“I must have to report to you the utter spoil of your shop and your work; also my own complete!” Such was the breath-taking remark of Tony Sabaste, as he stuck his head into the room of Bill and Gus and regarded the boys at their studies soon after daylight.
With no more than a word of surprise or doubt the young mechanics followed their Italian friend into the basement and were not long in finding his words true.
The crown plate of the drill had been broken in two with a hammer and probably the same means had been used to crack the lathe pulley and smash some of the tools. Materials were not harmed, but the work just begun on two new radio sets of the better value, along with Tony’s efforts, was reduced to splinters.
The door of the shop had never been locked; the miscreant had entered in the night and engaged in the work of destruction.
“Well, who——?” began Bill.
“Ah, say not that question,” said Tony. “Do not you know? Is there a doubt; even one? I have no enemy in the school but one, and who else——”
“Oh, sure, anyone but friendly, innocent Bill would know. Malatesta, of course.”
Gus was ready with short cuts to names as well as to problems, his genius for detection having been proved in a like instance, before this. He went over and picked up a hammer, holding it by the head and scanning the handle.
“Here, I suppose, are some thumb prints,” he said; “it only remains for us to get hold of——”
Gus was interrupted by the sudden entrance of a member of the senior class, Jim Lambert, who had but a few days before completed a crystal radio set in the shop. He gazed about him.
“About as I thought. This is rotten, fellows, and if I know anything, it is going to be paid for.”
“Who will—?” began Bill.
“Let me tell you. I room right above here, as you know. Late last night, very late, probably toward morning, I was wakened by a noise. I listened and heard the sound of a blow that was surely down here. Then I heard some more noises, muffled, though,—the floor, you know, is fire-proofed and thick. I didn’t wake Smith, but I got up and went to the door and looked out. I hadn’t been there two minutes before I was aware that someone came up out of the basement and was standing in the hall. I think he must have suspected something, for he came along toward my door and I got inside and closed it, with my hand on the knob so as not to click the latch. Then I felt a pressure on the door—the fellow had the nerve to try it. He wanted to see if it was open, probably thinking it was left ajar and he may have seen the light from the window, pulled it open then and there he was—pretty much through the door before I closed it. Well, I just surprised, I guess.”
“Who, who?” from Bill.
“Why, Malatesta, of course,” said Gus, with positive finality.
“Say, young fellow, you’ve got it. Good guesser. He must have some grudge against——”
“What said he? How explain?” demanded Tony, visibly excited, his dark eyes glittering with wrath.
“Not a word. Just grinned and turned away as cool as a glacier and mosied off. Said I: ‘Well, what are you after?’ But he made no reply and beat it.”
“If this isn’t the limit!” Bill exclaimed.
“It’ll be his limit! Come on! The Doctor is an early riser and we’ll see him at once,” Lambert urged.
“But we aren’t going to squeal on a—” Bill’s loyalty to school practices was extreme.
“Oh, yes you are in this case! This is no prank. It’s a crime, and it would be another to keep it to myself. Loyalty to the school demands that we squeal. To be sure we have only circumstantial evidence——”
“No, actual,” said Gus, holding up the hammer. “Let’s get the man and we’ll do the rest with some ink, a piece of paper and a magnifying glass.”
“Glory! That’s the cheese! I never thought of that,” Lambert said, leading the way out of the building and to the office, discussing the case further on the way. The boys met the Doctor returning from an early morning walk, which was a habit with him, and within the office he heard Lambert’s report calmly.
“We cannot call in any of the teachers, or the janitor, as hardly anyone is up yet. We shall have to handle the case without gloves and depend on you boys. You will understand my position, so I will ask you, Lambert, to bring Malatesta here at once, saying I wish to see him. Wake him, if need be.”
“But if he refuses at this hour?” asked the senior.
“But will he, if it is at my request?”
“Very likely. I know him. Rage, scare, ugly, even knife; no telling!” Tony declared.
“Then we had better wait for the janitor. Go call him.”
“No, Doctor, please,” urged Gus. “I’ll go with Lambert and we’ll fetch him here. And he won’t hurt anybody.”
“But can you be sure of this? We always try to avoid publicity in matters of this kind. It would be best to have Malatesta here this early, before most of the boys are up and about, but there must be no trouble.”
“You may be sure there will be no trouble,” Gus insisted. “Bill can tell you why. It’s really quite simple.”
“Well, at least call on Malatesta and tell him. I will call the janitor.”
Gus and Lambert hastened away. Bill, also eager to have the Sicilian apprehended at once, and knowing Gus would put it over, sought to detain the Doctor. Tony, like-minded, aided in this. In a few minutes Lambert was knocking on Malatesta’s door, Gus having gone to his own room.
There was no response at first; then, a sleepy grunt. The time was yet an hour or more before the first rising bell, so this early summons might properly be resented. But when Lambert called in a low voice: “I have a message from Doctor Field,” the Italian’s roommate, Johnston, a morose, dull-witted chap whose whole mind was bent on keeping up with his classes, made reply:
“Both of you,” said Lambert, which was true, for he knew he could not enter without seeing Johnston also.
At that Johnston got up, opened the door and Lambert entered, in his hand a paper which he made a pretense of consulting, as though it were a memorandum of his errand, his real purpose being to hold off until Gus appeared. Somehow the senior had faith in this quiet, smiling, precise freshman.
Then Gus came swiftly along the hall and through the room door, advancing near the bed still occupied by the Italian. Lambert, rather inclined to dodge trouble, stepped back a little. Said Gus:
“Malatesta, Doctor Field wants to see you at once. He wants no fuss, Johnston, he said, so please let on to know nothing about it. Come on!”—this to the Sicilian.
“What to see me about?” demanded the Italian, angrily. “Well, I will presently see him—go tell him that! It is not yet the time for school. I am yet wishing to sleep a little. Good day to you.”
“You get up and into your duds! This is no joke.” Gus advanced a step.
“And who are you to so order of me? Get out of this room!”
“Come on, you! If you don’t slide out of there in about three shakes we’ll drag you out and take you up as you are.”
Malatesta got out, but not in the spirit of obedience demanded of him. He tossed the bed clothes aside and, to the astonishment of all three beholders, proved to be fully dressed, excepting his coat and shoes. With his feet on the floor, he quickly reached behind him and drew forth a long-bladed clasp-knife, flinging it open with the dexterity of long practice. But Gus was quicker. In two seconds the fellow was staring into the muzzle of a revolver.
“Put it up if you don’t want to look like a sieve. Now, then, shoes. Coat. And put down that knife. That’s right. Now move!”
Malatesta was not equal to any further braggadocio. Intuition goes far at such times, and there seemed to be something about this holder of the more powerful weapon that demanded respect. The fellow hardly gave a second glance at the gun, but stepped into his shoes. Without stopping to lace them, he grabbed his coat and got into it as he headed for the door. The march to the school office, single file, Luigi, Gus and Lambert in the order named, was as silent as it was hasty, Gus thrusting the pistol, a real one this time and loaded, into his pocket as they went. Nor did he need to draw it again.
“Luigi Malatesta, I am sorry to have been compelled to bring you here at this hour,” said the president, “but you are suspected of——”
“Oh, I know! But me it was not! Yet I know who, though to tell I shall never do.”
“How do you know? Were you present, then, when the injury was done?”
“No, not present, but I know.”
“You must tell us——”
“Never!”
“Why not?”
“It is not the way of the school to blow——”
“Pardon me, please, Doctor, but we won’t get anywhere this way,” interposed Bill when Gus nudged him. “If I may suggest——”
The president had come to regard this boy as possessing ideas and he hesitated. Bill turned to Gus who stood with the hammer and a magnifying glass held behind him.
“Please have this man,” said Bill, indicating the Italian, “make a print of his thumb—this way.” Bill smeared some ink on a blotter and took up a bit of white paper. Malatesta frowned, then smirked, then laughed.
“And why not may I?” he questioned. “This will make of these villains fools!”
The animal-like snarl that the Sicilian put into this last sentence did not gain him any sympathy, but there was only confidence in his quick motions and ready compliance. He stepped to the desk, pressed his thumb on the wet ink spot, then on the white paper, fell back a few steps and glared defiantly. Gus brought forth the hammer and the expression on Malatesta’s face changed somewhat.
Silence followed as the Doctor took up the hammer handle and went over it with the magnifying-glass, paused at a spot where the handle would be most commonly held and examined the surface long and carefully. He turned to the thumb-print on the paper, then back again to the handle, comparing the two impressions. Presently he glanced at Bill and then at Gus, nodding; he turned to Malatesta.
“We do not wish to let such an unfortunate circumstance as this become hurtful to the school by making it public. The janitor will be here in a moment. He will accompany you to your room and you will obtain your property and leave at once. When you return this way I shall give you the sum paid us for your tuition. The school will make good the damage you caused. Ah, here is Royce now.” The president proceeded to instruct the janitor.
Lambert, followed by Bill and Gus, returned at once to the dormitory, after a word of caution from Doctor Field, and, aside from the fact that Malatesta left before the school was fully awake, the students knew nothing.
The injury to the shop was kept as secret as possible. In a few days the work went on as before, only one other fellow besides Lambert knowing there had been a smash-up. So that incident was closed, but out of it, or as a part of it, more serious circumstances showed that Malatesta, wherever he may have gone, had by no means forgotten the feud that now included Bill and Gus as well as Tony.
Gus was never questioned as to his possession of a revolver which made his wild west method of intimidating Malatesta possible. Probably the Doctor believed the cigar case had been used again.
Siebold, a keen-witted fellow and an athlete, was the leading spirit among the sophomores of Marshallton Tech. He was class president, stood easily at the head of his classes, if head there was, and in most things he admittedly surpassed his fellows. His people being well-to-do, he indulged in all the little “side kicks,” as the boys termed sports, social diversions and the like.
A really fine chap was Siebold, though he possessed one unfortunate failing—he persisted in holding to a grudge; and he had never forgiven Bill and Gus for that hazing fiasco, nor for bringing down the scorn of the school on what had been considered a harmless kind of fun.
Of course, the school had a debating society, of which the membership was from all classes. Bill joined it; Gus did not, and it was the only thing in which they acted separately, with the exception of the gymnasium. Bill was sorry he had joined the society, for upon being chosen one of the three speakers on one side of a subject so decidedly in their favor that the question should never have been selected as offering a negative, Bill had so completely overcome the opposition led by Siebold, who especially prided himself as a debater, that his opponent and his mates were held up to much ridicule. Whereupon the breach widened, and Siebold took many occasions to show a paltry spite against Bill and even toward Gus because he was Bill’s chum.
In the gym, Siebold also shone as a good boxer, fencer and wrestler. This rarely brought him into contact with Gus who, during his short exercise, avoided others. Tony, however, was willing to become a victim. The young Italian liked to put on the gloves, as he was quick, strong and good-natured; but the instructor had, for some reason known only to himself, passed him by.
Late one afternoon Gus stopped pulling weights to watch Siebold box with a big soph who was a mark for quick, scientific work and whose heavy punches and swings often fell short of their aim. Tony also was an interested spectator and came forward with the request that Siebold show him some of the points he had mastered. Whereupon Siebold had the Italian lad put on the gloves with Sadler and the big fellow promptly hit Tony and knocked him off his feet.
The Italian’s dark eyes flashed fire, but he smiled and came back. The instructor refused to let the bout continue, saying that Tony must gain more experience. Gus called Tony over.
“I don’t want to butt in,” he said, “but I didn’t like that. You could learn that game. Would you mind if——” he hesitated modestly.
“Could you show me? Everything you do so verra good.”
Tony was so eager that Gus consented. They agreed to come to the gym at a time when no one, not even the instructor, was there. Then, in addition, Tony bought a set of gloves so that the two could practice in the shop now and then. A month went by. Cold weather came; then the Christmas holidays. Bill and Gus went home for the one big day, and came back to study and to continue their shop work; but Tony was away for ten days, during which he took a few lessons from one of the best teachers of the fistic art that could be found.
“He said I am now there,” gleefully announced Tony when the three got together again; “and that I can learn one poco, for I did puncha him times several and he no hit me sempra. I think you,” his dark eyes appraised Gus, “are quite—no, I not throw bouquets—are gooda as he.”
“Oh, not so good as Ben Duffy? I know all about him. I went once with my city uncle to see him fight. He’s a crackerjack, sure.”
“But he not poka me more as you do,” argued Tony.
“Well, I’ve been studying your defense longer—it’s mine too, you know. That’s the reason.” The generous Gus smiled. “Anyway, let’s go to the gym to-morrow. I want to see how you mix it up now with Sadler.”
Tony did “mix it up” much to Sadler’s discomfort. Siebold stepped up:
“Say, Italy, where did you get it?” And Tony, proud, ever eager to give credit to a friend, nodded toward Gus.
“To him I do owe it. He one granda master with the feest.”
“So? Expert electrician, mechanic, sport spoiler and bruiser, eh? Some combination.” And Siebold turned away with something too much like a sneer on his fine face. Gus was hurt, but smiled, as usual. Tony resented the slur.
“For all which,” he said, “the cervel—the brain, is required, eh? Maybe, Soph, if you brain ancora had you could beata heem—but no so now.”
“No? I’ll bet a sardine that you could put it all over him,” Siebold said, desiring to mollify an upper classman. Tony laughed.
“No; not coulda you ancora, nor any other one in this school.”
Siebold turned away, as he added: “You won’t have a chance to prove that. I pick my company. But you will get another go at Sadler after I give him some more pointers.” It was evident that the leader among the sophomores was something of a snob. A little later his prediction came true regarding Sadler and Tony.
Gus was again a witness to the bout. It had become noised around and the gym held a goodly crowd of students. At such times the instructor, though interested and often a witness, dodged participation because of the slugging tendency and its possible effect on the school if he encouraged such a thing.
Tony went into the game with a smile. Sadler, though generally good-natured, was serious and determined from the start. He got a number of stinging cracks on his ribs and in the stomach, Tony hardly being able to reach his head. Beaten again at points, landed on five times as often as he landed, he began to resort to a waiting game, for there was no doubt he could stand punishment. Stand it he did until Tony got enough confidence for infighting, though he should never have attempted to swap punches with such a big fellow.
Suddenly Sadler caught the smaller man starting a short arm upper cut for the jaw and he took it open, delivering at the same instant a hook that no man when giving a blow could hope to block. He caught Tony coming in and that lent additional momentum to the blow which got Tony on the side of the neck, over the artery, and it was as clean a knock-out as could be given. They carried the Italian to a wrestling mat, fanned and bathed his face, and when he came to and sat up, Siebold was there with his ready tongue.
“He’s too heavy for you. No fellow could hope to stand up to Sadler at his own game. I told you so.”
Gus saw Tony’s real hurt and was incensed. “Oh, don’t you believe that,” he said to Tony. “Another time——”
“Huh, fellow! Maybe you think you could stand up to Sadler. I’d like to see you, or anyone here, even the instructor.” He glanced around. “Could they, Mr. Gay?”
“Well, perhaps not. Sadler has the punch and you can’t hurt him,” said the instructor, coming up. “Feel all right now, Sabaste?”
Nothing more was said about another bout, but the subject stirred the crowd so that it could not die out entirely. Three or four days later the instructor and Siebold entered the gym together, and stopped to watch Gus punching the bag. Siebold had never seen anything quite so snappy as that. Mr. Gay made some remarks.
“That fellow must have had some instructions under a strong teacher—there’s good material there! Say, look at the way he plays a tattoo and swings, too, and gets away from it. Foot work, my boy—foot work! You’re good, Siebold, but we haven’t anything like that in the school. I had no idea of it.”
“Shucks! All the same I’d like to see him swap cracks with Sadler,” said Siebold doggedly. Just at that instant Sadler came lumbering in with a dozen other fellows at his heels.
“Better not start anything rough,” cautioned Mr. Gay.
But Siebold paid no heed. He walked over to Gus and addressed him roughly:
“Say, would you have the nerve to fight Sadler?”
“Fight? Fight? Why, man, I have no reason to. I haven’t anything against him.” Gus was indignant. “And as to boxing bouts, I’m not in this game. Too busy!”
“Shucks! One way to whitewash a little streak of yellow.” This with a sneer.
Suddenly the kindly smile on Gus’s manly face faded out. He stepped quickly in front of Siebold.
“You can’t say that to me! I’ll fight you here and now; bare knuckles if you like.”
Mr. Gay overheard the conversation and came back to the boys.
“None of that here,” he said. “If you want to have a friendly bout with the gloves, all right—even to a finish—but no bad blood.”
Gus turned away. So did Siebold. Sadler, who was tired of being punched at Siebold’s request, would prefer to do a little looking on. With satisfaction he saw Mr. Gay take his hat and leave the building. The instructor may have seen a scrap on the way and wished to evade responsibility. He was anxious to be popular with the boys.
Sadler offered a few suggestions. Immediately several boys surrounded good-natured Gus and shoved him into the open center of the room. Then they did the same to Siebold, but with more verbal persuasiveness and in a moment the two were facing each other, and a pair of boxing-gloves was handed to each.
The freshman’s smile had returned, and he stood with the gloves swinging by the strings from his hand. Siebold, who really was no piker, was slipping on his gloves and having them laced up. Gus wished Bill to talk for him—and Tony too—not that he needed moral support, but it was pleasanter to have good friends along than to be entirely surrounded by opponents. However, he felt quite equal to the physical task, and as ready to stand his ground morally.
“See here, you sophs,” he said. “I’ll box and gladly, but not in the way Siebold wants to.”
“Aw, what do you care how the other fellow feels? It’s a bout just the same; isn’t it?”
“But Mr. Gay doesn’t want us to show any hard feelings,” Gus urged, “and he’s decent to us. I don’t believe Siebold really thinks I’m yellow—do you?”—this last to his intended opponent.
“Looks like it,” growled Siebold, showing more indignation than he really felt. Had he permitted himself to use his reason, he would only have admired Gus and would not have quarreled with him. Probably it was nothing more than an uneasy conscience that now asserted itself and made him add, in self-defense: “I guess you’re yellow enough.”
Gus had but one reply to make to that—and his answer was not verbal. He did not again take his eyes from Siebold, but he pulled on the gloves, laced the right one with the clumsy stuffed thumb and his teeth. Then he stepped forward. Siebold made a feint of extending his hand for the customary shake; but Gus ignored it and the next moment the two were at it in a way that showed clearly the desire to hurt each other and to disregard the mere matter of points. It was a slugging match from the first.
Siebold was no mean antagonist, and he had some tricks worthy of the prize ring. Moreover, he was a little taller, a little heavier and had a longer reach than Grier. Immediately it became apparent that he was trying for a knock-out—he meant to put Gus away and to do it as quickly as possible.
But Gus did not mean to be put out, and it became as quickly evident that he was quite capable of making Siebold work hard even to hit him. Siebold would bore in, drive for the jaw or stomach, and either miss or land lightly; but he would nearly always get a stinging crack in return—delivered at the same instant that his own blow was blocked, or in the fraction of a second after he had only struck the empty air. Still, these blows of Gus’s were not paralyzers—they were just weakeners. They made Siebold angry enough to spend his strength in getting back at the chap who could land in just when and where he wished.
Siebold’s nose ached and bled; his eyes smarted, and one was closing. His stomach, too, was sore, and somehow he could not help but feel that his blows were growing futile. At the end of the fifth round, as he sat back on a bench, letting some of his would-be handlers fan and sponge him, he looked across at Gus, standing there, refusing all half-hearted offers of attention and gazing at him with a smile on his unmarked face, the sophomore champion began to wish he had not got into this fuss. Then he grew furious at the thought that he was not making good.
A few minutes later, near the end of the sixth round, he began to try for clinches in order to save himself, but somehow his wary opponent, as quick on his feet and as strong with his hands as he was at the start, was still adept at hitting and getting away. Just then Sadler, who, with watch in hand, always made a little step forward as he called the end of each round, put out his foot when Siebold was facing him and the sophomore, tired and eager for a minute’s respite, started to get back and lowered his guard. And upon the instant of shouting the word Gus, with his back to Sadler, let go with his right.
Siebold crumpled up like a rag. Sadler, slow to begin counting, stood over him a moment. Gus drew back and with the first excitement he had shown jerked his gloves off and tossed them wide. The boys crowded in, gazing at Siebold who lay with white face and sprawled out like one dead. Gus heard Sadler’s count reach eight; then stop. Someone said: “What’s the matter with him, boys?” They had not seen a fellow lie so still and show not even the flicker of an eyelid. One boy stooped down and lifted Siebold’s arm, calling to him: “Wake up! Are you hurt?” A doctor’s son got down and put his ear to Siebold’s heart. “Gosh, fellows! It’s stopped! He’s—he’s dead!”
Gus pushed the boys aside. He had hit Siebold over the heart harder than he had intended. What if the blow had proved fatal? Most unlikely; more than once he himself had been struck that way. It had hurt him, and once it brought him to his knees, but it had never made him unconscious. He, in turn, got down and put his ear to Siebold’s side. In the excitement both the doctor’s son and Gus had listened at the right side and no one had observed the mistake. They were all looking on with horrified faces. Gus could hear nothing; he touched the prostrate youth’s cheek; it was cold. He rose with something like a sob.
“Fellows, I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t know he couldn’t stand it. But he can’t really be much hurt, can he? Why, I—he——”
Again Gus knelt and listened for heart beats. He slumped down, feeling as though his own heart would stop, too. In his daze he heard someone talking on the telephone at the far end of the gym and dimly distinguished the word “doctor.” He got to his feet then. No one opposed him. He must get Bill, good old Bill, to speak for him and tell them that he had not meant to hurt Siebold. They must know he was not murderously inclined, and that he hated to hurt anyone, anything, an animal, a bug even; also that he would not run away if they wanted to arrest him.
In a sort of trance he reached his room, where he found Bill and Tony. Gus fell into a chair, almost sobbing.
“Bill, old fellow,—we boxed,—Siebold! And I—I’ve—I guess I’ve killed him! I didn’t mean to, Bill, you know that. Tell them I didn’t; that I’ll be here and go to prison without a word. And write home, Bill, and tell them——”
“Oh, stuff!” said Bill. “I don’t believe it! Tony will go see about it. At the gym, Gus? Yes, at the gym,” nodding to the Italian.
Tony was gone. Bill stood by Gus, his hand on his chum’s head. Seldom was there any real show at tenderness between these lads, but there was a loyalty there that made such a demonstration unnecessary.
“It isn’t so, Gus—and even if it should be—anybody knows it was an accident, and you won’t be arrested. At least not in a criminal way—only in the matter of form. The president will understand. And, Gus, we can get together money enough to defend you—legally—even though we have to quit school.”
“You sha‘n’t quit school!” said Gus. “Not if I have to do time! No, sir! It doesn’t matter much about me, but you—you’re not to be in this at all, except I don’t want us ever to be not chums, Bill.”
Rapid footsteps were coming along the hall then; the door opened and Tony and Sadler burst into the room.
“He’s all right, Grier. He’s come to.”
“Yes, mio amico; Siebold, this Sadler say, is again recover. You no need longer to fear. But, ah! They tell it to me that he a sight presents. He will go to his classes the observed. And it serves him all the right; is it not so? And the most to do is to explain the Doctor for you—which we all do.”
Marshallton is a village with nothing more than two general stores sufficient to cater to the needs of the near neighborhood and the Tech students. Guilford, nine miles away, is the railroad town and, now and then, for extra supplies the Tech boys may spend a dull half hour each way on the trolley to visit the quiet place which holds no other attraction than the stores.
Bill, Gus and Tony, eager to get some radio supplies that might as well have been ordered from the city, obtained leave to run over to Guilford and back. To show his appreciation of their friendship, Tony decided to treat Bill and Gus to a taxi ride; so he ’phoned to the town for one. It came and the three piled in, much elated over the prospect of a pleasant shopping trip, though the weather was a little stormy.
The purchasing took all that was left of the morning. The boys gathered their things into bundles and, at Tony’s command, made straightway for a restaurant. Being a senior, he claimed entire charge of these freshmen.
“You not respon—no; it is that you are irresponsible,” he said as he demanded the privilege of paying all expenses. “We will get,” he laughed, “some spaghetti and I show you to eat. You like eet?”
They did. The clean tables and pleasant interior were attractive. The boys stamped the newly fallen snow from their feet, and opened their coats to the genial warmth. Then they turned to meet the waiter and glanced up with something of a shock. Luigi Malatesta stood before them and addressed them collectively:
“I am proprietor of this. We serve only gentlemen. You will go to—to—to—elsewhere.”
Gus leaped up, forgetting the fright after his last fisticuffs. He wanted to punch this villain again.
“Listen, you confounded nuisance! This is a public place and we demand—” He got no further, for Tony’s hand was on his arm.
“Attendate, mio amico—wait! Would you eat eats in a such place? We might all getta the poison here. Mucho better we go of our selves.”
Malatesta beat a hasty retreat. The lads went out and along the street to another place equally attractive and there they ate unsparingly, the while discussing their latest experience, though Tony was silent on that. Finally Bill and Gus fell into his mood. They came out of the restaurant after an hour, to find that the storm had increased, a stiff, knife-edged wind driving the snow horizontally and making drifts. The taxi driver at the garage looked dubious, but agreed to try for Marshallton. The worst that could happen would be a night spent at some farmhouse.
The storm increased rapidly, the snow turning partly to sleet piled up in long windrows across all half-sheltered places, leaving open spots bare, so that the road resembled the storm waves of a white and foaming ocean. The car skidded along on icy ground one minute, and the next its wheels were buried in caked drifts.
The boys were peering out, watching the strange effects of the storm, but noting with greater concern the slowing up of the taxi. Then they stopped.
“Reckon we can’t make it,” said the jolly, round-faced taxi driver. They could not stay there in the road. It was imperative that they should find a shelter somewhere. Not half a mile ahead there was a farmhouse in which they might all be made welcome and comfortable.
Again the man had proved to be correct. The boys agreed that forecasting the weather and the social geography of that region were in his line. He tried to run on again, but the starter refused to boost the engine and the battery nearly gave out. Bill insisted that they crank up and not exhaust the battery, else they would come to a dead stop. Gus and Tony lent a hand in turning the engine over and soon they were again bucking the drifts, stalling the engine two or three times within the next three hundred yards. A drift faced them that was altogether beyond hope, and before they drove into it, Bill insisted that they back over the thinner snow to the side of the road so that they would not be hit by another car if one should pull through such roads.
“Now then, you fellows!” said Bill, as usual assuming command where anything important was at stake. “Go on to the farmhouse and bunk, if they’ll have you. I’ll wrap up in these robes and be as warm as toast here in the car.” It was an enclosed tonneau, the window sashes fitted tightly and two big robes promised a little comfort.
“Yes, you will,” said Gus sarcastically.
“Not!” declared Tony. “We can easy carry you. You say it—pig-on-back?”
The taxi driver joined in and helped the two boys in this, also.
“Did you say there’s a farmhouse just on ahead, Mr.——?” asked Gus.
“Merritt is my name,” answered the driver.
“And a roadside is your station. You’re fast in the snow and you cannot go and you’re mad at all creation,” said Bill.
“You’re right, son, about bein’ stuck, but I ain’t mad. Reckon I stand to lose on this trip, but——”
“No, my friend; you will not lose one cent,” exclaimed Tony. “More, you shall make well. We are not the unappreciatives, ever. Show us this farmer estate and entitle us to be his guests and you shall want for nothing—eh, my friends Bill and Gus?”
“You’ve said it, Tony, and you are the cheese.”
“Ah, no; I am but the macaroni. Do you think this farmer will cook the spaghetti?”
“Not likely, but Farrell sits down to a good table, I reckon,” Merritt ventured. “Well, young fellers, let’s mosey on. It’ll be stiff goin’, though ’tain’t more’n a quarter of a mile now.”
It was stiff going. Bill managed to get through the thin places and they helped him through fast increasing drifts, Gus at last getting him on his back for a “gain,” as he expressed it, of fifty yards. Then Tony took a turn for a like distance, and Gus and Mr. Merritt crossed hands to “carry a lady to London”; so they would have got Bill along for a considerable distance had they not come opposite the end of a lane, with the dim outline of a house standing back.
Up the lane they went, hearing the muffled barking of a dog. The side door of the house opened, a big farmer with a huge voice greeted them cheerily. He was in his shirt sleeves, which argued for comfort inside the dwelling, and there was an air of comfort in the broad hallway that was gratifying. The three were received like young princes and ushered into a large sitting-room. From their chairs before a big stove, a pleasant woman and two young girls rose to welcome the wayfarers.
Merritt they knew by name, and he began an apologetic effort to account for their coming, but Bill took the matter in hand.
“Mr. Farrell, aren’t you? And I suppose this is Mrs. Farrell. My name is Brown and these are my friends, Mr. Sabaste and Mr. Grier; we are all students at Marshallton. Went in to Guilford to the stores and couldn’t make it going back, though Mr. Merritt put up a good fight with his little car. And now we are going to ask you if you can keep us for the night,—table and spare room? Anything that is handy, for we don’t want to give you trouble and we’ll pay——”
“Ah, the best. As if you are one fine hotel, because no such could give to us more of comfort.” This from Tony, who was always most liberal and eager to please. So saying, he pulled out ten one-dollar bills and gallantly tendered it to the lady, with a nod and smile at the farmer.
“That’s right. The wife has all the trouble. You boys are welcome; eh, Sarah?”
“But John, this is too much. I could not accept such a large amount for so little.”
“Mother,” said one of the girls, coming forward, “you should not accept anything at all.”
“Well, now, Mary, I guess you’re right. This is our daughter, young gentlemen, and she always has her way.”
“But she has not consider the way to justice,” said Tony, his black eyes flashing conviction. “We give that, or we not remain; even it is too little.”
“Yes, considering the storm, our predicament and our coming in on you this way, unasked, we can’t consent to less,” Bill added.
“Mabel, come here, girl,” said the housewife, laughing. “This is my niece. She’s making her home with us. Now, all you young folks and Mr. Merritt enjoy yourselves while I get supper and father does the barn work.”
The boys never forgot that long, yet all too short winter evening; the wholesome food; the dish of home-made candy; the fireside game of “twenty questions”; the music played by Mabel on the old-fashioned square piano, while Mary and Tony danced; the lively conversation and Bill’s exhibition of so-called mind reading—really muscle reading, during which, with Mrs. Farrell and Mabel holding his wrists, he found, blindfolded, a hidden pocket knife.
Merritt had slipped out early to open the radiator of his car, which he had foolishly forgotten to do. He had come back and called Bill aside for a moment.
“There’s another car down the road, just beyond mine; a big one and nobody about. I went along apiece to look at it and I think I know who it belongs to—that there new Eyetalian hash-house feller in Guilford. Only one car there like it and that’s his’n. You was askin’ about him bein’ in Guilford.”
“Yes. We know him and he knows us. He could have found out you were taking us home and then have seen your car here and waited.”
“You mean follered you? What’d he want to do——?”
“Is he still in his car?” interrupted Bill.
“I reckon so; think I saw four fellers in it. They can keep warm there and every now and then run their engine a bit to keep her from freezin’ up.”
“They’ll be drifted in, won’t they?”
“Reckon not, with a big car like that; and the storm’s goin’ to quit.”
“But that won’t let us go on to-night. And what is that Italian up to?” Bill dismissed the subject with Merritt, but resolved to tell Gus, though not Tony, as it would put a damper on their friend’s peace of mind. What harm could come of Malatesta’s being here? He could not approach the house without alarming the Farrell dog and that was assurance enough. And Bill could not help being doubtful as to the Sicilian’s being really dangerous. There might be such a thing as carrying this grudge business to extremes, but hardly here and in this storm.
Bill and Gus spent the night in the best spare room, under the heavy covers of an immense fourposter. They slept through the cold night like inanimate objects. Tony, alone, occupied a room which had evidently been that of an only son who had gone away to the Great War to remain away forever. There was crape hanging over the frame of a picture showing a sturdy, manly looking fellow in khaki. From the appearance of things, Tony, also, should have passed a comfortable night. Merritt was tucked away to his entire satisfaction.