LIFE, LIBERTY----
No one was there. Hervey looked out upon the dissolving night; already
the familiar scene was emerging in the gray drawn--the white rail fence,
the gravel walk with its bordering whitewashed stones, the big
whitewashed tub that caught the rain-water from the roof trough. He
smelled the mist. There was no one anywhere about; no sound but the slow
dripping into the tub. Drop, drop, drop; it was from the rain of two or
three days ago. How audible it was in the stillness! He crept upstairs
again and went to bed. But he did not sleep. He wished that dreadful
satchel were off his hands. Over a hundred dollars!
He arose in the morning before the household was astir and stole out
with his guilty burden. He knew that Kipp’s Railroad Lunch was open all
night and that it had a telephone. He would look in the telephone book
for Manners. That way he would find the address. He thought of leaving
the satchel at the Manners’ door, ringing the bell, and running away.
The recovery of the money would end the trouble. But suppose the satchel
should be stolen again--not _again_; but suppose it should be stolen? Of
course, it had not been stolen before.... Just the same he was desperate
to get it off his hands.
Things looked strange about the station so early in the morning; there
were so few people to be seen, and no shops open. Somehow the very
atmosphere imparted a guilty feeling to Hervey. He felt a little like a
fugitive.
He could not find the name of Manners in the ’phone book and thus
baffled, he felt nervous. For while he was losing time, the victim and
the authorities were probably not wasting any time. He thought he would
wait in the station a little while and try to decide what to do. He knew
that the family of Denny Crothers, a scout, was identified with the big
white church. There was an idea! Denny would know where Horton Manners
lived, or could soon find out. Perhaps he might even take Denny into his
confidence. It is worth considering that in his extremity he was willing
not only to use, but to trust, this scout whose troop he had repudiated.
Well, he would sit in the station a little while (it was still very
early) and if he could not think of any other plan, he would go to
Denny’s house. It would seem strange to the Crothers, seeing him there
so early. And it would seem stranger still to Denny to be approached by
an arch enemy. But Hervey’s troubled thoughts could not formulate any
better plan.
The station was not yet open and he strolled back and forth on the
platform where a very few people were waiting for the early train--a
workman wearing a reefer jacket and carrying a dinner-pail, a little
group of girls who worked in the paper mill at Brierly, and a couple of
youngish men near the end of the platform. These two were chatting and
one of them gave a quick glance at Hervey. It seemed to him that the
talk which followed had reference to himself. He wished that the station
would open, for it was a raw fall morning; there was a penetrating chill
in the air. He wanted to sit down; he was tired of holding that dreadful
satchel, yet he would not set it down for so much as a moment.
Suddenly, a rattling old car drove up and a brisk young man in an
overcoat got out and dragged two huge oilcloth grips to the platform. He
looked as if he might be a salesman who had completed his assault on
Farrelton. He stopped and lighted a cigarette, and while he was doing
this the two men strolled over and spoke to him. He seemed annoyed, then
laughed as he took out some papers which the two men examined. Hervey
overheard the word _hardware_. And he overheard one of the men say,
“K.O., Buddy.” They handed back the papers, nodded sociably, and moved
away. It seemed by the most casual impulse that they approached Hervey.
But he trembled all over.
“You’re out early, kiddo,” said one of them. “Waiting for the train?”
Why, oh why, did he flush and stammer and answer without thinking?
“No--y-yes--I guess it’s late, hey?”
“Guess not,” said the man with a kind of leisurely pleasantry. “What you
got in the bag, kiddo?”
“Bimbo, do I have to tell _you_?” Hervey demanded with the air of one
whose rights are outraged.
“Might be just as well,” said the man. “What’s your name anyway?”
“My name is Hervey Willetts and you let go of that!” Hervey shouted,
tugging at the satchel. “You let go of that, do you hear!” He not only
pulled, but he kicked. “You let go of that or you’ll get in trouble, you
big----”
He was the center of a little group now; it was astonishing what a
number of persons were presently on the scene considering the few early
morning stragglers. The men put a quick end to Hervey’s ill-considered
struggle by taking the satchel while one held him firmly by the collar.
There is not a decent person in the world but rebels against this collar
grip which seems the very essence of effrontery. Few boys so held will
fail to use that potent weapon, the foot, and Hervey, squirming,
administered a kick upon his captor’s shin which made the burly fellow
wince and swear.
But it was all to no avail. They opened the satchel and noted its
contents. Hervey’s sense of indignity now quite obliterated every other
feeling. His struggles subsided into a wrathful sullenness; he could
not, or he would not, explain. He knew only that he was being held and
that fact alone aroused the demon in him. Of course, if Walton could not
manage him, and the Scouts could not win and hold him, it was hardly to
be expected that these low-bred detectives could get closer to him than
to hold him by the collar. A dog would have understood him better. He
was not the kind of boy to grab by the collar.
These two detectives, apprised of the “robbery,” had taken their stand
at the station to note if any suspicious looking strangers were leaving
town on the first train. The boy had almost escaped, because of his
youth.
And _escape_ was the one thought in his mind now. Twice he might have
explained; first to his good stepfather, and again to these minions of
the law. But they had the grabbing instinct and (oh, the pity of it) had
diverted his thoughts from honest restitution to a maniac desire to beat
them and baffle them, to steal indeed his liberty if nothing else, and
let the satchel with its fortune go hang! He _would_ steal; yes, he
would forget all else now in this crazy mixup! He would steal what was
the very breath of life to him--_his freedom_. He forgot the whole sorry
business in this dominant thought--Horton Manners, the satchel,
everything. They had grabbed him by the collar and he could feel the
tightness in his neck.
As long as the squirrel has teeth to bite, _he will bite_. You cannot
tame a squirrel. The fact that he is caught stealing in your tree is
quite a secondary matter. Hervey Willetts never thought of stealing
anything in his life--but just the one thing.
Freedom!
So he did a stunt. With both hands he tore open his shirt in front, and
as he felt the loosening grip in back he sprang forward only to feel a
vice-like hand catch hold of his arm. And that hand he bit with all his
vicious might and main. Like lightning he dodged both men and was off
like a deer while the circle of onlookers stood aghast. Around the end
of the freight platform he sped and those who hurried there beheld no
sign of him--only a milk-can lying on its side which he had probably
knocked over.
Off bounded one of the detectives; the other lingered, sucking the cut
in his hand. He didn’t know much about wild life, poor man. This was a
kind of stealing he had never seen before--the only kind that interested
Hervey Willetts. The only _thing_ that interested him--freedom. As long
as the squirrel has teeth to bite, he will bite.
You cannot tame a squirrel.