THE INSPIRED DARE
That was Hervey Willetts all over, to make a ridiculous appointment with
a stranger before he had so much as greeted his step-parents. And for
such a purpose! Truly, he was hopeless.
The house in which he lived and in which he had been born was a plain
house, immaculately white, with well kept grounds about it. It was a
typical New England place; old-fashioned, a model of order inside and
out, eloquent of simplicity and unostentatious prosperity.
Mr. Walton owned a large stationery store on the main street and his
quiet, uneventful life was spent between this peak-roofed, white and
green homestead and his attractive store which was a medley of books,
post cards, pennants, Indian souvenirs and stationery. Mrs. Walton was
not above waiting on customers in her husband’s store, especially in the
season when Farrelton was overrun with “summer folks.”
On this momentous evening, the returning prodigal found his step-parents
at home and he received an affectionate greeting. The occasion would
have been favorable for telling about the ultimatum he had received at
camp, but he did not do it. Next summer seemed such a long time off! Why
worry about next summer when he had an appointment to “throw down” a
dare that very night?
“Well, Hervey,” said Mr. Walton, “we’re glad you had a good summer. You
didn’t write often, but I always told Mum that no news is good news. And
here you are safe and sound.
“And as brown as a mulatto,” said Mrs. Walton, drawing him to her and
caressing him affectionately.
“Now for school, hey?” said Mr. Walton pleasantly. “Next summer, or
maybe the summer after that, Mum and I are going to have a jaunt, maybe.
Will you let us go, Herve?”
“Sure thing, go as far as you like with me,” said Hervey.
Mrs. Walton laughed, and drawing him close again, caressed him fondly.
“Well, that’s a long way off,” said she. “Maybe you’ll be entering
Harvard by then; we’re such slow pokes, dad and I. We’ll probably end by
not going at all. Europe seems so terribly far.”
“Europe is nothing,” said Hervey. “I’m going to Montana.”
“Well, first you’re going to school,” laughed Mr. Walton.
“Pity the poor school,” said Hervey.
“Oh, not as bad as that,” his stepfather commented pleasantly. “I kind
of think you’re going to be different this fall. Not get into any
scrapes, huh? Study hard, stay in the Scouts, and not give your mother
any worries. What do you say?”
“You know me, Al,” said Hervey, which reply was not altogether explicit
or satisfactory. But it moved Mrs. Walton to embrace him again.
“And you’re going to stay in the Scouts, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Of course he is,” said Mr. Walton. “They weren’t all as lucky as you,
Hervey, to be up at a fine camp all summer. I saw Bert Alston yesterday.
He was asking when you were coming back. I told him we wouldn’t know
till we saw you.”
“That’s me,” said Hervey. “I’ve got nothing against the Scouts.”
“Well then, I hope you’ll stay more among them,” said Mr. Walton.
“They’re a good sort.”
“They don’t stay among me very much,” said Hervey. “What’s fair for one
is fair for the other.”
Mr. and Mrs. Walton glanced at each other laughing.
“Well, of course the scouts didn’t join _you_; you joined them,” said
Mr. Walton. “You put the cart before the horse, so to speak.”
“Oh bimbo, there’s one horse up there I’d like to ride,” said Hervey.
“That’s what I want to do, ride a horse.”
During the evening, he strolled out to “see if any fellers were around,”
as he said, and at ten o’clock he wandered into the public parking field
behind the post office. He did not more than half expect to find his
chance acquaintance there, but he was not going to be a quitter in this
sacred matter of not taking dares. In these matters, at least, he was a
model of honor and punctiliousness.
There were but a few cars parked in the dark field. Entrance to this
convenient, though poorly patronized place was from Main Street and
motorists were required to make their exit through a lane which led out
between buildings into Piper Street. Here, almost directly opposite the
exit, was the Farrelton Fire House.
Hervey found his outlandish friend sitting on a fence which bordered the
lane. The stranger looked atrocious enough in the darkness and even
Hervey, who took everything as it came, was momentarily conscious of the
utter absurdity of this tryst. He would go to any length to confound one
who “gave him a dare.” But he had never before gone to so much trouble
to hear the dare pronounced. And at such a time!
“Well, am I a flat tire?” he asked.
“Wait till I see how you roll,” said the challenger.
“I wouldn’t take a dare that I’d do something mean for anybody,” said
Hervey, “or like if you wanted me to do an errand or something like that
--I wouldn’t call that a dare. It’s got to be a stunt.”
“Yer startin’ ter hedge?”
“No, I’m not starting to hedge, only it’s got to be a stunt. Suppose you
dared me to go and buy you a pack of cigarettes. _Nothing doing_, I’m
not so easy as that.”
“Suppose I dared yer to bust a winder.”
“Maybe that would be different,” said Hervey.
“Suppose I dared yer ter--ter--tie a tin can on one uv them cars.”
“Maybe that would be all right,” said Hervey.
“Yer ain’t such a bad kid. Suppose--no, gee, yer only a kid.”
“Go on, what is it?” Hervey urged.
“I dare yer ter--ter get a bottle and bust it up and throw it down in
front of one uv them cars--dat big Packard over dare.”
“No, sir, what’s the use of cutting somebody’s tire? Anybody could do
that. You call that a stunt?”
“Yer scared a gettin’ caught.”
“I’m not ascared of getting caught, but what’s the good cutting
somebody’s tire? Gee, he might be a nice feller, how do I know?”
“I dare yer ter go down ter New Street and--leave us see--I dare yer ter
go dare and ring de fire alarm box. _Dare’s a hot one for yer._ All dem
fire guys gits is a good run for nartin’. Give ’em somethin’ ter keep
’em from fallin’ asleep. Dare’s a pippin’ fer yer--take it or leave it.
Put up or shut up. Baby, dare’s a knockout!”
Hervey did not know whether this was a “pippin’” or not. It certainly
appealed to him as a knockout. To him it seemed to contain none of the
ingredients of meanness. He had a system of moral reasoning quite his
own. He would not damage any one’s tire. Breaking a window did not seem
so bad. Sending in a false fire-alarm was certainly an inspiration.
Nobody’s property would be damaged. There would just be a big rumpus
over nothing. He had to confess that it was the kind of a thing to be
“dared” to do. It was harmless, yet a thing that most boys would not
risk. It seemed a pretty good dare; a sudden inspiration of the
stranger’s.
“You mean where the new houses are?” Hervey asked.
The tough young fellow stood pat upon his inspiration and did not deign
to discuss details. “Dare’s a hot tamale fer yer,” was all he said.
“There’s fire boxes nearer than that,” said Hervey, flirting with the
idea.
“Yed hedgin’? Give ’em a good run. Dat’s _some sizzlin’ tamale_!”
It did seem a sizzling tamale.
“Come ahead,” said Hervey.
“Nah, wot’ll _I_ come ahead fer?” said the stranger. His attitude seemed
to be that the genius of this enterprise, the originator of the stunt
and propounder of the inspired dare, should not go to any trouble in the
matter. “If yer pull it, I’ll be wise to it all right,” he said. “Won’t
I hear de fire whistle? I’ll be here when de big noise starts; I’ll be
hip to it, don’t never worry ’bout me.”
That was very true. The striking effect of Hervey’s stunt would be
visible and audible throughout the length and breadth of that small
town.
“I told you I wouldn’t take a dare from anybody, didn’t I?” he said.
“It’s up ter you,” said the genius of the big dare.