PETER FINDS A WAY
"What's all this?" asked Mr. Swiper, as the car came to a stop before
the rope.
With hand shaking and heart thumping, but borne up by a towering
resolve, Peter took his stand beside one of the front wheels. "The--the
road is--it's closed," he said, his voice trembling. The hand which held
the knife stole below the shiny mud-guard and rested on the smooth,
unyielding rubber. "The road is closed," he repeated.
Mr. Swiper climbed down out of the car, muttering an oath. He looked
apprehensively back along the road and being sure of no danger there he
crossed the rope and advanced a few yards along the road to inspect it.
Peter was in the grip of terrible fear, fear at his own boldness. His
whole form trembled. He did not stop to think, he knew that if he were
going to do anything effectual it must be in those few brief moments.
There are many ways to cripple an auto without damaging it, but Peter
knew nothing of autos except that they went by gasoline.
In an emergency he would have slashed a tire even while the machine
moved. Now that he had a little time in which to think he hurried behind
the auto and crawling beneath it turned on the outlet of the gas tank.
He knew that the tank was in back and that there must be a pipe leading
from it. He had intended to wrench the thin pipe away, when his groping,
trembling fingers stumbled on the outlet cock. This he turned on with as
much terror as if he were setting fire to the universe.
Aghast at his own inspiration and boldness, he stood behind the car,
shaking all over, as he heard the precious fuel running away in a steady
stream and pattering on the road. Well, he would take the consequences
of this decisive act. From the moment he had seen those glaring
headlights and realized that he was participating in a reality, he had
been frantic, wondering what to do. Well, now he had "gone and done it"
and he was terror-stricken at his own act. The mere wasting of so much
gasoline was a terrible thing in the homely life of poor Peter.
He paused behind the car listening. He had not the courage to go
forward. He listened as the liquid fuel flowed away and trickled over
the spare tire-rack, and his beating heart seemed to keep time with it.
Ah, you Hunkajunk touring model with all your thousand delights, you
cannot get along without this trickling liquid any better than your
lowly brother, the humble Ford. Would _all_ of it flow away before that
terrible man came back?
Now Peter heard voices in front of the car; the man had returned, and
was speaking to his confederate, his pal.
"I won't get out of the car and I won't desert it," he heard the small
stranger announce sturdily.
"Didn't you say you were with me?"
"I did, but I--"
"Then shut up. The road's all right; there's nothing the matter with it;
this is some kind of a frame-up. Did you come along this way when you
copped it before; I mean you and that pair?"
"I don't know, I was under the buffalo robe."
They were thieves all right; Peter knew it now. And his assurance on
this point gave him courage. The strangers would be no safer to deal
with, but at least Peter knew now that he had the right on his side. In
a sudden burst of impulsive resolution he stepped around and in a spirit
of utter recklessness spoke up. His own voice sounded strange to him.
"I--I know what you are--you're thieves," he said. "I can--I can tell by
the way you talk--and--and you--you can't take the car--even an inch you
can't--because all the gasoline is gone out of it and I did it and I
don't care--and you--you can _kill_ me if you want to only you can't
take the car. And--and--pretty soon Ham Sanders will be along with the
milk cans and he's not afraid of you--"
"What did you say about ham?" Pee-wee shouted down at him.
"Ham Sanders," Peter called back defiantly.
"I though you said ham sandwich," Pee-wee retorted.
"He can--he's even--he can even handle a bull," shouted Peter, carried
away by excitement. "All the--the--gasoline is gone--it is--because now
I can hear it stop dripping--so--now--_now_ what are you going to do?
So?"