The Call for Help
Mr. Terry Mackson chuckled and looked over the edge of his blanket at
the other two beds in the room. In the farthest bed Jim Mercer was
sleeping with just a bit of noise proceeding from his throat. On the bed
near Terry, Don slept in silence, his face turned toward the red-headed
boy. Terry glanced back at the window and then put one bare foot out of
bed.
It was the morning of the second Saturday in December and the weather
man had sprung a surprise on the cadets. When they had gone to bed on
the previous night it had been cold and clear, but during the night the
weather had magically changed. Terry, lightest sleeper of the three
friends, had awakened early, to find the world wrapped in a whirling,
blowing snowstorm, the soft white flakes banked in little piles against
their windows.
For a single moment Terry had lain there contemplating the beauty of the
early morning scene and then the light of mischief had dawned in his
gray eyes. Consulting his watch he perceived that it was almost time for
the bugle to blow, so he had no compunctions about what he intended to
do. With the grace of a stalking cat the red-head crept to the window
and scooped in a handful of snow. Keeping a wary eye on the two sleepers
he made himself about five small sized snowballs and placed them on his
bed. Then he dipped his hands once more into the wet snow and gathered a
large quantity.
Making his way with extreme caution he reached Jim’s bed and gently
pulled the covers off that young man’s feet. Against the warm feet of
the boy he placed the snow, and then, bounding over to Don, he placed a
small pile on his forehead. From there it was but a single bound into
bed, where he pulled up the covers over his chin, and carefully hiding
the snowballs, pretended to sleep.
It was not a moment too soon. Jim sat up suddenly, drawing his feet in a
convulsive movement toward him. A running trickle of cold water woke Don
at the same time.
“Hey, who piled snow against my feet?” demanded Jim, knocking the cold
stuff onto the floor with a single sweep.
“Probably the same one who put a mound of it on my head,” retorted Don,
and the two brothers looked suspiciously at Terry.
But this aspect baffled them for a moment. Apparently, the red-head was
fast asleep. Only a very little part of him showed above his cover, and
a gentle sound, indicating deep breathing, came from the bed. But the
more the brothers looked, the more suspicious they became.
“That looks too innocent to suit me,” Jim announced, and began to get
out of bed.
“Yes, I doubt that peaceful, dreamy look on his homely face,” chimed in
Don, throwing off his covers.
The boy in bed stirred and apparently woke up, flashing them a happy
smile. “Good morning, Don; good morning, Jim,” he greeted, quietly. Then
he sat up and looked with wondering astonishment out of the window. “Why
bless my soul, it has snowed, hasn’t it?”
“Yes,” replied Jim, coming nearer. “And let me tell you, Chucklehead,
that it has been a remarkable storm. It snowed right in under my covers
and piled up against my feet, and there was even a little mound on my
brother’s head!”
“No!” cried the red-headed boy, in astonishment.
“Yes,” cried Jim. “And now we’re going to hang you out the window to get
a little snow on you!”
“No, you’re not!” retorted Terry, bringing five melting snowballs into
sudden view. “Here is where the artillery goes into action!”
Five snowballs sped in rapid succession across the room, three of them
landing on Jim and Don. They managed to dodge the other two, and then,
seeing that his ammunition was exhausted, they helped themselves to some
snow from the window sill and faced him. Terry quickly raised a wall of
bed covers before him.
“Don’t bother to make snowballs,” Jim begged. “I think we ought to do
something useful with the snow. That lad’s face is dirty!”
“I see what you mean,” Don nodded. “It is kind of red. Too much of that
red thatch on top of his head, and the color runs down on his face.
Think we ought to wash it off?”
“Yep! Let’s get busy,” said Jim, earnestly.
“You keep away from me with that stuff!” grunted the boy, as they hurled
themselves on him. But the two brothers tore down his cover wall and
proceeded to wash his freckled face vigorously, not without damage to
themselves and their pajamas, for Terry fought like a wildcat. In the
midst of the melee the bugle rang out.
Abandoning their fun the boys began to dress rapidly, chattering away
about the welcome snow. It promised them a variety of sport, in the
nature of snow battles and sledding, and they were eager to get out and
into it.
“Luckily, it is only a half day,” whooped Don, slipping into his coat.
“We can get out into the snow soon after dinner. It’s coming down
steadily.”
When they got downstairs they found only a few cadets ahead of them.
Hudson was one of them. He stood out on the front steps, admiring the
view across the rolling fields and hills. His back was toward the boys
and Don quietly packed a snowball and threw it at him. It hit the senior
captain on the back of the neck and he whirled around, grinning,
intending to say something.
But he closed his mouth with a snap and waited. Just above Don’s head
was a tiny shed roof, and Hudson saw what was going to happen. A puffy
drift had gathered there and a fierce swirl of wind hit it at the
precise moment that he turned around. Hudson grinned broadly as the
miniature snowslide hit Don on the shoulders, knocking off his hat and
sifting in powdery masses down his neck. Don coughed and sputtered in
surprise.
“Very neatly and efficiently done,” cried Hudson lifting his hat
politely to the snow drift. “I thank you!”
All through the morning classes the cadets were impatient and when the
noon meal was over they piled out into the snow with zest and a sense of
pleasure. By this time it had stopped snowing, leaving about a foot of
snow carpeting the ground. The sun came out briefly and the cadets were
alarmed lest it do some damage, but in the long run it turned out to be
their friend. It melted enough of the white material to make it watery
and then the cold air promptly froze it, making a delightful surface for
coasting.
“Tonight we can go coasting on Nelson Hill!” cried Lieutenant Thompson.
Nelson Hill was a long stretch of sloping hillside less than a half mile
west of the school, and the majority of the cadets were preparing to
spend the evening with their sleds. Most of them had already started for
the hill with barrel staves and miscellaneous wood, with which to build
fires on top of the long slope. When Terry, Don, Jim and Vench stood
around considering, the distressing fact was brought home to them that
they had no sled.
“The seniors have got sleds,” remarked Vench. “And so have the second
class men. I guess that the newer men are out of luck.”
Douglas approached them, excitement showing in his hurry. “You guys got
a sled?” he hailed.
“No,” replied Jim. “Have you?”
“I know where there is one!” was the satisfying reply. “There is an old
bob-sled down in the boathouse, with a broken runner, that we can fix
up. What do you say?”
“Is the iron runner broken?” Don asked quickly.
“No, but a wooden support is. The iron on it is all right, outside of
being a bit rusty. Suppose we fix it up?”
The cadets needed no further invitation but rushed to the boathouse
without delay, there to find the old bob-sled of which Douglas had
spoken. The broken wooden support, running from the body of the sled to
the iron runner, was not a serious problem, and between them they soon
managed to get it out and substitute another one for it.
“There!” cried Jim, proudly. “As good as new, by golly!”
“Well, just about,” agreed Vench. “If it was new it would have a little
less dust on it, but as an A number one sled it is OK.”
“We’ll soon clean the dust off it,” decided Douglas, and they got some
water from the gym, a brush and soap, and went to work with a will, with
the result that the sled was soon in a different condition.
“Too late to try her out before supper,” decided Don, glancing out at
the gathering darkness. “But we’ll go over to the hill after we eat.”
As soon as the evening meal was over Woodcrest Military school was
nearly deserted, almost all of the cadets going toward the distant hill.
Only a few boys, more interested in warm quarters and books, remained in
the school to miss the fun.
The friends ran down to the boathouse, uncovered the bob, which they had
hidden under some loose canvas, and placing it on the snow, pulled it at
a rapid pace toward Nelson Hill. It took them a good half hour to get
there, as it was uphill most of the way. The cadets who had arrived
before them had lighted fires, which blazed against the black sky like
flaming beacons, and by the light of these fires the cadets were
coasting. The hill was long and sloping and gave them a good ride, and
by the same token, a good stiff walk up again.
The hill was covered with sleds. Shouts of laughter and merry yells
echoed and re-echoed over the surrounding country as the cadets enjoyed
the fun. Generosity prevailed, the cadets loaning their sleds to those
who had none, while the lenders warmed themselves around the fires and
waited for the borrowers to toil up the hill again.
“Well, what say to our first trip down?” called Douglas, planting the
bob firmly on the brow of the hill.
“OK,” agreed Vench, sitting on the sled. Douglas eyed him with vast
disapproval.
“What are you going to do, sit on the sled?” he demanded.
“Certainly,” retorted Vench. “What am I supposed to do, stand on it?”
“You ought to know enough about tobogganing to lie down,” Douglas said.
“Only girls sit up. Do you want me to clasp my hands around your tummy
and scream when we hit a bump?”
“Aw, go chase yourself!” growled Vench, lying down on the front of the
sled. Jim and Terry followed and Don squirmed on top of them. There was
now just room enough for Douglas.
“All set?” inquired Douglas, taking hold of the rear of the sled.
“Let her go!” the others cried, and Douglas gave the bob a push. It
began to tilt over the top of the hill and moved slowly down. Douglas
sprang on, kneeling on the little space left for him, and the bob, with
its heavy load, began to move with increasing speed down the hill. It
did not immediately gain a great rate of speed for the runners were
still a little rusty, but it picked up gradually, until it was fairly
flying down the hill.
Past single sleds they went, Vench steering dexterously in and out
between them, passing cadets toiling up the snowy slopes, who turned to
stare after them. One or two light bumps were encountered, which caused
the sled to jump a few inches from the ground, and they literally flew
through the air, to land with a jarring thud a little further on. In
this way they reached the bottom of the hill and kept going on the level
ground, to stop finally a long way from the point at which they had
started.
“That was great!” cried Don, springing up.
“The fires look to be a long way up in the air,” observed Vench, and
they looked up to the top of the hill.
The fires looked far away from where they were, sending licking yellow
flames against a deep black sky. A number of black dots were streaking
down the hill in their direction, but the bob had gone further than any
of them because of its weight.
“Now I suppose we have got to walk up again,” said Terry. “Too bad we
can’t push a button and make the hill reverse for us!”
“Why go up right away?” asked Jim. “Here is a smaller hill. Want to try
it?”
A few yards from them a smaller slope showed, on which the hard snow
gleamed from the faraway fires.
“We’ll run right down into the woods, if we go down this hill,”
cautioned Don. “However, I’m perfectly willing. Want to try it?”
The others agreed and with another push they dipped down this second
hill, taking a long ride in between the trees that closed over their
heads and shut out all light. But when they came to compare notes they
found that sentiment was not very keen for this hill.
“Nothing to it,” declared Vench.
“The snow is packed harder on the long hill,” Jim decided. “No use using
these little ones when we have a perfectly good big one.”
“No,” agreed Douglas, gathering up the rope of the bob-sled. “Well, we
might as well begin our upward hike.”
“Wait a minute!” cried Don. “Did you hear a crash just then?”
None of them had. “Must have been some snow falling, or an old tree
crashing down,” Terry suggested. They turned to go back but once more
Don stopped them.
“Listen!” he cried. “Someone’s calling!”
They stopped and were silent for a long interval, but there was no
sound. Vench laughed.
“Don’s hearing things,” he said. “We’ll have to get him back to the top
of the hill right away.”
“No, I tell you I did hear something,” insisted Don. “Listen, there it
is again!”
This time, clearly and distinctly on the night air, a call echoed
through the woods.
“Help!” cried a faint muffled voice. “Help, somebody!”