WHAT BECAME OF LARRY.
In the meantime, what of Larry?
Was he really drowned, as Lank Possy and his cronies surmised?
The swiftly flowing current carried him past the dock before he
regained even a small portion of his senses.
Then, as he opened his eyes for a brief second, he beheld a log
floating near, and clutched it just as a drowning man is supposed to
clutch at a straw. His mind was in a whirl, and more than once he
imagined he was going to the bottom of the stream to rise no more.
“The rascals! They would leave me to drown!” he thought.
He tried to cry out, but he was too exhausted to make more than a
hoarse whisper.
On and on he went, until of a sudden he bumped up along side of a
canal boat lying off a long coal dock.
“Help!” he managed to cry, and a man who was sitting on the canal boat
smoking heard him and leaped up in astonishment.
“Who calls?”
“I do,” answered Larry. “Help me out of the water.”
“Well, I vow!” ejaculated the canal boatman. “Wait, I’ll soon have ye
out!”
He ran for a rope and lowered one end. Larry was too weak to pull
himself up, but managed to tie the rope about his arm, and then the man
quickly lifted him to the deck.
“How did ye git in the river, stranger?”
“Some fellows attacked me on a dock at Ferryville,” answered our hero.
“Then the end of a plank struck and almost stunned me.”
“You’ve had a narrow escape.”
“I know it. I wish I could get at the gang responsible for this job.”
“Who are they? Anybody I know?”
“A young machinist named Lank Possy and three others named Shanner,
Anderson and Field.”
“I know Possy. He’s an ugly one. He worked around the boats a few years
ago, but he soon got his walking papers.”
The boatman was kind to Larry, and let him dry his clothing at the
fire, and also gave him a cup of hot coffee.
It was nearly midnight when Larry reached home. He found Kate sitting
up and alarmed over his staying away.
“You said you would be back at eleven o’clock or before,” she said,
half reproachfully.
He told of what had happened. She turned pale as she listened.
“Oh, Larry, I am so glad we are going away from Ferryville,” she cried.
“I hope you never meet Lank Possy and the others again.”
“I do—just once,” said the young machinist, and his words meant a good
deal.
The next day was Sunday, and Possy and his crowd kept out of sight.
They heard that Larry was around and were, of course, much relieved to
think they could not be held for his murder.
By Monday noon Larry and Kate were ready to move, and said a last
goodby to their neighbors.
Their few household effects had gone on before, and brother and sister
were making their way down to the boat landing when, on looking up a
side street, Larry caught sight of Lank Possy and Shanner walking along.
“Go on to the boat, Kate,” he said hurriedly. “I’ll be with you before
she starts.”
Then, before she could hold him back, he ran off after Possy and
Shanner. He caught them at a vacant corner, and, coming up behind them,
grabbed each by the collar.
“You miserable rats!” he cried, sternly, and bumped their heads
together like two balls. “Take that to remember me by!”
“Whow!” howled Shanner. “Let up! You’ve cracked my head open!”
“Let go of me, Larry Barlow!” shrieked Lank Possy, and twisted himself
loose. “Didn’t you get enough down to the dock Saturday night!”
“I got more than I intend to stand,” retorted Larry, his eyes flashing
fire. “Lank Possy, be on guard, for you are going to get the biggest
thrashing you ever received in your life.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” howled Possy, but he nevertheless turned pale.
Without another word Larry leaped forward and planted a blow on the
bully’s chest.
Possy struck out in return, and hit our hero on the shoulder.
Then Larry let out right and left half a dozen times in quick
succession.
The blows were as true as they were swift, and the bully caught it in
the ear, the nose, the mouth, and then squarely on the eye. Then Larry
delivered a final blow on the mouth which loosened two of Possy’s teeth
and sent him into a heap, all but overcome.
At first Shanner had stood by watching the progress of the struggle,
but as he saw his crony getting the worst of it he began to edge away.
As Possy went down he started to run, but Larry was too quick for him.
Now Shanner was a rich youth, a good deal of a sport, and he was a
friend to Possy simply because the bully was in the habit of catering
to his vanity. He was too much of a dude to know anything about
defending himself.
“Don’t you dare hit me!” he shrieked, as Larry caught him by the
shoulder.
“I’ll give you something to remember me by!” answered our hero. “You
shan’t throw me into the river for nothing.”
And without further ado he hauled off and let drive, straight for
Clarence Shanner’s ear, a blow that almost took the dude from his feet.
“You—you wretch,” moaned Shanner, and then seeing a loose picket lying
near, he ran and picked it up.
“Drop that picket!”
“I will not, you young ruffian,” panted Shanner. “How do you like that?”
He aimed a blow at Larry’s head, but our hero dodged it, and the next
instant wrenched the picket so forcibly from Shanner’s hand that
several ugly splinters were left behind. At once Shanner let out a yell
of pain.
“My hand! My hand!”
“Serves you right,” returned Larry.
“I’ll—I’ll have the law on you!”
“Don’t talk to me about law,” cried our hero, hotly. “Here’s something
more for you!”
As he spoke he whacked Clarence Shanner over the shoulders with the
picket.
The dude yelled with pain and fright, but Larry did not let up, and
when Shanner tried to break away our hero promptly tripped him up.
In the meantime Lank Possy looked around for some means of revenge.
Not far away lay a brick and, picking this up, he took aim and hurled
it at our hero’s head.
Larry was just turning at the time, and as the brick came closer he
dodged and the dangerous missile flew past his left ear.
“Take that for throwing the brick at me!” he exclaimed.
And before the bully knew what was happening our hero let him have the
picket directly over the face—a blow which stretched Lank Possy flat
on his back.
Then Larry turned again to Clarence Shanner.
“I’ll give them something to remember me by,” he declared.
“Don’t hit me again!” shrieked the dude.
“Are you sorry for what you did to me on Saturday night?” demanded
Larry.
“Yes, yes! Please don’t hit me again!”
“I ought to thrash you within an inch of your life,” answered our hero,
sharply.
Just then Clarence Shanner looked up the side street and saw a
policeman approaching rapidly.
The policeman’s name was Dawson, and he was well known to the
dude—indeed it had been his father who had used his influence to get
Dawson on the Ferryville force.
At once Shanner set up a loud call for assistance, and in a moment
more, before Larry had a chance to retreat, the bluecoat was on the
scene.
“What’s up here?” he roared, brandishing his club.
“Arrest that wretch!” cried Clarence Shanner. “He has been trying to
kill me.”
In another moment Larry found himself a prisoner in the hands of the
policeman.