The rival bicyclists

About a week after the events narrated in the previous chapter Joe was on his way from Lockport to a little village several miles up the river.

Instead of riding on his bicycle he was on foot, his machine being slightly in need of repairs which could not be made until several days later.

Joe had proceeded but a short distance when he was joined by Billy Smith, a school chum, and a cousin to Dick Burns.

“Where bound, Joe?” called out Billy.

“To Haverley’s.”

“I’m going there myself.”

“All right; come along.”

“Where’s your wheel?” asked Billy as he came up.

“I’ve got to fix it a bit,” Joe told him. “I don’t mind walking for a change,” he added.

“I don’t think I would care much for wheeling,” said Billy. “I prefer baseball.”

“I know that,” laughed Joe. “You would rather play ball than eat, wouldn’t you?”

“Almost. But, by the way, Joe, are you going to play on our nine this season?”

“I will if you wish me to, Billy.”

“Certainly we want you. Charley Osborne spoke of it only yesterday. I know you can catch beautifully if you will only try.”

Joe smiled at this. He had caught on the team during the previous summer and acquitted himself quite creditably.

“Yes, we’ve been reorganizing the Rushers,” said Billy. “Charley Osborne is to be pitcher and we want you to catch.”

“And what of yourself?”

“Oh, I’ll take my old position at first base.”

“I suppose I can catch,” remarked Joe reflectively. “But I don’t know about running. I’m all out of practice, I’ve wheeled so much lately.”

“Let’s try a race, just for fun,” cried Billy Smith. “That will be a good test.”

“All right. I’ll race you to old Crosby’s well.”

“Done, Joe. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Then toe this mark. One, two, three, go!”

And away the two boys went at top speed down the road.

The well toward which they set their pace was situated at the back end of a lot which faced the highway.

The distance to it and back again was over five hundred feet.

The well was in something of a hollow, and down the hill tore the two boys at a breakneck speed.

They kept side by side for more than half the distance to the well.

But then Joe forged ahead, and, try his best, Billy Smith could not catch up.

“It’s no use, you’ve won,” he said, and dropped into a walk.

“Never mind, Billy, you’ll have a chance to tie me going back,” said Joe encouragingly.

Of course the boys intended to stop at the well for a drink. The opening had no buckets to it, and the boys had to dip down with an old tin can to get water.

But oh! how cool and refreshing it was! And as they were so hot it actually tasted sweet to them.

Soon the two boys had their fill of water, and they prepared to return to the road when a strange rattle sounded in the bushes back of the well.

“Listen! What is that?” exclaimed Billy Smith.

“It sounded like a rattlesnake!” cried Joe. “Let us go and see if it is a snake,” he added fearlessly.

Arming themselves with sticks and stones, the two lads circled about the bushes in question.

Suddenly Billy Smith gave a loud laugh.

“Here is your rattler!” he exclaimed. “Nothing but a drunken tramp, sleeping off the effects of the bad whisky he’s been drinking.”

Joe looked troubled.

“I don’t see how he could make that noise,” he returned slowly. “He is snoring, but that is all. Perhaps—oh! Billy, look!”

Joe stopped short and pointed to a low tree that overhung the spot where the sleeping tramp lay.

There, wound around one of the lower branches, was a big rattlesnake. His eyes were as bright as diamonds and he was on the point of dropping down and striking at the unconscious man with his deadly fangs!

It would be useless to deny that the two boys were much startled by what they saw. They realized that the drunken tramp was in mortal danger of his life. Should the rattlesnake really strike him it would be doubtful if he could ever come to his senses.

“Oh! what shall we do?” gasped Billy Smith as he fell back a couple of paces.

There was no time to answer. A moment of hesitation and it might be too late to act.

In his hand Joe carried a large and sharp-sided stone. Taking careful aim with this, he let drive at the snake’s head.

His aim was true. The stone struck the reptile directly in one eye, inflicting a severe wound.

At once they heard an angry rattle, and the reptile wound and unwound itself about the tree with lighting-like rapidity. It was suffering intense pain and was now more furious than ever.

As it curved about, Joe rushed forward and pulled the tramp several yards off in the direction of the well.

“Wake up! Snakes!” he yelled.

“Lemme—hic—alone,” muttered the tramp. “I ain’t got no—hic—snakes. Only overcome by the—hic—sunshine.”

“There are real snakes here! Look out!” put in Billy Smith.

At this the tramp staggered to his feet. He saw the writhing rattler, and, letting out one long scream of deadly terror, he fled toward the road, his ragged coat-tails streaming out behind him.

During this time Joe had again advanced upon the snake. With his stick he struck half a dozen blows. Billy Smith jumped in to help him.

The rattlesnake fought desperately, but with one eye gone he was at a disadvantage, and inside of five minutes Billy gave him a final whack that stretched him out lifeless.

“By jinks! but that was a stirring fight,” cried Billy when all was over.

“I don’t want another such in a hurry,” replied Joe, and he shuddered as he viewed the shining reptile.

“You saved that tramp’s life.”

They measured the snake and found it was nearly five feet long and had nine rattles.

“If he wasn’t so bruised I would take him home and have him stuffed,” said Joe.

“Never mind; let us take him along anyway,” said Billy. “We can show him to the other boys. Maybe they won’t believe such a snake story unless they see the snake.”

While they were tying the snake to a long stick old Farmer Crosby came along from another field.

“By gum! Got a rattler, hev yeou!” he said, as he stared at their victim. “Ye must hev had a lively fight, boys.”

“We did have.”

“I seed thet rattler last week, over in the cornfield. But I didn’t tackle him, I can tell ye thet!”

Farmer Crosby was glad the snake was dead. He told the boys they could come to the farm and hunt snakes any time they pleased.

“No, thanks; we are not in that business,” laughed Billy.

The fight with the snake had driven all thoughts of the footrace out of the two boys’ heads. They walked back to the road slowly, carrying the dead snake between them.

The first person they met was Charley Osborne, the young baseball player Billy had mentioned.

Charley was greatly surprised.

“Took him in the eye, eh,” he said. “Joe, if you can throw so straight as that you had better take my place on the nine as pitcher.”

“No, I’ll stay behind the bat and put men out when they try to steal bases,” laughed our hero.

The snake was showed to all the boys, and then Billy took it home.

Later on it was stuffed and hung up in the club-room the Rushers had hired and furnished.