THE DESERTED HUT
Bert's first thought, when he opened his eyes the next morning, was of
the weather. This was destined to be the chief object of anxiety all
through the trip. As long as it kept reasonably dry and clear, one big
element of danger and delay could be left out of his calculations. The
lowering of the sky meant the lowering of his hopes.
As he rushed to the window and drew aside the curtain, he was relieved
to see that the sun was rising. To be sure, there was a slight haze
around it that might portend rain later on. But for the present, at
least, the roads were good. If rain were on the way, all the more reason
why he should do some tall "hustling" while the going was fair.
His sleep had been restful and refreshing, and he hummed gaily to
himself, as he rushed through his ablutions. He stowed away a hasty but
ample breakfast, and then after a hearty farewell to his chums, hurried
around to the garage where his machine was stored.
He was surprised to find a large gathering of motorcycle enthusiasts on
hand. The news had spread abroad that one of the contestants in the
great race had reached the city the night before, and delegations from
the many clubs had gathered to give him a send-off and accompany him for
a few miles out of town. Bert greeted them warmly, and, after assuring
himself that the "Blue Streak" was in first-class condition, leaped into
the saddle and started out at the head of the procession.
First one and then the other would make the pace, sprinting for a short
distance for all that he was worth, and then dropping back into the
ruck. But Bert "saw their bluff and went them one better," and no matter
how hard they "hit it up," he was always within striking distance of
their rear wheel. One by one they gave it up, and by the time that
thirty miles had been covered, Bert found himself riding on alone. He
had welcomed the visitors, because of the goodwill that they had shown
and the pace that they had made. Their company made the miles less long
and furnished him a mental tonic. Yet he was glad, when, with nothing to
distract him, he could bend all his energies to the task before him and
put the "Blue Streak" to the top of its speed.
For he wanted to make this day a record breaker in the matter of miles
covered. The roads were superb, and it behooved him to make the most of
them, with a view to having some surplus of time on hand, when he
struck the slower stretches further on.
There was plenty about him to enlist his thoughts, had he allowed them
to wander. He was on historic ground, and every foot was rich in
Revolutionary memories. Here had Washington with his ragged and
barefooted and hungry armies defied all the power of Great Britain.
Mifflin and Greene and Lafayette and "Light Horse Harry Lee" had here
done deeds of daring that electrified the world. And, before night, he
expected to be on the scene of that greater and sadder struggle, where
Grant and Lee had flung their giant armies at each other and drenched
the soil with fraternal blood. But, although Bert was an ardent patriot,
and, at any other time, nothing would have more strongly appealed to
him, now he was utterly engrossed in the colossal task set before him.
This, in fact, was the one great quality that had won him so many
victories in the athletic world--the ability of shutting out every
thing else for the time being, and concentrating all his strength and
attention on the task that lay at hand.
Now, he was fairly flying. Mile after mile swept away behind him, as he
gave the "Blue Streak" its head and let it show him what it could do.
The "speed lust" ran riot in his veins. As he neared the different
villages, on his route, he was forced to slacken speed to some extent.
It would never do to be arrested for breaking the speed limit. He
foresaw all the heart-breaking delay, the officious constable, the
dilatory country justice of the peace, the crowd of gaping rustics, the
possible jail detention. He was amply supplied with money to meet any
possible fine--but imprisonment was another matter, that might be
fraught with the direst consequences. So, although he inwardly raged at
the necessity, he curbed his natural impulse, and slowed up at crossings
and country towns. But when again he found himself out in the open, he
amply reimbursed himself for "crawling," as he called it, through the
towns. It is doubtful whether the startled townspeople would have called
it "crawling." But everything in this world is comparative, and where
they would have thought themselves flying at twenty miles an hour, Bert
felt that he was creeping at forty.
Few faster things had ever flashed like a streak of light along the
country roads. Horses, grazing in the adjoining pastures, after one wild
glance, tossed up their heels and fled madly across the fields. Even the
cows, placidly chewing their cud, were roused from their bovine calm and
struggled to their feet. Chickens, squawking wildly, ran across the
road, and although Bert tried his best to avoid them, more than one paid
the penalty for miscalculating his speed. Dogs started fiercely in
pursuit, and then disgustedly gave it up and crept away with their tail
between their legs. And all the time the speedometer kept creeping
rapidly up and up, until, within two hours after the start, he had wiped
a hundred miles off his schedule.
Just once he had stopped in his mad flight, to get a glass of milk at a
farmhouse. He was in the Pennsylvania Dutch district, the richest and
thriftiest farming country in the world. All about him were opulent
acres and waving fields of corn and big red barns crammed to bursting.
They were worthy, sober people, rather prone to regard every new
invention as a snare of the Devil, and the farmer's wife was inclined
to look askance at the panting machine that Bert bestrode. But his
friendly, genial face thawed her prejudice and reserve, and she
smilingly refused the money that he had offered for the rich creamy milk
she brought from one of the shining pans in her dairy.
By ten o'clock, he had passed through Baltimore, and, before noon, he
was riding over the splendid roads of the nation's capitol. Here,
despite the temptation to spend an hour or two, he only paused long
enough to take a hearty meal and check his time. He thrust aside the
well-meant invitations that were pressed upon him at the club, and by
two o'clock had left Washington behind him and was riding like a fiend
toward West Virginia. He wanted if possible to reach Charleston before
night closed in. If he could do this, he would be very well content to
dismount and call it a day's work.
But now old Nature took a hand. All through the morning, the haze had
been thickening, and now black clouds, big with threats of rain, were
climbing up the sky. The wind, too, was rising and came soughing along
in fitful gusts. Every moment now was precious, and Bert bent low, as he
coaxed his machine to do its utmost.
And it responded beautifully. Like Sheridan's horse on the road to
Winchester, it seemed to feel the mood of its rider. It was working like
a charm. Mile after mile sped away beneath the wheels that passed light
as a ghost over the broad path beneath. Even when it had to tackle
hills, it never hesitated or faltered, but went up one slope almost as
fast as it went down another.
And the hills were growing more frequent. Up to this time the roads had
been almost as level as a floor. But now, Bert was approaching the
foothills of the Blue Ridge, and not until he struck the lowlands of
Arkansas, would he be out of the shadow of the mountains, which, while
they added immensely to the sublimity of the scenery, were no friends to
any one trying to make a record for speed.
Still, this did not worry Bert. He expected to get the "lean" as well as
the "fat." The North American continent had not been framed to meet his
convenience, and he had to take it as it came. All that especially
bothered him was that threatening sky and those frowning clouds that
steadily grew blacker.
His eyes and thoughts had been so steadily fixed upon the heavens, that
he had scarcely realized the change in the surrounding country. But now
he woke up to the fact that his environment was entirely different from
that of the morning. Then he had been in a rich farming country, the
"garden of the Lord;" now he was in the barren coal regions of West
Virginia. Beautiful mansions had given place to tiny cabins; prosperous
towns to mountain hamlets. The farms were stony and poorly cultivated.
Great coal breakers stood out against the landscape like gaunt
skeletons. The automobiles that had crowded the eastern roads were here
conspicuous by their absence. The faces of those he passed on the road
were pinched and careworn. He was seeing life on one of its threadbare
levels.
But his musings on the inequalities of life were rudely interrupted by a
drop of rain that splashed on his face. It was coming, then. But perhaps
it would only prove a shower. That would not deter him. In fact he would
welcome it, as it would serve to lay the dust. But if it developed into
a steady downpour, he would have to seek shelter. It would only be
foolhardy to plough through the mud with his tires skidding and
threatening an ugly fall that might mean a broken leg or arm.
Faster and faster the drops came down, and faster and faster the "Blue
Streak" scorched along the road, as though to grasp every possible
advantage, before the elements had their way. Gradually the roads lost
their white, dusty appearance and grew yellow in the waning light. Bert
could feel a perceptible slowing up as the mud began to grip the wheel.
Still he kept on, holding like a miser to every precious mile that meant
so much to him.
Soon, however, he realized that "the game was up." The rain was coming
down now in torrents, and he was wet to the skin. And with the rain came
darkness so thick as "almost to be felt." Then a flash of lightning rent
the sky, and a terrific crash of thunder warned him that the storm was
on in earnest.
He looked about him for some place of shelter. But there was nothing in
sight, not even one of the little cabins, of whose hospitality he would
so gladly have availed himself. The lightning came so fast now that the
sky was aflame with it, and the thunder was continuous and deafening. He
did not dare to seek shelter under the trees, and, in the open, the
steel and iron of his motorcycle might easily attract a lightning
stroke.
As he looked about him in perplexity, a peculiarly blinding flash showed
him a little shack at the top of the hill he had been climbing when the
storm had broken. It was only a few rods ahead of him, and, with a
feeling of immense relief and thankfulness, he made for it. There was no
light coming from it, and he did not know whether it was inhabited or
abandoned. But, in either case, it was shelter from the fierceness of
the storm, and that was enough.
Leading the wheel from which he had dismounted, he climbed the
intervening space and rapped at the door. He waited an instant and then
knocked again. Still there was no answer and after pausing a moment, he
pushed open the door, that had no latch and yielded to his touch, as he
stepped inside.
At first, coming from the outer air, he could only make out the outlines
of the single room, of which the cabin seemed to consist. He called out,
but there was no response. Then he rummaged in his tool box, and got out
a bit of candle that he had provided for an emergency. From a waterproof
pouch in his khaki suit, he produced a match and lighted the candle.
Then, as the flickering light grew into a steady flame, he was able to
take stock of his surroundings.
As he had surmised on his entrance, there was only a single room. The
floor was of dirt, and the shack had been simply slung together in the
rudest kind of a way. There was a small table of unplaned boards and a
stool, from which one of the three legs was missing. A bunk in the
corner and a tattered blanket completed the entire outfit of the
temporary shelter in which Bert had so unexpectedly found himself.
It might have been a cabin formerly dwelt in by one of the "poor whites"
of the mountains, or possibly a hunter's shack that served at intervals
for a temporary camp. At all events, it was shelter, and, in his present
wet and desperate condition, Bert was not inclined to "look a gift horse
in the mouth."
"It isn't exactly the Waldorf-Astoria," he thought to himself, as he
brought his motorcycle in out of the pounding rain, "but it surely looks
mighty good to me just now."
There was a rude fireplace at one side and some wood and kindling left
by the previous occupant, and it was only a few moments before a cheery
blaze gave an air of comfort to the small interior. After the fire was
well started, Bert took his wet garments one by one and dried them
before the fire. In a little while he was snug and dry, and inclined
to look philosophically on the day that had had such an unlooked for
ending. He even chuckled, as he looked at the speedometer and found that
it registered over two hundred and fifty miles. He at least was nearly
up to his schedule, in spite of the rain, and to-morrow was "a new day."
"It might easily have been worse," he thought. "Suppose it had rained
that way this morning, instead of holding off as long as it did. I've
cleared the Eastern States, at any rate, and am at last 'down South.'"
As a precaution, when he stopped at Washington, he had secured a few
sandwiches and a can of sardines. These he put out on the rough table,
and, as hunger is always "the best sauce," he enjoyed it hugely. There
wasn't a crumb left, when at last he leaned back contentedly and
stretched his legs before the fire.
"Like Robinson Crusoe, I'm master of all I survey," he mused. "Not that
my kingdom is a very extensive one," as he looked about the little room,
that he could have covered with one jump.
The rain still kept on with unabated fury, but the harder it poured, the
more cozy the shack seemed by contrast.
"Guess you and I will have to bunk it out together, old chap," he said,
addressing his faithful wheel. "Well, I might easily find myself in
worse company. You're a good old pal, if there ever was one."
He took from his kit some oiled rags and together with some old gunny
sacking that he found in a corner, started to clean the machine. The
mud with which it was caked made this a work of time, as well as a
"labor of love," and two hours wore away before he had concluded. But it
was a thorough job, and, by the time he was through, the "Blue Streak"
was as bright and shining as when it faced the starter at noon on the
day before.
While he was at work, Bert at times seemed to hear something that
sounded like the roar and dash of waves. But he dismissed this as
absurd. It was probably the splashing of the water, as it ran down the
gullies at the side of the road. He was far above the level of lake or
pond, and there was nothing on his map to indicate the presence of any
considerable body of water in that locality. Once he went to the door, a
little uneasily. But in the pitch darkness, all he could see was the
lights of a little town, far down the valley. He told himself that he
was dreaming, and, after promising himself an early start on the
following morning, he stretched himself out on the little bunk in the
corner, and in a few minutes had fallen into a deep and refreshing
sleep.