JERRY’S STORY
The boys cooked some supper and made camp as best they could from the
salvaged cargo of their boat. Afterwards they slipped out of their wet
clothes and rolled up in the blankets before the comforting warmth of
their fire.
Bob was looking into the glowing coals, thinking over the events of the
day, which, since they had turned out safely, were now to be treasured
as great adventures. Jerry for his part was lying looking up at the
narrow strip of star-lit sky showing between the edges of the canyon’s
top. Suddenly he rolled over and put his hand on his companion’s
shoulder.
“You did me a good turn to-day,” he said a little huskily. “Thanks.
I--I can’t say things very well but I want to tell you--”
“Cut it out,” stammered Bob, confused. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Saved my life, I reckon, is all you did. It must have been some job,
too, although I don’t know how you did it.”
“You’d have done the same thing for me,” returned Bob, anxious to get
off the subject. “Let’s talk about the dam site.”
But Jerry was not to be put off. He had come very close to death and it
had shaken him out of his reserve. Bob had saved him and he wanted to
thank him, to show his gratitude.
“The old dam can wait. You did a mighty fine thing for me and I want to
know how you managed it.”
“I just pulled you out and pumped the water out of you and--and here
you are,” was Bob’s explanation of the episode.
“Seems to me it was a sort of angry whirlpool you pulled me from,”
retorted Jerry. But he saw that he would have a hard time in getting
any more details. “Anyhow, I know I’ve got to thank you for my
life--such as it is!”
The note of sadness in the latter part of Jerry’s remark struck sharply
on Bob’s ears. It flashed on him that there was possibly a reason for
his comrade’s fits of silence and grouchiness. This might very well be
mixed up with his former life. He made an effort to find out.
“What’s the matter with your life?” he asked quickly. “I’d want nothing
better. To be with the Reclamation Service and to have Mr. Whitney for
a boss seems pretty good to me!”
“That part’s all right. The Chief is bully, but--”
“But what?” encouraged Bob.
“Oh, it’s nothing I can talk about,” returned the other and buried his
face in his hands.
Bob watched him for a moment and then said softly, “But if you can talk
about it p’r’aps it _will_ help. Don’t you think so?”
“I don’t know,” hesitated the other after a pause. “I reckon it’s
mighty kiddish of me but--but I just can’t help it.”
Bob was wise enough to wait until Jerry felt like going on. He knew
that the other boy must be very much upset, quite shocked out of his
customary reserve by the happenings of the day, to say as much as he
had. His patience was at length rewarded.
“It’s--it’s just that I haven’t ever had a family like other fellows.
There isn’t a soul who’d care a bit whether I’d been drowned to-day or
not. If I get along, it’s all by myself. Somehow it doesn’t seem worth
while.”
“That’s mighty tough,” said Bob sympathetically, when Jerry paused for
a moment. “I’ll bet Mr. Whitney cares--”
“But that’s not like having someone you _belong_ to!” cried Jerry.
“The Boss is all right but he isn’t a family. Why, the first thing
I remember is selling papers in the Loop back in Chicago when I was
hardly big enough to walk, and getting licked when I got home because
I didn’t bring in enough pennies. Home!” the boy’s voice broke on the
word. “It wasn’t a home!”
“Surely your parents wouldn’t treat you like that!” expostulated Bob
Hazard, horrified.
“They weren’t my parents, no fear. They told that soon enough. I’d been
taken in by ’em ’cause they thought I might be useful--”
“Who were they?”
“Oh, a cabby driver and his wife. The old woman told me once she wished
she’d left me on the doorstep where she found me. But I stuck it out
with them, until I was about fourteen, I reckon, and then something
happened. One day a man spoke to me on State Street and asked if I
didn’t want to go out in the country. He made a wonderful picture of
the road on which there were no houses, the haystacks under which one
could sleep. I’d never been outside of the city and it sounded great to
me. He said I could go along with him and he would show me all these
wonders. It was springtime and the licking I’d had the night before
still smarted, so I went.”
Once Jerry had started his tale, it flowed on without interruption. He
seemed anxious to get it out.
“I didn’t know what I’d let myself in for. If anything, my life was a
lot worse than it’d been before. The Denver Kid was the name of the man
who had picked me up and I soon learned that he was a tramp--a hobo.
All first class hoboes get boys who go along with them and on whom fall
all the hard work. Their pay is in kicks and beatings. And I got my
share of both. I found the country to be as he said it was, but we saw
very little of it, for the Kid didn’t like walking. He stayed close to
the railroad and I saw most of the country from a crack in the door of
a box car, or through the flying sand thrown up over us as we clung to
a rattling brake-beam.
“It’s hard to escape from a gang of tramps once you’re in it. Not for
two years was I able to pull it off. Finally I got my chance to beat
it. Somehow, the sight of kids going to school had given me a hankering
for an education of some sort and I was ashamed that all I could do was
spell out the newspaper and read a time-table.”
“How did you manage it?” put in Bob, who was thrilled with the
narrative.
“One day the Kid sent me out to rustle a hand-out. We were in Iowa at
that time, just when they were bringing in the wheat harvest. I went up
to a farmhouse and started my spiel on a lady who came to the door. She
let me finish what I had to say, took me in and without a word gave me
a big spread. But when I got through she made up for her silence. She
began jawing at me just as a mother might.”
“I know,” put in Bob. “I didn’t have a mother either. At least, it was
so long ago I can hardly remember her.”
Jerry went on with his story. “She told me I ought to be ashamed of
myself, big, husky boy that I was, roaming around doing no useful work.
Wanted to know why I didn’t stay there and help with the harvest and
work for my living. This wasn’t the first time that I had been handed
out the same sort of chatter. But I fell for it this time--she was sort
of homely and nice. The only thing I was afraid of was the Denver Kid.
I knew if I didn’t go back with something to eat he would come and find
me and lick the stuffing out of me. I told Mrs. Olson--that was her
name--that I would have to go but that I’d come back that night. For a
moment I don’t think she believed me, but at last she let me go, giving
me quite a lot of grub.
“I went back to the bunch and that night just after we’d hopped a
freight at the water tank, I took a chance and jumped. By the time the
Denver Kid knew I’d gone, the train was rolling too fast for him to
follow me.”
“Weren’t you hurt?” asked Bob.
“A few scratches and bruises. Nothing much. But I didn’t care; I was
free. I walked back to the farm, camped out under a haystack and the
next morning showed up for breakfast. Mrs. Olson certainly was good to
me while I was there. After harvest she made me stay on and let me go
to school. I paid for my keep by doing chores.”
“Didn’t the Denver Kid come back after you?” Bob wanted to know.
“Never,” said Jerry. “At first I figured he would, but after a month,
when he didn’t show up, I doped it out that he thought I’d fallen off
the train and been killed. Anyhow, I stayed with the Olson’s until I
had learned all that the school there could teach me. Mrs. Olson died
soon after and I couldn’t bear to stay around any longer. She was as
near to folks as I ever had.”
“That was tough,” said Bob sympathetically. “What’d you do then?”
“I just drifted. I followed the harvest westward and then I had a
chance to take some cattle down to Colorado. It was about then I met
Steve Whitney, and he gave me a job, and here I am.”
“How did you meet him?” asked Bob, expecting that Jerry had found his
job in some exciting way. But he was disappointed.
“I was hanging around the little town I was in, waiting for something
to turn up. There was a project under way a few miles out and I hiked
over to give it a look. The Chief caught me on the dam and thought I
looked sort of hungry. Shipped me to the mess tent and afterwards put
me to work. That’s all. Now I’m here. And I’ve told you my yarn,” said
Jerry at last. “There’s not much to it, is there?”
Bob was silent a moment, contrasting the life of ease he had spent with
the experiences he had just listened to. Before he could speak, Jerry
went on, laughing shortly.
“I’m sorry that I inflicted it all upon you, Bob. I was sort of acting
the cry baby, wasn’t I?”
“Not at all. I think you have done a lot for yourself and it must have
been awfully exciting while you were about it. I’ve never had anything
more exciting in my life than just going to school. This engineering
is the biggest adventure I’ve ever had. But to-day--to-day’s about made
up for all I’ve missed in the past. I couldn’t want much better than
this, could I?”
“I should say not,” returned Jerry. “The last twelve hours ought to
last you for the rest of your life!”
They talked on until sleep overcame them. For his part, Bob went off
into dreamland feeling that the day had been well spent. The adventures
had been big adventures and he and Jerry had come through safely. Jerry
had loosened up and had come out of his shell and Bob knew that he had
made a new friend and a good one.