GONE
The funny part of the whole business is this; that if Hervey had hunted
up Bert Alston that night, he might have gone trailing in the woods
north of Bridgeboro. He might have hunted for Skinny Grover who had been
appointed to hide and baffle his pursuers. _And if he had trailed Skinny
Grover he would have been the one to find him._ There is not the
slightest doubt of it. And it would have been a stunt. A sizzling
tamale, even. But you see no one dared him to do that.
As it was, he hastened up Main Street to Van Doran’s Lane and through
this till it petered out in the fields down by the river. Beyond these
fields was New Street, a straggling tentacle of road which reached away
from town in a sweeping curve, skirted the river for half a mile or so,
then ended abruptly.
It was toward the dead end of this detached street that Hervey was
taking a short-cut. The neighborhood looked remote enough beyond the
area of intervening meadows. First he could see only the broken line of
lights which identified the houses. Then, as he approached nearer these
houses emerged slowly out of the darkness.
There was no sign or sound of life about as he entered the street
crossing the grounds between two cottages. Then a dog barked. It was
only a perfunctory bark and Hervey made his way up the street till he
came to a sturdy post surmounted by a fire-alarm box. It marked the end
of the postman’s route along this lonely street and was decorated with a
dozen or more unsightly mail boxes belonging to the residents living
beyond this point.
Glancing cautiously about as he advanced, Hervey crept up and opened the
little metal door of the fire box. The lights in a nearby house went
out. He heard the slamming of a door. He paused, listening intently.
Somewhere in the darkness nearby was a creaking sound. Nothing but some
rusty clothesline pulley probably, but it made him hesitate. Suddenly,
he gave the little metal handle a turn, then ran pell-mell down into the
fields. He had done it.
Yet nothing happened. He ran and ran. Then suddenly, he paused in his
steps as the deafening peal of the fire whistle smote his ears. It shook
the night with its ghoulish siren call. Its uncanny variations filled
the darkness with horror. And just because of the turning of a little
handle! It moaned and cried and seemed to be calling to the dead to
rise. Four slow, variated, suffering wails. Then a pause. Then three
long screams of anguish. Then silence. _Forty-three._ New Street
district.
The sound of the clamorous siren affected Hervey strangely, as if a
flood light had been thrown upon him. He stood in the dark field, unable
to budge. Then he got hold of himself and ran desperately. As he glanced
hurriedly back, he saw lights reappearing in the houses where sleep had
reigned. Then he heard in the distance the piercing gong of the speeding
engines. He could see the luminous headlights advancing along the
sweeping curve of that runaway street. For just a moment they shimmered
up the frog pool along the distant road and, looking back, Hervey saw
clearly the familiar little spot with the willow tree overhanging it.
Then he heard voices, thin and spent in the distance.
He did not pause nor turn again, but ran with all his might and main
till he reached Main Street where he found it strangely difficult to
walk with a leisurely air of unconcern. A man whom he passed turned and
glanced at him and he was seized with a momentary terror. He passed some
boys running to the fire. He liked fires, real fires, and in different
circumstances it would have been his delight to join them. He would have
been able to sneak inside the fire lines and have an advantage over
other boys.
Even Hervey, who had no sense of values, was vaguely conscious now of
the lack of proportion in this whole affair. To do so much at the idle
behest of a dubious chance acquaintance! And to what end? To prove
what--and why? There was no rhyme nor reason in the thing. Hervey was of
course, incapable of formulating these thoughts. The nearest he got was
just to feel silly. He was not naturally mischievous, much less vicious.
But he could not take a dare. Alas for all the fine spirit and energy
that went to waste!
And here was the anti-climax of the whole crazy business. His challenger
was not waiting for him in the parking space. There was no triumph, no
“_Well, what do you say now?_” There was no gloating over the humbled
dare giver. He had gone away. Evidently he had no sporting interest in
the matter at all. Hervey had thought to give the genius of the “hot
tamale” a chance to purge his soul of shame by letting him treat to ice
cream sodas. But our hero was not permitted flauntingly to enjoy his
triumph. Therein lay the only “kick” in the enterprise. It was reduced
now to the level of a mischievous prank. No achievement, no victory, no
public recognition. No recognition even from a young tough who meant
just nothing at all in Hervey’s young life.
Well, there you have Hervey Willetts.