighten a perplexed and much dissatisfied Toby, a Toby still of the opinion that, in some underhand fashion, he had been “crooked”—the word was his—out of at least a third interest in that bond!
“Well,” said Barry, thoughtfully, “it’s mighty funny how things happen. If Clyde hadn’t decided to room with Hal Stearns, I wouldn’t have gone to Mrs. Lyle’s; and if I hadn’t gone there, I wouldn’t have had to buy a desk; and if I hadn’t bought that desk—”
“The bond wouldn’t have been found until the lot of us were wearing chin whiskers,” interrupted Peaches, “if then! Because no one but you, Barry, would ever have bought that funny old thing!”
“Funny old thing!” exclaimed Barry. “Huh! I guess you wish you could find some funny old things just like it! Let me tell you, Mr. Jones, it isn’t every one can go into an antique store and pick up thousand-dollar bonds!”
At half-past one o’clock there was a session of blackboard drill in the gymnasium. At a little after two the players went out to the field to find the home stand crowded with a cheering mass of schoolmates and friends from the village. For half an hour there was light practice, during which Barry got off some very satisfactory punts and Pete Zosker kicked goals from every conceivable angle and possible distance. All the time the audience sang and cheered and excitement was in the chill November air. At three the first squad trotted back to the gymnasium, pursued by thunderous “Broadmoors!” leaving a handful of substitutes to amuse the spectators a while longer. At twenty minutes to four came the send-off at the station.
Those who were to make the trip to “Overlook” had been conveyed in the bus to the station, their bags between their knees, while the rest of the school had marched thither, still singing, still cheering. At the last the little branch-line train of a baggage-car and two ancient coaches was surrounded by a horde of shouting partizans, and not until the wheels were actually revolving did confusion give way to order. Then cheers began again, Billy Bassett, standing atop a baggage-truck, leading. Long after the train had pulled out of sight of the station Barry could still hear the hoarse refrain of “Team! Team! TEAM!”
“Overlook,” or, as it was more usually called, “The Cabin,” belonged to a council of Boy Scouts in a near-by city and was each year loaned to Broadmoor for the use of the team on the night preceding the Hoskins contest. Major Loring had inaugurated the plan of taking the players away on the eve of the big game, his theory being that the change of scene benefited his charges both physically and mentally. The cabin stood just short of the summit of Mount Sippick, at the end of a trail which started at the little village of Alden, about eight miles from Wessex, not as the crow flies but as the ever ascending, ever winding single-track railroad went. From Alden there was an uphill hike of well over a mile.
The party consisted of twenty players and eight noncombatants. The latter included the Major and two assistant coaches, two managers, the trainer, and two helpers. Travel was never heavy on the line and the Broadmoor party had the two coaches almost to themselves. Barry, rather excited by the adventure, shared a seat with Larry Smythe, regular left end. Larry was a quiet chap and, while there was plenty of noise from other parts of the coach, conversation in the end seat was scanty. Barry was well enough pleased to be silent. There was much to think about. Clyde had seemed to expect Barry to sit with him a few seats back, and Barry still puzzled over the look of surprise on the other’s face when he had gone past. Barry was especially thankful that Larry Smythe didn’t insist on talking football. Larry’s only approach to that subject was in the form of an indifferent reference to the absence of Waterman.
“He was on the list yesterday. Must have missed the train.”
Barry agreed and the matter was dropped. His feet propped on his suit-case, he watched the hillclad slope as the train panted around the curves. He found himself wishing that Peaches were there. Behind him there was a good deal of noise and horseplay, encouraged rather than frowned on by the coaches. At Sanborn Mills, the first halt, half the party flocked outside and indulged in all the pranks they could think of. There wasn’t much to be seen there: a few houses climbing a straggling road, a store, the station, and the old brown buildings of the mills leaning over the bank of the splashing stream across from the railroad.
The train went on, following the East Fork, hardly more than a trout-brook now, and jerking and grinding around a shoulder of the mountain. When the shrill whistle announced their approach to the next station, Barry arose.
“Guess I’ll get a breath of air,” he said. Larry Smythe yawned and nodded, but didn’t accompany the other. As the train slowed, another rush down the aisle began, and Barry was jostled through the door. Clyde, one of the laughing crowd, hailed him.
“Come on, Barry!” he cried. “Take a look around the city!”
But Barry shook his head soberly and kept his place on the car platform. Mount Sippick was even less of a metropolis than Sanborn Mills. A narrow dirt road climbed upward, hugging the mountain, and along it were four buildings, the nearer combining the purposes of dwelling, store, and post-office. There was no baggage-truck here for the amusement of the invaders, but they managed to create plenty of noise and a good deal of interest on the part of the half-dozen inhabitants gathered for the daily event. Some of the fellows wandered as far as the little bridge which hung well above the boisterous stream, and when without warning the train started on, they had to sprint hard to reach it. Most of them climbed aboard the rear platform, but Clyde, finding so many ahead of him there and fearing that by the time he got a chance to clamber up it would be too late, raced on to the platform ahead. As the track was nearly level for a short distance beyond the station, the train acquired speed quickly and there was a moment or two when Clyde doubted the issue. The station loiterers jeeringly cheered him on, and after running the length of the platform, he reached the intersection of two coaches and made a desperate leap.
Only his right hand reached its goal. This attained a firm grasp on the railing nearest the rear car. His left hand clutched emptily, missing the forward rail. As he had left the station platform before he sprang for the steps, he had not been able to reach the latter with his feet. The most he could attempt was to lodge his knees on the bottom step, and at that he was only half successful. His right knee did get there, but only by a bare inch, while his left leg hung in space. Then the forward impetus of the train swung him around, his right knee slipped off the step and, supported only by his right hand, he hung there, scared, breathless while the train sped on, preparing for its start up the next grade.
Try as he might, he could not reach the railing with his left hand, nor could he find the step with his right foot. All he could do was hold agonizingly with that one hand. Beside him the rocky bank of the cut rushed past, at times dangerously close. To let go would mean certain injury, if not death; indeed, it seemed hardly possible that, dropping, he would not be hurled beneath the wheels. He cried out frantically, but the noise of the train, doubled as it was thrown back by the rocky wall, almost drowned his voice. It seemed to Clyde that he had dangled there many minutes, although in reality his plight had lasted but a few seconds, when absolute terror came to him with the knowledge that his grasp on the rail was slipping. One trailing foot struck the end of a tie and he drew his legs up and put his remaining breath in a shrill, agonized shout.
Barry had remained on the car platform until the train was well under way, ignorant of the narrow escape from being left behind that had threatened the handful of adventurous youths who had gone back to the bridge, an escape that had moved the remaining occupants of the car to laughter. Slamming the door behind him, he stepped back to his seat beside Smythe and settled his feet again on his suit-case.
As he did so a sound came to him above the rattle and jar of the train, a sound that startled him until he laid it to the screeching of the wheel flanges against the curving rails. It came again as, discovering that his backward thrust at the door had failed to close it, he once more arose and approached the platform. As he stood there, the door-knob in his hand, the strange sound fell once more on his ears and seemed to turn his heart over. Instinctively he sprang outside, drawing the door shut behind him, and stared about. The platforms and steps of the swaying cars were empty. Still shaken, he turned to reënter the coach and saw a straining hand clasped about a railing.