AT THE CLUBHOUSE.
The following morning, shortly after breakfast, Dick received a call
over the telephone. It proved to be Henry Duncan, of Maplewood, and
after talking a few moments Merriwell told his companions that they had
been invited to Maplewood as guests of the Maplewood Canoe Club.
“I think we’d better go, fellows,” he said. “Mr. Duncan wants us to
come. He says the sympathy of the summer visitors at Maplewood is with
us, and they hope we’ll win the game to-day.”
“Where be we going to eat?” questioned Obediah Tubbs anxiously. “We was
put out of the Maple Heights Hotel, you know, and the only place up
there where we can git anything is at that dirty little restaurant. I
s’pose you might git plenty of pie there, such as it is.”
“Don’t worry about that,” laughed Dick. “Mr. Duncan says he’ll have a
spread at the clubhouse.”
“Then lul-lul-lul-let’s go!” cried Jolliby.
“Yes, let’s go!” exclaimed the others.
Thus it came about that Henry Duncan’s invitation was accepted and the
boys left Rockford on the nine-o’clock car. They were in good spirits,
every one of them, Buckhart having fully recovered his former condition.
As the car passed Uriah Blackington’s office, the lawyer thrust his head
out of the window and waved his hand at them, crying:
“Do your best to-day, boys. We’ll take one off Seaslope, and if you beat
Maplewood there’ll be fun the next time we meet.”
It was a beautiful morning, and the boys sang and joked as the trolley
car bore them toward the Maplewood hills.
Perhaps two-thirds of the journey had been made when the car stopped to
let a passenger off. It started up and proceeded slowly onto a curve of
the track, where there was a high embankment on one side.
Suddenly, without warning, the car left the track, but the motorman
instantly shut off the power.
They stopped with one corner of the car lurching over the embankment.
Already some of the boys had leaped off, and there was a general
scramble when the car stopped.
“Pretty near a bad accident,” said Hodge, shaking his head.
“Pretty near it!” exclaimed the pale-faced motorman. “I should say so!
If I hadn’t stopped to let that passenger off, I should have been
driving this car at usual speed round the curve here, and we must have
gone down the embankment.”
“I’d like to know how it happened, anyway,” declared the conductor.
“There was no reason why we should jump the track. We were apparently
creeping along.”
Together with the motorman he made an examination, and in a few moments
both men betrayed consternation and excitement. They called the
passengers to look at one of the rails.
“See here,” said the motorman, “this rail has been monkeyed with! It is
loose. The rails are spread here. This was no accident! Some one did the
job with the deliberate intention of running this car off the track!”
“What do you think of that, Dick?” asked Hodge, in young Merriwell’s
ear.
“I may be mistaken,” muttered the boy; “but it looks to me like more of
Benton Hammerswell’s work.”
“But it doesn’t seem possible,” said Bart, shaking his head. “Why, many
of us might have been killed had the car gone off this bank. It’s
certain some of us would have been severely injured.”
“In which case,” said Dick, “Maplewood would have had an easy thing this
afternoon.”
“It doesn’t seem possible,” continued Hodge; “that man Hammerswell must
be a scoundrel of the worst type.”
“Didn’t I tell you so?”
“But he’s the limit! He’s not only a scoundrel, but he’s crazy to try
such things.”
“You can bet he had no direct hand in it himself. I believe he was the
instructor, and some of his tools did the work.”
There was a long delay, but finally a car from Maplewood picked up the
passengers and carried them on to their destination.
As they came in sight of the Maple Heights Hotel, Hodge betrayed his
keen interest in the surroundings.
“It was through me that Frank came here to play baseball long ago,” he
said. “I induced him to come. Those were hot times, and it appears that
they are just as warm nowadays. I remember old Artemus Hammerswell and
his son Herbert. Artemus had money, and Herbert thought himself a
thoroughbred. There’s bad blood in these Hammerswells. They got the
worst of it in the old days, and I fancy Benton Hammerswell will get the
worst of it now.”
“There he is!” exclaimed Brad Buckhart, pointing toward the veranda of
the hotel. “He’s there on the steps talking to another man. Yes, by the
great horn spoon, the man he’s talking with is Tom Fernald!”
The Texan was somewhat excited. Dick clutched Brad’s shoulder to prevent
him from getting off the car at once.
“What do you think you’re going to do, Buckhart?” he demanded.
“I’d just like to prance up there and put my brand on both those
varmints!” declared the Westerner.
“But they’re men, and you’re only a boy,” said Hodge. “They would be two
to one against you.”
“I certain don’t opine that would hold me up any. I reckon Fernald got
something from me last night.”
The excited Texan was restrained until the car stopped at the platform
built for the passengers who wished to get off at the hotel.
On that platform were a number of summer visitors, both ladies and
gentlemen. Three men stepped forward as the boys left the car. They were
Henry Duncan, William Drake, and Eustace Smiley. Duncan clasped Dick’s
hand.
“Good morning, my boy!” he exclaimed heartily. “I’m glad you accepted
our invitation. Hammerswell found out about it, and he’s hot under the
collar. I don’t know what he’s been doing, but he made a great hustle
when he learned you were coming.”
“I think we know what he was doing,” declared Dick. “We’re lucky to
arrive uninjured, Mr. Duncan.”
He then told of their narrow escape from a serious accident.
“Do you think it possible any one actually tampered with those rails?”
gasped William Drake, in horror.
“My goodness! my goodness!” cried Eustace Smiley, his pudgy hands
uplifted. “It must have been an accident.”
“It will be investigated,” said Dick. “Both motorman and conductor
declared the rails had been loosened and spread.”
“Dreadful! dreadful!” said Smiley.
Bart Hodge now stepped forward and made himself known to Duncan, who
remembered him well and welcomed him once more to Maplewood.
“In order to avoid trouble with Hammerswell,” said Duncan, “we decided
to entertain you at the clubhouse instead of at the hotel. Hammerswell
has been keeping his team at the hotel, and he has some sort of a pull
there.”
“We’re well aware of that,” nodded Dick, smiling grimly. “He had a pull
sufficient to push us from the place the day we first arrived in this
town.”
“A most disgraceful piece of business,” said Smiley.
Dick refrained from mentioning the fact that on the occasion spoken of
Eustace Smiley had supinely agreed to anything Hammerswell proposed.
Led by Duncan and his two companions, the boys marched down the winding
road to a small, cleared grove on the shore of the lake, and there they
found the cool and comfortable home of the Maplewood Canoe Club.
The clubhouse was built at the water’s edge, and dozens of canoes were
to be seen. Some were floating in the water, several were drawn up on
shore, while still others were found in a part of the clubhouse built
for the purpose of storing them. Five or six club members were sitting
on the veranda, smoking and chatting. Out on the mirror-like surface of
the lake a few were paddling around in canoes.
It was a peaceful spot, and the boys eagerly sniffed the agreeable odor
of the pines which grew in that vicinity.
“Well, dern my picter!” chuckled Obediah Tubbs. “I’d just like to come
right down here and loaf through the rest of the warm weather!”
“Make yourselves at home, boys,” said Mr. Duncan. “Everything about the
place is yours as long as you stay here. Use any of the canoes you wish
to use.”
There were plenty of comfortable chairs, and the boys promptly accepted
the invitation to make themselves at home.
“Hey!” cried Jolliby, as he discovered a set of boxing gloves hanging on
the wall inside the clubhouse. “Here are the articles to have
fuf-fuf-fun with. Come on, Tubbs. I’ll just gug-gug-gug-gug-go you one.”
“I am too tired,” said Obediah, who was comfortably fanning himself in
the big chair he had appropriated. “I don’t want to hit you either.”
“Dud-dud-dud-don’t you?” sneered Chip, as he brought out the gloves.
“You dud-dud-don’t want to hit me, hey? Don’t worry about that. Just
juj-juj-juj-jump right up and hit me as much as you can.”
“Go away from me,” advised Obediah, with an attempt at sternness. “If I
ever did hit you once I’d knock a lung out of you.”
“Gug-gug-gug-get up,” cried Chip immediately, as he began putting on one
pair of gloves. “Come right ahead and tut-tut-tut-try it.”
The boys laughed and applauded, urging Obediah to get up and show what
he could do.
In vain Chip urged him, and at last, walking over to Obediah, he began
to tap him with the gloves.
“Get up!” cried Jolliby. “If you dud-dud-don’t I’ll fuf-fuf-flatten that
nose of yours all over your fuf-fuf-fuf-fuf-face!”
“Dern your picter,” squeaked Obediah immediately, “if you hit me again
I’ll soak you on the bugle!”
“That’s the talk!” said Earl Gardner. “Go for him, Obediah!”
“I jest hate to see anything like this!” said Ted Smart, as he forced
the other pair of gloves onto Tubbs. “It fills me with the utmost
distress! Put them on quick, Obed, and sail into him. You’ll break my
heart if you do it, but I think you’d better do it!”
While Tubbs was hesitating Jolliby gave him a tap on the nose that
brought tears into his eyes. With a wild squeal, the fat boy leaped into
the air and began putting on the gloves. With difficulty he was
repressed while they were tied at the wrists, and when everything was
ready the two boys squared away.
“Now if you want to see science,” said the fat boy, flourishing his
hands wildly, “jest you keep your optics on me. I’ll show you some kinks
that will make you wink.”
It was indeed a comical spectacle to see the tall, thin chap and the
fat, rotund lad get at it. Instantly at the word they made a jump at
each other. Jolliby shut his eyes and thrust out his long left arm.
Tubbs ran plumb against it and sat down heavily.
“Hold on, dern your picter!” exclaimed Obed. “That ain’t fair! That
ain’t no way to box! Why don’t you do it right?”
“I guess that was gug-gug-gug-good enough for you,” laughed Chip,
dancing around his antagonist and making some curious flourishes with
his hands. “Hope you ain’t going to quit as sus-soon as this.”
“You hold on!” said Tubbs, slowly getting onto his hands and knees and
rolling up his eyes at Jolliby. “Don’t you do a thing till I straighten
up. I’m going to swat you in the solar system.”
Having risen to his feet, Tubbs began to prance round with the grace of
a baby elephant. Jolliby followed him up and struck at him repeatedly,
but Obediah managed to keep out of reach every time.
Finally the tall boy grew weary and disgusted.
“This is no running mum-mum-mum-mum-match!” he panted, as he lowered his
hands and stood glaring resentfully at Obediah. “I can’t chase you all
over the county.”
“Got enough?” asked Obed, insinuatingly, as he approached Chip.
“Not by a juj-juj-juj-jugful!”
“Then take that!” cried the fat boy, as he delivered a swinging blow
that landed in the pit of Jolliby’s stomach.
Chip was doubled up like a jackknife. As he remained clasping his
stomach and gasping, Obediah once more danced round, waving his hands in
the air and crying:
“I guess that jarred you some!”
“That was fuf-fuf-fuf-foul!” came quickly from Jolliby.
“Didn’t nobody call time that I heard,” said Obed. “I asked you if you
had enough and you said you didn’t. I thought I’d give yer some more.”
“Oh, you dud-dud-dud-did, hey?” cried the tall boy fiercely, as he
straightened up. “That’s the way you dud-dud-dud-do it, hey? Well, just
dud-dud-dud-do it some more!”
The encounter that followed convulsed every witness with laughter. Both
lads seemed to close their eyes whenever they got into close connection,
and at least nine out of ten of their blows were wasted on the empty
air. Indeed, at one time they were actually back to back and still
punching away with their eyes tightly closed. Finally Jolliby caught
Obediah’s head under his arm and held it thus, while he threatened to
smash the fat boy with his free hand.
“Break away!” laughed Dick, as he forced them apart, being compelled to
drag Obediah from Jolliby’s clutch by main force.
“Here!” squealed the fat boy, holding out his hand to Chip, “give me my
ear! You raked it off! I want it!”
“Got enough?” again demanded Chip.
“Not if anybody will furnish me with a custard pie and you will wait for
me to eat it. I’m hungry.”
“You’re both pretty well used up,” said Dick. “Perhaps you’d better
finish this after you’ve had a little rest.”
“All right,” said both Chip and Obediah in a breath, for they were glad
to stop.
“Gentlemen!” said Ted Smart, rising and making a sweeping gesture toward
the contestants, “I wish to call your attention to the most marvelous
boxers of modern times.”
Unobserved by the boys, a tall, awkward, sandy-whiskered man and a
raw-boned, muscular-looking youth had approached the clubhouse while
Chip and Obediah were engaged. They were now standing a few feet away,
and the men laughed sneeringly at Smart’s words.
“Was that what you fellers call boxing?” he derisively inquired. “Why,
my boy, Jack, here, can put on the gloves and knock the stuffing out of
any of your crowd.”
The speaker was John Cole.
The boys recognized him instantly, for Cole had been on the original
athletic committee at Maplewood when Dick and his friends arrived at
that place. He had backed Benton Hammerswell in all Hammerswell’s moves.
Jack Cole was really an athlete of no mean ability. He was also a good
baseball player, and had been retained on the Maplewood team by
Hammerswell up to the time that the Maplewood manager had engaged a new
team throughout.
“I tell yer,” said John Cole, looking the boys over and letting his eyes
rest on Dick Merriwell, “when Jack and I heerd you fellers had come down
here, we jest decided to walk over and see yer. Mebbe you remember the
fu’st day you came into Maplewood?”
“Yes, we remember it very well,” replied Dick.
“Do yer? I’m glad yer do! Mebbe you remember that there was a baseball
game started and that it ended in a row?”
“Yes; we remember that.”
“Do yer? Well, I am glad yer do! My boy pitched in that game, and he was
in the fight. He got hurt in that fight and had a black eye for a week
afterward.”
“Too bad!” said Ted Smart. “I am so sorry for poor Jack! Did he really
have a black eye? It’s a shame he didn’t have two black eyes.”
“Now, don’t you try ter git funny with me, you little runt!” snapped
John Cole. “Jack ain’t looking fer no trouble with you. You ain’t wurth
noticing.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” said Ted.
“There’s one feller here,” pursued Cole, thrusting his fingers into his
sandy beard and scratching his chin, “that my boy, Jack, says he’d like
to have a little settlement with.”
“I opine I’m the party,” said Buckhart, rising.
“No, you ain’t,” denied Cole. “That’s the feller right there.”
He pointed straight at Dick.
“He’s the feller!” palpitated Cole. “You’ve got the boxing gloves right
here. Now, jest let him put them on with my boy, and I’ll bet ten cents
that Jack will knock the stuffing out of him inside of two minutes.”
“That’s right, dad,” said Jack. “If he ain’t afraid of me he’ll put ’em
on.”
“Step right up,” invited Dick. “I can’t refuse to accept such a
challenge, even if you knock me out in less than one minute. I’ll have
to put the gloves on with you.”
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