“I dare you to double dare yourself to come to scout meeting sometime or other in the next year,” said Warner Lewis. “I dare you to knock a chip off my shoulder—that’s him, the way he talks.”
Craig Hobson was not so addicted to ridicule. “What’s the matter about seeing Chesty McCullen like we did?” he asked.
“Because you didn’t see him do it,” said Hervey.
“Sure, he did it,” said Craig in a way of friendly argument. “He was right there and ran away and five minutes after that the whistle blew; maybe ten minutes.”
“That shows what kind of a scout you are,” said Hervey.
“Listen who’s talking about scouting,” laughed Warner Lewis.
“If he turned in the alarm the whistle would blow in one minute,” Hervey shouted in Craig’s face. “You ask any of the firemen, because I know them all; I even know the fire-house dog, he followed me all the way to Hermit’s Mountain one day. I even slept in the fire-house. I bet you that alarm was sent in about, anyway five minutes after he was there—I bet you. I bet it was sent in while you were standing up at the corner watching where he went—I bet you.”
“Gee, some bets!” said Craig. “I bet that in a couple of days or so, or in a week maybe, they’ll arrest somebody for that robbery and I bet Chesty McCullen will admit it was the one that told him to send in the alarm.”
“I bet you he won’t,” Hervey shouted.
“I bet you he will,” Craig shouted.
Hervey was aroused to high excitement. Ordinarily he was too amiable, or perhaps too little interested in such matters, to get into disputes with other boys. He was for action rather than argument. He was too free and easy to quibble. And as for scouting, he was the last one to be discussing its nice points with scouts in good standing. He was not aroused about any such matter now. He was thinking of poor little Chesty McCullen and trying to square himself with Chesty by vigorously defending him.
“You’re a couple of tin-horn scouts,” he shouted. “Such swell detectives, you get your names in the papers catching criminals and everything, you make me laugh! If anybody rings the fire-alarm the whistle will blow inside of one minute. You even admit it didn’t blow for maybe ten minutes. How do you know what happened in those ten minutes. Could you watch where Chesty was going and watch that fire-box too? You’d have to have eyes in the back of your head and you haven’t even got eyes in the front of your head!”
“Listen, Herve,” said Craig, becoming serious and very friendly; “cut it out; what’s the use scrapping? The cops said what we did was all right. Why don’t you be a scout yourself? You never come to meetings, you never go round with us, you never chip in, you don’t bother about merit badges or anything—gee! Now when Warner and I do something like scouts are supposed to do, you come around and jump all over us. What are you sore about, anyway? We saw Chesty there, and we saw him run when he heard us, and we went to the police station and told about it. Jiminy crinkums, what are you so sore about, Hervey?”
Ah, that was it! What was he so sore about? This young free lance who did not take any interest in the concerns and doings of other boys. Why all this pother? And what was the matter with these two good-natured scouts who had been content to camp on the Lewis lawn while Hervey Willetts was driving the management to distraction up at Temple Camp? They were pretty good scouts. Suddenly, Hervey must descend upon them with technicalities and storming denunciation. What was he so sore about?
“I never knew you took so much interest,” said Warner Lewis. “Will you stay and help us cook lunch? We’ve got some spaghetti.”
“Do you say it wasn’t mean to get that kid arrested?” Hervey demanded.
“We didn’t get him arrested, we only went and told what we saw,” said Craig. “Any one would think he was your brother.”
“He let me use his father’s boat,” Hervey said. “If I stay and eat with you will you go with me to-night and the three of us will set him free? I know how we can do, I’ll show you! all we need is a rope.”
Craig and Warner laughed heartily. “Come out of it, Herve,” Warner said.
“All right!” thundered Hervey. “I’ll show you who’s a real scout! I’ll show you how to track a feller! I’ll show you how to get your name in the papers!”
“I don’t see what you’re so sore about?” repeated Craig.
“I’ll show you how to make a noise like a scout!” Hervey fairly yelled.
“Go ahead, now you’re talking,” said Warner.
“I’ll do more than talk,” Hervey screamed at him. “I can—I told my father whatever a scout can do, I can beat him at it! I can do anything that any scout in any troop can do, and then I can take him out and lose him!”
“Goodness me,” said Warner.
“I’ll smash your little stunt for you—you see,” said Hervey with gleaming eyes. “Do you dare me to? Do you dare me to? Do you say I can’t set Chesty McCullen free—do you dare me?”
“There you go with your dares,” said Craig.
“Do you dare me to; do you say I can’t?” Hervey demanded with a steely look.
“Yes, we dare you to, and we say you can’t, and we say you’re a fool,” said Warner.
“I’ll make a noise like a scout for you!” shouted Hervey.
That was pretty good. It would be hard to analyze Hervey’s impulses in all his boastful excitement, and to say whether he was sore at those two boys or sore at himself. He himself hardly knew what was the matter with him. But he was going to trample those two boys in the dust and make a noise like a scout. Not for a moment did he admit that he was going to hit the scout trail with a vengeance and cleanse his own soul of a yellow stain that was upon it.
CHAPTER XIV
AT THE BAR
“If you fool around that jail, you’re crazy and you’ll get yourself in trouble,” Craig called after him.
“I’ll free him,” shouted Hervey. “I’ll have everybody in town laughing at you—a couple of half-baked detectives! You must have been reading Young Sleuth, the Boy Detective. I’ll show you.”
“You’re a fool, Herve,” was the last he heard.
It was odd how, even at his best and on the right trail, he must work differently from other boys and quite alone. He might have sought the advice and co-operation of these good scout comrades. But he must make them out worse than himself and leave them astonished and bewildered. He must get things all askew in his mind and conjure an honorable act into a sort of stunt. The throwing down of a dare! He could not just do the right thing for its own sake. Yet he could not bear the lashings of his own conscience. We can only follow in his trail and see where it leads. And it leads through strange and devious ways, I promise you.
In this episode of his story it led to a good destination—the police station. There was nothing contrite or remorseful about him as he faced the elevated desk at which the sergeant sat facing him. The frowning officer gazed down upon him and took in at a glance the brown face, the dancing, daredevil, gray eyes, the huge hole in his stocking. He fixed a quizzical look of scrutiny on the rimless hat, Hervey’s most treasured and original possession, which seemed to set him apart from all other boys on the face of the earth, embodying as it did the very essence of the bizarre. The sergeant leaned forward and read with interest the largest tin button on that perforated felt crown—Be good and you’ll be happy, and another which said Keep smiling.
“You better take your hat off,” he said.
Hervey took off his hat.
“Well, young feller, what’s troubling you?”
“I came to tell you that I’m the one who turned in that false alarm,” said Hervey. “I did it because a feller that I met dared me to. Maybe he was a burglar, but anyhow you got to prove it to me first. Maybe the police are only fools thinking he’s a burglar. Those two scouts are a couple of fools because they admit they were up at the corner and they didn’t even see me, they’re such punk scouts. I can show you my own tracks in the field. So you better let Chesty McCullen go home, because he didn’t do it.”
“Go easy, young feller,” warned the officer, “you’re puttin’ too many fools in your talk. So you sent in the alarm, huh? What’s your name?”
The chief strolled in, leaned against the desk and listened while Hervey told the story of his encounter with the stranger who had thought up the hot tamale stunt. Then this scout who was no scout, or this happy-go-lucky boy who was one (suit yourself) was held on the charge of malicious mischief.
“So that’s what you call a hot tamale, is it?” the sergeant asked.
“It’s a hot tamale,” said the chief. It was not clear whether he was characterizing the stunt or the fact of Hervey’s coming and giving himself up. That was a pretty good hot tamale. The chief was in about the same uncomfortable predicament that Councilor Wainwright was in when he dismissed Hervey from Temple Camp. But like Councilor Wainwright he had his duty to perform.
So Hervey was held on the charge of malicious mischief and they called up Walton’s Stationery Store and told poor Mr. Walton about it. And meanwhile, they liberated little Chesty McCullen and told him that he had better not loiter around on corners and near fire boxes. He went scuffling home where his poor, scrawny, overworked mother was relieved to learn that her elder son, absent from home, was no longer wanted. Thus Chesty McCullen got a sort of a backwash from scouting; he was later to be borne upon its rising tide.
Poor Mr. Walton hurried to the station, a lanky, elderly man with a troubled countenance. They knew him and respected him. He was more troubled than Hervey, for Hervey was triumphant, whereas Mr. Walton was just humiliated.
“Well, Hervey,” was all he said.
“He came and told us of his own accord,” said the chief. “He’s a little devil, but a white one.”
Mr. Walton nodded.
“They’re so smart, not; thinking they can send a feller to jail,” said Hervey. “They dared me that I couldn’t set him free, so who’s got the laugh?” Mr. Walton did not have the laugh, at all events. He listened soberly as they told him that Hervey would have to be taken before the recorder for proper disposition of the case. Such things get around like wildfire and even before the little party with the culprit had started for the recorder’s court, a couple of reporters were upon the scene, scenting perhaps some move in the more important end of the case. Instead of a burglar they saw only a rather bewildered boy as the center of attraction. And they listened and made the most of it as Hervey gave a description of the stranger for whom he had performed. It may be told now that that stranger was never found; nor was it ever proven that Hervey had played the dupe and all unconsciously been an accessory to a major crime.
As for his own excursion in the dangerous field of malicious mischief, he was lucky as he always claimed to be. Poor Mr. and Mrs. Walton suffered more keenly than he.
“Of course this kind of thing can’t be tolerated,” said the recorder. “Tampering with the public emergency apparatus is a serious business.” Hervey had never supposed that he had done that. He knew he had sent in a false alarm. But “tampering with the public emergency apparatus”—that sounded pretty big. It had been even a greater stunt than he had supposed. Mr. Walton could only stand and listen. The recorder was a young lawyer and liked to hear himself talk and see people hang with suspense upon his words. Let no one say that the law is no respecter of persons. Poor Chesty McCullen would have been fined for this offense and his father would not have been able to pay the fine and Chesty would have spent a week or two in jail. He owed more to Hervey than to the law.
“I think,” the recorder said, addressing Hervey, “that you have had a good lesson. I think you realize the seriousness of what you did.” (He was never more mistaken in his life.) “I think you are sufficiently punished,” he added.
“Those fellers are punished too,” said Hervey.
“But if you are ever brought here again,” the recorder continued, “this affair will be remembered and it will go hard with you.” He glanced significantly at Mr. Walton, as if to say that he thought a little warning of that sort was a good thing. “Now young man, you go home and look out who you make friends with and don’t try to show off.” He did Hervey an injustice there, for most of our hero’s exploits were performed when he was quite alone and he never “showed off.” If that were all there were to it, it would be easy to comprehend him.
Out of his mortification Mr. Walton, always fair, must say one last word. “I think, your Honor, that it is to his credit that he came here and gave himself up just when his safety seemed assured. I’m not quite sure about his motive, but I suppose we ought to judge people by their acts and get at their motives that way.”
“I’d rather you’d try to work out his motives than I,” smiled the young judge. And Mr. Walton bowed acknowledgment.
He said not one single word to Hervey except to lay his hand on the boy’s shoulder as they left the place. Perhaps it meant that he was pleased that in the big essentials his stepson had not been tried and found wanting. But he seemed disheartened and if Hervey had been approachable through the channels of sentiment, he would have felt a little twinge as this plain, kindly man went off down the street, back to his stationery store.
CHAPTER XV
CHESTY, AMBASSADOR
There was time enough that afternoon for Hervey to stage the climax of the latest dare. He wished to do this before the evening paper appeared. It was not by way of showing off, but according to the ethics of dares and stunts the performer must always report and confound his challenger. It is amusing how punctilious Hervey was in such matters.
He was probably the only boy in the upper world of Farrelton who knew where to find Chesty McCullen. But Farrelton had an underworld too, a sprawling group of hovels down by the river, and here Chesty lived. The neighborhood was one of Hervey’s familiar haunts. Chesty, now thoroughly aroused to the perils of Farrelton, could not have been dragged there by wild horses, but for Hervey he would do anything.
“I set you free,” said Hervey, “so you have to pay me back. You have to go up to New Street and see Warner Lewis and Craig Hobson and tell them I sent you. You must only just say to them that they dared me I could get you out of jail so now they got their answer. Seeing is believing, you tell them that. You’ll see a tent on the lawn of one of those houses near the fire-alarm box; that’s where they are. And you can tell them they’re a couple of sap-headed fools and they can take their scout troop and go to blazes with it. You just tell them that. You say I sent you because seeing is believing and they get their faces washed with their own dare.”
Chesty did not know about this errand, undertaken so soon upon his release from jail. But he could not refuse Hervey and he had not the wit to inquire why his hero did not deliver this high-handed address in person. It may be assumed that Hervey had his reasons; perhaps he thought that the effect would be better with himself withdrawn from the scene.
He was on time for supper that evening and did not venture to absent himself afterward. Instead he waited for the talk which all through the meal he suspected his father was reserving for a quiet session in the living room.
“Now, Hervey,” said Mr. Walton, “this matter is closed. You did right to go and give yourself up—I don’t want to hear your reasons. What you did was right. And I think that you did it because you couldn’t get comfortable till you did. So we won’t give too much credit to your dare or your stunt or whatever it was. I—”
“Just the same I’ll never do anything for the scouts,” Hervey flared up. “I’m through with that bunch for good and all. They got Chesty McCullen in jail; one of those fellers is a monitor in school, so that shows you what kind of a feller he is. Nix on that outfit. I’m going perch fishing with Chesty to-morrow and I’m going to blow him to a soda too. He’s a poor kid and look what he got—some deal, I’ll say. That kid can beat any of that bunch swimming.”
Mr. Walton listened soberly, his lips pursed. “But you see if you hadn’t sent in the false alarm, Chesty wouldn’t have got in trouble. You got him out, but you also got him in. Isn’t that so, Herve?”
“I never squealed; no siree, I never did that.”
“Well, the matter is closed now anyway, Herve,” Mr. Walton said, despairingly. “I’m sorry you’re dropping out of the Scouts. But of course, I’d rather you’d drop out altogether than be a scout slacker. So you’ll just have to suit yourself. Now what I want to say to you is this. You mustn’t get into trouble again. Last year you caused us a great deal of worry and I sent you up to Temple Camp thinking you’d find a suitable field of enjoyment there. So far I haven’t heard you say one word about your summer at Temple Camp. In the spring you encouraged Mr. Allerton’s dog to follow you for miles and he got run over and I had to settle with Mr. Allerton. You got in trouble for some absurdities last Hallowe’en, taking furniture from porches.
“Now you heard the judge say that if you ever came before him again, it would go hard with you. I just want to tell you, Herve, that in such a case you can’t count on me; you’ll have to take the consequences. I don’t mean that I’d let you go to jail; I know you wouldn’t commit a crime—be dishonest. But if it should ever seem advisable to send you away to some sort of military or training school, perhaps, where you will be under rigid discipline I would not discourage such a course. There are places where they send boys who are hard to manage. I think school opens a week from Monday, doesn’t it?”
“Yop, but Hairpin Wilkens isn’t going to teach mathematics this year, that’s one good thing.”
“And you’ve left the Scouts?”
“I threw them down flat,” said Hervey. “But, one thing, I’m going to show Chesty McCullen a good time; look what he was up against—oh bimbo!”
“I think that’s a good idea, Herve,” said Mr. Walton. “Why don’t you take him to the movies? Isn’t there a cowboy play at the Lyric?”
“Nix on looking at that stuff; it only makes me want to get out on a mustang. That’s what I want to do most of all—ride a horse, a good wild one. Montana, that’s where I’d like to go. Don’t you think the train robbers are all dead—they’re not.”
“No, I don’t suppose so.”
“I want to go on a ranch, that’s what I want to do.”
“Yes, but even on a ranch you’d have to obey orders. Ranches are run by rules. The whole world is run by rules, Herve.”
“Some punk rules, I’ll say.”
“Either you’ve got to do the world’s way, or else you’ve got to make the world do your way—and I’m afraid you can’t do that. Isn’t that so, Herve?”
“Bet your life,” said Hervey.
“Well, you take Chesty out and give him a good time; I think that’s a fine idea.”
“Sure, after being in jail like that,” said Hervey. The very idea of imprisonment was terrible to Hervey. To be confined, kept in; it was horrible, unbearable. He was the grand champion of freedom.
CHAPTER XVI
TO PASTURES NEW
The next morning Hervey went hunting for Chesty McCullen. He explored the neighborhood of Chesty’s wretched home and was finally driven to make inquiry at the very portals. He had never been squeamish about the character of his companions nor the scenes into which his casual acquaintanceships led him. But he could not fail to notice the squalid environment which was so different from that of his own home. He never thought of anything he did in the light of a good turn (that would be to pay a tribute to the Scouts), but he was going to show Chesty McCullen a good time and “blow him to soda,” because Chesty had been the unhappy victim of scout bungling.
But Chesty was not to be found. His poor, scrawny mother, busy with the washings that she took in and exhaling an odor of soap suds, told Hervey that he had gone away early, she didn’t know where. She thought he might have gone to bring home a “washing”, but she corrected this supposition on seeing his ramshackle cart in the yard. Hervey himself had often seen this outlandish vehicle on its two wobbly wheels. It was so inseparable from its maker and owner that it even looked strange standing in the cluttered back yard quite apart from its motive power. Hervey had never seen it at home before; poor Chesty was always pushing it around town with “washings” or miscellaneous kindling wood piled into it.
He went away disappointed, not knowing what to do. He had (in his own view) outlawed himself from the Scouts, and on the other hand he could not venture forth on any adventurous escapade. He knew that for a while he had better walk the straight and narrow path, and not get into any kind of trouble. His stepfather had been considerate with him, but just the same he sensed a certain something in Mr. Walton’s demeanor which boded ill for any bizarre and illicit enterprises. It seemed to him that his stepfather had resolved to let this little matter of the fire-alarm dare pass and to concentrate his anger and action on the next venture. There was something ominous in his very leniency, which Hervey had not failed accurately to construe.
That morning he occupied a place on the swinging crane of a steam shovel that was relentlessly digging an excavation for a new building on the business thoroughfare. He continued so enthroned, a picturesque figure it must be admitted, until the boss of the job came along, overruling the good-hearted workmen and ordering Hervey from those delightful precincts of dirt and disorder. Ejections of this sort were nothing new to Hervey.
At luncheon Mr. Walton was so casual and friendly in his talk that the boy more than ever conceived himself to be on probation. There were no threats, no warnings. But somehow he felt that his next transgression would be followed by vigorous consequences. This seemed to be in the home atmosphere.
In the afternoon he wandered forth and was lucky in seeing a special bus parked near the station. Along the side of it was a canvas sign that read:
He lost no time in making inquiries of the waiting driver and, on learning that the young business men’s team was to play the Hanniford team at Farrelton Junction grounds, he asked if he might join the imposing caravan.
“Guess they’ll have a full load, sonny,” said the driver. “The band’s going and a lot of the merchants.”
“Well, my father’s a merchant,” said Hervey.
“Anybody from your father’s place playing?”
It was suggestive that the rather old-fashioned establishment of conservative Mr. Walton was not represented on this gala occasion. The team was made up of young men who were clerks in the Farrelton stores and the band also was part of this young business men’s organization. They were having a half holiday to beat the Hanniford team. Wistful boys stood gazing at the special bus; some, no doubt, would hike to Farrelton Junction. Hervey alone sought acceptance into this merry adult company.
“Don’t I know Mr. Holmes? Don’t I get ice cream in his store?” he demanded. “Do you bet he won’t let me get in? Do you dare me to get in now?”
“Come ahead in,” called a burly young fellow in the bus. He was resplendent in a gray baseball suit with F.B.T. on it. “Come on, I dare you to.”
In went Hervey and down into a seat and the burly young fellow’s arm was around his shoulder.
“Do you take it back?” Hervey demanded.
“What?”
“The dare; do you take it back?”
“Where did you come by that hat?” the ball player asked. “So you want to root for the J.B.M.A. huh? All right, youngster.”
You see how it was with Hervey? Other boys, standing enviously outside, could only stare aghast. Then one ventured to try Hervey’s method and failed utterly. And there you are.
Soon the bus was crowded with ball players, business men, and the band. Hervey was the only boy. It started off with a deafening Sousa march leaving the stay-at-homes cheering.
In the mellow evening of that same day the bus returned bringing a load somewhat less exuberant, for Hanniford beat the Farrelton team eleven to one.
That one, however, was a home run. And it is with this home run that we are now concerned.
CHAPTER XVII
OVER THE TOP
There probably was never a boy in the world who rendered so much gratuitous service to his elders as Hervey Willetts. It was not exactly the spirit of service that impelled him. Next to being alone he liked to be mixed up in the manual activities of men and he was wont to constitute himself a sort of utility boy in their labors. Whenever the red wrecking car from the Mohawk Garage arrived upon the scene of a smashup, you would be pretty sure to see Hervey perched upon the seat with the mechanic. His boast that he knew the firemen was well made; he had many times been allowed to ride to fires on the bellowing apparatus. To paraphrase the familiar song Hervey had no rights at all, but he got there just the same.
Exactly why he preferred to loll out in the field chasing the balls which escaped the fielders, rather than to pitch or catch on a younger boys’ team, I do not know. He could not get a very good view of the game from his self chosen and remote post. But so it was, he sprawled out there during the whole progress of the game, occasionally running after the fugitive ball, which the players seemed willing enough to let him do.
At intervals, as the spirit moved him, he encouraged caterpillars to walk onto a stick, then dexterously projected them to a selected spot. He seemed captivated by this novel form of outdoor sport. Once a caterpillar alighted on his head and it was quite a stunt without the aid of sight to lay the stick in just the right spot for the caterpillar to proceed upon it. He missed several balls doing this, but no one seemed to care. His contribution to the game was quite voluntary.
Suddenly came the home run, knocked by the young man who was teller in the Farrelton Trust Company. At that moment the score stood three to nothing in favor of Hanniford. Amid frantic cheering the ball sped over the heads of the outfielders, over Hervey’s head—over a fence even— a fence which no aspiring ball had ventured to sail over in many a long month. And around went the runner, amid deafening yells, past first, past second, past third—and home. It was a spectacular run.
Pell-mell after the ball went Hervey. Before he had reached the fence the pitcher was fondling another ball; there was to be no interruption on account of a lost ball, but if he wished to go after it they would be glad to have it back. Up the high iron fence he scrambled, slipping, straining and catching his trousers on the ornamental pickets. He stood between pickets, balancing himself. If he didn’t jump he would fall. And he had better take care that one or other of his feet did not get caught between those ornamental arrowheads when he did jump. He swayed, swung his arms to get his balance, and jumped. But he was afraid to give a springing jump for fear his feet would catch in the narrow space between those gilded arrowheads.
So he did not jump clear of the trim row of hydrangea bushes which bordered the fence within. Instead he went sprawling down into it and a shower of snowy flakes from the huge flowers besprinkled his clothing and floated away on the air. For a few seconds he literally swam in the yielding bushes, scattering the flaky petals as he trod down the gorgeous clusters. “When you see those things you know school is going to open,” Roy Blakeley of Temple Camp had told him.
But now something even more tragic was going to happen. For a few moments his sprawling legs did not even find the ground. Then one landed on the damp earth underneath the spreading shrubs and he strode out opening and tearing the flowered branches by main strength. He emerged in the very teeth of a huge dog that had run up barking furiously. In sheer self-protection, he backed into the shrubbery and damaged it still more, the dog advancing menacingly, the while barking with increasing excitement. The beast seemed in a very delirium of rage.
Intent as the dog was on challenging Hervey’s progress, the safest course seemed to be to mount the fence again. In having recourse to this retreat he trampled the bushes still more till he had made a sorry wreck of them. The dog’s frantic barking increased till he seemed beside himself with wrath. What might have happened if he had remained master of the situation it would be harrowing to describe, he was deterred from further aggression by a bulky, youngish man in a pair of overalls who came briskly along a flower-bordered walk and dragged him by the collar, then gave him a kick.
He was quite as brisk and vigorous with Hervey as he had been with the dog, reaching across the bushes, grabbing him by the collar, and hauling him out into the path where he continued holding him in a firm grip.
“You let me go,” said Hervey, his anger rising with this indignity. “I’m not going to beat it, but you let me go. You needn’t think I’m like a dog, you big— You let me go, do you hear!” He accompanied his demand with a vigorous kick in his captor’s shins.
“What are you doing in here?” the young man demanded angrily. “Do you see what you did. I suppose you’re the youngster that was in here last night after grapes.” He held his captive at arm’s length, though indeed Hervey did not repeat the vicious assault with his feet.
“I came in after the ball,” he said.
“Yes, and did you see the sign out there as big as a house, or are you blind?”
It was quite like Hervey that he had seen no sign; he seldom saw them.
“Look at what you’ve done,” said his captor. “How much damage do you suppose you’ve done there? Look at that. Look at that other bush. Look at those two there. You’d think an earthquake had struck them. Do you think you can do fifty or a hundred dollars’ worth of damage to get a baseball? What do you think of this?” he added, turning to another man who had just appeared. The man shook his head dubiously. “Well, he’s going to learn his lesson this time.”
“It’s the first time I was ever in here,” said Hervey fearfully.
“And it will be the last,” said his captor. “You heard what the governor told me before he left, Jake, that I should have the law on any more trespassers? I’m expected to run this place, look after fifty acres—cows, horses, poultry, and oversee three acres of this fancy stuff—and look at it! Who got blamed about the rhododendrons—you remember? I’ve got to be superintendent and detective and everything else here. Go get Charlie and tell him to come and fix these things up. You’d think a cyclone hit them.”
“I didn’t mean—” Hervey began.
“Oh, I know,” the man snapped. “You didn’t know private property has to be respected. Well, I’m going to do what I was told to do, then maybe you’ll learn a lesson. Every time anybody comes over that fence he lands on my head, it seems. I’m the one to get the blame. You go get Charlie; I’ll take care of this kid.”
If Hervey had not been too fearful to think he might have surmised that the anger of this man, evidently superintendent of a large estate, had not been aroused simply by this particular instance of trespass, even with its destructive accompaniment. The man had evidently been harassed by trespassers on the one hand and by his employer on the other. Hervey had precipitated himself into those beautiful gardens at a most unpropitious time. He was evidently to be the terrible example to others who had made free in those fruited and flowered precincts.
“All right, sir; you come along with me,” said the superintendent briskly.
CHAPTER XVIII
GUILTY
“Can’t you take me to the man that owns this place?” poor Hervey asked, as his captor strode along, holding him by the sleeve.
“I’d have to take you all the way to Europe to do that,” the man answered with a kind of brisk pleasantry. “Switzerland and gosh knows where all. And all I got is two men on the grounds.”
The unfortunate captive ventured to take advantage of this faint sign of relenting. “If I promise never to—”
“You promise that to the man I’m going to take you to,” the superintendent interrupted. “I’ve got nothing to do with it.” He seemed not a bad sort, but rather a man keyed up to perform a plain duty. “I was on the grill, now it’s your turn,” he said. “I’ve got the harvests to get ready for and grading down the terraces and it seems I’ve got to look out for every grape-stealing fence climber in the state.”
Hervey tried another tack with this much-harassed man who talked shop so freely with him. “Bimbo, I feel sorry for you,” he said.
The man glanced sideways at him. “Well, I reckon nobody’s going to kill you,” he said.
He hurried along winding gravel walks, Hervey running to keep up with him. Soon they passed along the side of a great brick mansion covered with ivy. The windows on the ground floor were boarded up. The lawn which they crossed was shaded by mammoth elms and at a pretty granite bird bath, a robin was leisurely taking a drink, pausing like an epicure after each draught. Hervey wished that he was to be taken before the owner of this princely estate; somehow he felt that he would stand a chance with a gentleman of such wealth. He knew that wealthy gentlemen helped the Boy Scouts. But then he was no longer a scout....
With brisk concentration on a palpably unpleasant task the responsible custodian of the place passed out into the road and along it for perhaps a hundred yards where there were several houses, a couple of stores and a square white church. This was all there was of Farrelton Junction. Down in the woods was a tiny railroad station. The superintendent conducted Hervey to a white peak-roofed house almost exactly like the one he lived in. Like most New England houses it was porchless and severe. But it looked as if it had been painted only that very day. On the front door a modest sign proclaimed it to be the home of Alden Snibbel, Justice of the Peace. Hervey was relieved that this time it was not a police station he was to enter.
Mr. Snibbel himself opened the door and immediately a delicious odor of cooking pastry was wafted to Hervey. Mr. Snibbel was coatless with suspenders conspicuously visible. He was lanky and had a sandy mustache. He was in need of shaving. He was easy and pleasant. There was no suggestion of authority or the law in the plainly furnished room where Hervey and his captor sat down on a hair-cloth sofa. A parrot in a cage said, “Here we are. Stay to dinner.” Hervey felt reassured; it was not so bad. Mr. Snibbel sat down at a flat desk and this was the only suggestion of legal formality in the whole scene.
Best of all, Hervey’s captor addressed Mr. Snibbel by his first name. “Sniffs pretty good, Allie,” said he.
“The wife’s making pies,” said the justice. “Get your radio fixed all right?”
“Had to get a tube up to the Center. Well, here’s the first catch—hook, bait and sinker. Didn’t notice the sign a mile big, sprawled down into the flower hedge; says he was after a ball.”
The justice of the peace glanced at Hervey, then back at the complainant.
“I’m doing just what General Pond told me to do,” said the superintendent. “I’m bringing this youngster here for trespass. The general gave me his orders; no matter who it was, he said.”
“Yes, he was complaining to me,” said the justice casually. He seemed to ponder for a few moments, then asked Hervey his name, where he lived, if he attended school, etc. And Hervey told him how he had not intended to trespass; how he was just pursuing the ball. He said he was sorry he had done any damage. He protested that he had not seen the sign.
“Well, if you think he’s punished—” the superintendent said. It was amusing how at the point of sentencing he seemed to waver and relent.
“I think it just simmers down to a plain case of trespass,” the justice drawled impersonally and not unkindly. “He didn’t intend to do any damage. He’s responsible for that, of course, but I sort of think that just a little taste of the law and he’ll stay out of people’s grounds; I think then he’ll pay more attention to signs. You don’t want to make a charge of destroying property? Just trespass—that’s unlawful entry.”
“No, I’m not the man to pile it on.”
The justice seemed to pause and consider. Then suddenly, as if to make an end of the matter, he said, “Well, there’s no use of property owners putting up signs if a boy that doesn’t care enough to take notice comes along and just goes where he wants to. And besides, a fence around private property is sign enough. You saw the fence, I reckon.”
“Yes sir,” said Hervey, in panic apprehension.
“Hmm. And if the authorities don’t stand ready to enforce the law, there’s not much use of anything.” He glanced at General Pond’s superintendent in a way of pleasant query, as if to ask whether this was not fair and reasonable.
“Seems so,” said the superintendent.
“Well, I’m going to fine you five dollars,” said the justice. “And that really isn’t five dollars fine, because it includes the costs. You know what costs are? Well every time a boy breaks the law and gets caught it costs the community money. So the boy has to pay this; that’s only fair. Five dollars fine including costs,” he added conclusively.
“I haven’t got five dollars,” Hervey said pitifully. “So do I have to go to jail?”
The justice glanced at the superintendent who seemed uncomfortable. I suspect that glance deterred the man from offering to pay the fine. Alas, he was paying the penalty that every man who dealt with Hervey had to pay; he was feeling contemptible for doing what was right.
“Oh bimbo, that’s a lot for a feller to have,” said Hervey. “Will you please not send me to jail—please?”
The justice studied him. It was perfectly evident that he was resolved to make him an example, but also that was disposed to temper his judgment with consideration. “No, it don’t need that you go to jail, I guess,” he drawled: “not if you’re honest. I’ll parole you till twelve o’clock to-morrow. If you don’t come and pay your fine then, we’ll have to send for you. You have parents, I suppose?”
“Y—yes—I have.”
“Very well then, you come here to-morrow not later than twelve o’clock and pay your fine. And I think then you’ll have had your lesson.” The official glanced significantly at General Pond’s man as if to say he thought that was the best solution.
And General Pond’s man made a wry face, as if to say that he supposed so.
As for Hervey, he was so thankful to go free that he did not for the moment concern himself about the fine. His captor did not accompany him, but stayed behind to look at the justice’s radio set. He went out into the road with Hervey, however, and showed him how he could get back to the ball field without crossing the Pond estate.
“Does parole mean that you’re—sort of—not free yet?” he asked.
“That’s it, sonny,” said the superintendent. “Long as you don’t fail you’re all right. You just tell your father. Every kid is entitled to one flop I suppose; they say every dog is entitled to one bite. And now you get your lesson. Scoot along now and I hope your team wins.”
CHAPTER XIX
THE COMEBACK
That was all very well but, you see, this was not Hervey’s first flop. It was his second one in three days. He was very subdued going home in the bus, and refrained from telling any one of his adventure beyond the fence. It was important that his father should not hear of it.
Not that his father would think the affair so terrible, considered by itself. It was against the background of his father’s mood that it seemed so bad. At all events it was very unfortunate. His father was in no humor to consider all the circumstances. If he knew that Hervey had been arrested and fined, that would be enough. Hervey could not tell him after the warning he had so recently received.
But he must get five dollars, and he knew not what to do. Five dollars seemed a good deal of money to get without giving a pretty good reason. And he had to get it within a brief, specified time. Failing, he had visions of an official from Farrelton Junction coming to get him.
He was very quiet at the supper table that evening and afterward asked Mr. Walton if he might go out for a while. He had thought that he might confide in his stepfather and take a chance on the consequences, but he could not bring himself to do that. He thought of his stepmother, always kind and affectionate, but he was afraid she would be agitated at the knowledge of his predicament and take counsel with her husband. Here again Hervey did not quite dare to take a chance. He thought of Myra, the hired girl. But Myra was spending the night with her people and Hervey did not like to seek her there.
He went down in the cellar and got out his bicycle, the only thing of value that he possessed. He took it out the cellar way and rode it downtown to Berly’s Bicycle Shop. It would probably be some days before either Mr. or Mrs. Walton would ask about the bicycle, and Hervey’s thought, as usual, did not reach beyond the immediate present. He did not like the idea of selling his bicycle; it had never seemed quite so dear to him as on that very ride downtown. But this was the only solution of his problem.
Mr. Berly looked the machine over leisurely. “How much do you want for it?” he asked.
It had never occurred to Hervey to ask for more than the sum he needed, but now he realized that he might sell the bicycle and be a millionaire in the bargain. “Would you give—twelve dollars for it?” he ventured timorously.
Mr. Berly scrutinized him. “Your parents want you to sell it?” he asked.
“Don’t it belong to me?” said Hervey uncomfortably.
“Well, I think you better ask your folks about it first,” the dealer said. “See what they say, then if everything is all right you come back here and I’ll give you the right price for it.”
Hervey’s hopes were dashed. He rode his bike down the street with an odd feeling of being both glad and sorry. But mainly he was worried, for time was precious and he knew he must do something. He stopped in front of the home of Harlem Hinkey and gave his familiar call. He hoped Hinkey would come out, yet somehow he hoped he wouldn’t come out. He hardly knew how he would approach the subject with Hinkey.
The Hinkeys had a great deal of money and supplied their son rather too liberally with it. They had lately moved from New York, and since Hinkey was unpopular and Hervey was an odd number, they had struck up acquaintance. Hinkey was a devotee of the practical joke and his joy was always in proportion to the discomfort of his victims. He boasted much of his imperial status in Harlem where he had held sway until his father took over a motion picture theatre in Farrelton. He came sauntering out in response to Hervey’s call. And all inadvertently he made it easy for Hervey to begin.
“You want to go down to the show?” Hinkey asked.
“I would except for this blamed old bike,” said Hervey. “Bimbo, I’d sell the darned thing for five dollars, it’s such a blamed nuisance.”
“What are you riding it for then?”
“I’m just bringing it home from Berly’s Bicycle Shop,” said Hervey. “I never use it much. Places where I go, you couldn’t ride a bike. If you should meet any one that wants to buy a bike, let me know, will you?”
“Sure,” said Hinkey, uninterested.
“Do you want to buy it?” Hervey asked, emboldened.
“What would I want to buy it for when I drive a car?” Hinkey asked.
That was Hervey’s last hope. He rode his bike home, put it in the cellar and went upstairs to his room. He had many times disregarded the law, but he had never before found himself at grips with it like this. And all because he had been just a little heedless in pursuing a ball. He thought that the whole business was monstrously unfair.
What had he done that was so bad? It never occurred to him that the whole trouble was this— that he had got himself into a position where he could not move either way. He could not run the risk of making a confident of Mr. Walton in this small matter because of other matters. This matter was serious only because he had made it so. He was in a predicament, as he always was. Once he had hung from a tree by his feet and could not let go nor yet regain hold with his hands. And there you have Hervey. Mental quandaries or physical quandaries, it was all the same.
Well, there was one thing he could do which he had many times thought of doing; he could run away from home. That seemed to be the only thing left to do. He had many times made unauthorized excursions from home, but he had never run away. Happy-go-lucky and reckless as he was, he could not think of this without a tremor. But it was the only thing to do. He would not go to jail even for a day, he could not pay his fine, and he dared not tell his stepfather of his predicament. He resolved to run away.
Once resolved to do a thing, Hervey was never at a loss. He would go away and he would never return. He would go that very night. Since he was unable to meet the situation he had a feeling that at any moment something might happen. Yet he did not know where to go. Well, he would think about that after he got in bed and would start off early in the morning; that would be better. There was a circus in Clover Valley. Why wouldn’t it be a good idea to hike there and join the circus? Surely they could give him a job. And pretty soon he would be miles and miles distant. He had had enough of Farrelton and all this business....
He started to undress, but he was not altogether happy. Suppose everything did not go right? He had no money—oh well, a lot he cared! He sat on the edge of the bed unlacing his shoes. No promptings of sentiment stood in the way of his resolve. But running away from home without any money was a serious business and he wondered just how he was going to manage it. He would like to go to sea, only in this inland city—
He was startled by the banging of the front door knocker downstairs. The sound broke upon his worried cogitations like a hundred earthquakes. Who could that be at half past nine at night? He heard footfalls in the hall below, then muffled voices. He crept to his door, opened it a little, and listened. He was trembling, he knew not why. That justice man had given him till the next day; if— Why it wouldn’t be fair at all.
Yet he distinctly heard the word punished uttered by a strange voice. His heart was in his mouth. Should he climb out through the window and jump from the roof of the kitchen shed, and then run? What were they talking about down there? He heard the word police. Perhaps they knew he could not get the money and were taking no chances. Then he heard the gentle voice of his stepmother saying, “The poor boy.” That was himself. He rushed to the window, threw up the screen, put one foot out. He heard footfalls on the stairs. They seemed to come half way up, then paused.
“Hervey, dear,” Mrs. Walton called.
He did not answer, but in a sudden impulse sprang back into the room and grabbed his outlandish, rimless hat from one of the posts of his old-fashioned bed.
“Hervey, dear?”
She opened the door just as he sat straddling the window-sill ready to slide off the little shed roof.
“Here’s a letter for you, Hervey; a young fellow just left it. What on earth are you doing, my dear boy? You’ll have the room full of flies and moth millers.”
He came back into the room, tore open the envelope which his astonished stepmother handed him, and the next thing he knew he was reading a note, conscious all the while that part of it had fluttered to the floor.
Dear Hervey:—
I was mighty sorry to learn that you’ve given us up. Craig Hobson told me and he seems to think it wouldn’t be worth while talking to you. Of course, it’s better to be out of the Scouts than to be in and not interested. He says you can’t be in anything and maybe after all he’s right.
You care so little about our thriving troop that I dare say you have forgotten about the Delmore prize of five dollars to every boy that introduces another boy to scouting. Chesty McCullen went to give your message to Craig and Warner this morning and stayed at their lawn camp and ate spaghetti and begged to be allowed to take your place in the patrol. Of course, nobody can take the place of Hervey Willetts, but Chesty is all dolled up with a clean face and we’ve taken him in and of course, we feel that you’re the fellow that wished him onto us.
So here’s the five dollars, Herve, for introducing a new member into the troop and please accept my thanks as your scoutmaster, and the thanks of all these scouts who aren’t smart enough to make heads or tails of you. And good luck to you, Hervey Boy. You’re a bully little scout missionary anyway.
Your scoutmaster,Ebin Talbot
Hervey groped around under the bed and with trembling hand lifted the crisp, new five dollar bill. And there he stood with a strange feeling in his throat, clutching the bill and the letter while gentle Mrs. Walton lowered the wire screen so that the room wouldn’t be full of flies and moth millers.
“Well! Now aren’t you proud?” she asked.
He did not know whether he was proud or not. But he knew that the crazy world was upside down. He had sent Chesty to denounce the Scouts and Chesty had remained and joined. And the Scouts had sent five dollars and called him a missionary.
“A missionary! Think of that!” said Mrs. Walton.
“It’s not so bad being a missionary,” said Hervey. “That isn’t calling names. Bimbo, they go to Africa and Labrador—it’s not so bad being called one.”
“Well, you’d better take your hat off and go to bed now,” said his stepmother.
“You don’t think I’d let ’em call me names, do you?” Hervey demanded. “That’s one thing.”
“I don’t see how you can hit them,” laughed Mrs. Walton, “they seem to have such a long reach. It’s hard to get away from them.”
It certainly was a knockout.
CHAPTER XX
OMINOUS
“Well, that’s a pretty good joke,” said Mr. Walton at the breakfast table. “You take my advice and save it for next summer up at camp, Herve. I think after this we’ll call you the missionary, eh mother? Shall we call him the missionary? The scout worker! Toiler in the scout vineyard!” Contrary to his custom, Mr. Walton leaned back and laughed.
“The boy who brought the letter,” said Mrs. Walton, “told me Mr. Talbot thought it was fine that Hervey went to the police and saved an innocent boy from being punished. Poor little Chesty McCullen—”
“I can only hope he proves worthy of the young missionary who converted him,” Mr. Walton interrupted.
So that was the sense in which those appalling words, overheard by Hervey, had been used.
“I was going to take him and give him a good time,” said Hervey.
“I think you’re giving him the time of his life,” said his stepfather.
When Hervey went forth after breakfast the world looked bright. A few days were still to elapse before the opening of school and he was never at a loss for something to do. He did not keenly feel Chesty McCullen’s desertion to the enemy’s camp. And I am sorry to say that he was not deeply touched by the receipt of the much needed five dollars from the Scouts. Hervey could never be won by sentiment. He said he was lucky and there was an end of it as far as he was concerned. Here he had recognition for doing a clean, straightforward thing (for he had not one streak of yellow in him), but he took no pride in it. And when they were thrilled at his essential honor, he was not even grateful. He went upon his way rejoicing. He did not know anything about honor because he never did anything with deliberation and purpose. He had the much needed five dollars and that was all he thought about.
He went to Farrelton Junction that morning and paid his fine, and on the way back he drove a frightened cat up a tree and climbed up after it. It may be observed in passing that he was the sworn enemy of cats. To get one at bay and poke his stick at it and observe its thickened tail and mountainous back was his idea of high adventure. The frantic hissing was like music to his ears. He might have had the stalker’s badge, the pathfinder’s badge, and half a dozen other badges for the mileage and ingenuity wasted on cats.
On that very day he made a discovery which was to keep him right side up for several days. During that time Farrelton and his home saw but little of him. It was the calm preceding the storm. He discovered along the railroad tracks near Clover Valley, a crew of workers engaged in lengthening a siding. They had been brought from distant parts and made their home in a freight car which was converted into a rolling camp. It had a kitchen with an old-fashioned stove in it and pots and pans hanging all about. Partitioned off from this was a compartment with delightfully primitive bunks. The workers hung out their washing on the roof of the car.
Best of all there was a little handcar at their disposal, which was worked by pumping a handle up and down. By this means they could move back and forth from the village of Clover Valley, about two miles up the line. Between two o’clock and five-nineteen each day, this little car was safe on the line and they used it to get provisions from the village. Hervey loved this handcar as no mortal ever before loved an inanimate thing. To propel it by its creaky pump handle was a delight. And the old freight car in which those half-dozen men fried bacon and played cards approximated nearer than anything he had ever seen to his idea of heaven.