The days succeeding were difficult ones for Westy’s peace of mind. He
even avoided passing Artie’s house in the event that he would see him,
and so be thwarted from his set purpose.
But Friday night came quickly and he went to bed feeling as though he
was facing some terrible catastrophe on the morrow. His slumber was
restless and broken throughout the night.
His mother allowing him the luxury of sleeping late on Saturday morning
proved a boon to Westy on this particular day, as it prevented any
meeting with his father at the breakfast table. That, he was thankful
for.
Lunch time came and he ate in ominous silence. Then, as the clock ticked
its way around to one o’clock and finally one thirty, he left the house
with unwilling steps.
“I think you’re just in time to catch the bus Father’s due on,” his
mother called after him, coming out on the porch.
“Archie may be on it too!” his sister Doris added, joining her mother.
“Uh huh!” muttered Westy.
“What a funereal expression, when he ought to be tickled that he got
Father to relent this far,” Doris remarked to her mother.
“I know, my dear, but your brother feels that it is a breach of honor to
slight Artie and I’m rather in sympathy with him. Still, I suppose, one
must be optimistic and think it is all for the best.”
Westy had reached the corner by this time and looked down the street
before turning. The bus that he was to take stopped directly opposite
Artie’s house, but as there was still ten minutes to the good he decided
he would wait where he was until he saw the bus coming.
He kept consoling himself that it was the better way not to have to face
Artie just now. Leaning against a telegraph pole, he tried to whistle
softly, but the notes sounded hollow and false. Now and then he would
step out into the street looking for the bus, although he knew it wasn’t
yet due.
At this one instance, while he was gazing down the long, paved roadway,
a figure emerged from one of the houses and limped painfully down the
stone walk. Westy dared not draw back or run, as much as he would have
liked to, for he knew that it was Artie, and he also knew that Artie had
recognized him. There was a lump in his throat as he saw with what
effort Artie was hobbling along to meet him half way. He felt despicable
as he smiled to this brave pal of his, by way of greeting.
“’Lo, Wes, old top,” Artie said cheerily. “I was just going to try and
make it to your house when I saw you. Wondered what happened you haven’t
been around. Been sick?”
“Well, y-y-yes!” Westy lied, flushing with embarrassment for doing so.
“Oh, I say, but I’m sorry! Feel better now, huh? Were you coming to see
me too?”
“Yes--that is--first I was, but I didn’t think I’d have time. Going to
take the bus to Archie’s. Invited there this afternoon,” Westy said, and
then to relieve the pounding around his heart: “Don’t feel keen about
going, though.”
“I can imagine,” Artie said with feeling, “but it’ll do you good if
you’ve been sick to be quiet for a while. You better cross now, Wes, I
think I hear your bus coming now. See you later. Wait! Look! Whassa
matter with it?”
The bus came lumbering down the street pell-mell and careened from one
side to the other like a drunken man.
The two boys could see, even from a distance, that something had
evidently happened to the driver, as he had slunk down in his seat and
his head hung over the wheel.
The huge car was running wild!
“My Father!” Westy cried. “He’s in it!”
“Maybe you can----” Artie yelled as Westy ran toward the center of the
road.
“Yes, maybe I can!” Westy’s voice could hardly be heard above the cries
of the few pedestrians in the street and the frenzied shouts of the
passengers within the bus.
Westy then gauged the distance from where he stood and then backed over
to the curb. With a rush it came directly toward him, heading straight
for the large elm tree at his back. He must avoid that at all costs, he
thought.
The door of the bus was open, the weather still being mild; so Westy
jumped blindly! Just making the step he reached across the inert form of
the driver, whom he could tell at one glance was dead, grasped the
emergency brake, and jamming his feet down taut and firm, stopped the
car with a grinding shriek just at the edge of the curb.
There were only two faces that Westy could ever remember afterward in
that near-fateful bus. One was the white and trembling face of Archie
Captroop, whose quivering lips revealed the fact that not only had he
lost his head in that near-tragedy but also his nerve. The other face
was that of his father, lying prone upon the floor, the blood streaming
out of a deep gash in his scalp and entirely covering his head.
With a cry of distress Westy knelt beside him and spoke to him tenderly,
but there came no answer to his earnest pleadings.
He lifted his father’s head up gently and with a sob that bespoke his
anguish realized at once that his father was unconscious, probably
dying.