A DESPERATE RACE
For a few moments the surprise of the cadets was such that they could
think of nothing to do. It seemed almost impossible that their plans
should be defeated by such a simple means, yet such was the case. A look
down the empty tracks showed not a sign of their special train, and
further appeals to the agent only confirmed what he had first said.
"It's no use, boys," he declared. "That special has been sent back and
it will take a long time to get it again, even if I could. The train
dispatcher made a certain schedule for it, and once that is busted it's
hard to get it in shape again."
"Isn't there a regular train they can take?" asked Mr. Hamilton.
"Not for three hours."
"And that will be too late," said Paul dismally.
"Whew!" whistled George Hall. "This is tough! Let's wire Mooretown and
tell them what happened. They'll call the game off I'm sure, and not
make it a forfeit for us."
"What good would it do if they did?" asked Jim Watkins. "There are only
two more games for us to play in the championship series. This one with
Mooretown and the one next Saturday with Blue Hill. This is our only
chance, and if we can't take it we won't get another one at Mooretown,
as they break training to-day, after this contest. No boys, it's all up
with Kentfield's chance at the trophy, I reckon."
There was silence for a moment, but the cadets were doing some hard
thinking.
"That cad Porter!" exclaimed Innis Beeby. "What could have induced him
to play such a contemptible trick?"
"I suppose because I wouldn't promise to let him go in for the full game
to-day," replied Dick reluctantly.
"Are you sure it was Porter?" inquired Paul.
"He's about the only one who is capable of such a thing as this," said
Innis, looking at Weston.
"I'm going to make sure," spoke Dick, and he inquired particularly of
the agent as to the appearance of the cadet who had given the false
information about there being no need of the special train. The detailed
description left no room for doubt. It was Porter.
"And, now I come to think of it, the young man laughed as he was going
away, after he heard me give the engineer of the special the orders that
he wouldn't be needed," said the station agent.
"He laughed; eh?" repeated Dick.
"Yes, and I think he said something about a joke, but I can't be sure.
Anyhow I thought it was sort of funny to hear him chuckle when he was
walking away, for I know how set you boys are on football, and I
reckoned you'd be sorry if a game was cancelled. But I had other things
to think of, getting the trains on their regular schedule after the
special was out of the way, so I didn't pay much attention."
"Well, Porter has put us in bad," declared Ray Dutton. "The sneak! I
wish I had him here now."
Several glances were turned in the direction of the crony of Porter, as
if he might know something of him. Weston flushed uneasily, but he rose
to the situation.
"Fellows," he said earnestly, "I hope you don't think that I had any
hand in this. Porter and I have been thick, I know, but of late he
hasn't had so much to do with me. But, on my honor, I never knew a thing
about this. He never hinted it to me, or if he had I hope you will
believe me when I say that I wouldn't have stood for it, and that I'd
have told Hamilton right away, so his mean plan could have been stopped.
I hope you believe me."
"Of course we do, Weston," said Dick. "I'm afraid Porter hasn't been
himself lately. But let's forget about that now. The thing to do is to
consider how we are going to get to Mooretown."
"How can we, without a train available?" asked Beeby.
"I don't know--I'm going to think," declared the captain with a brave
effort to keep cheerful against heavy odds.
"Suppose you let me try," suggested Mr. Hamilton. "I know some of the
higher railroad officials, and if I telegraph them they may be able to
get a special back here in time for you to play."
The boys brightened up at this, and the millionaire wrote several
messages which the agent clicked off to headquarters. There was barely
time, if a special arrived inside of half an hour, for the cadets to get
to Mooretown in season to play the game, but it was a small margin.
"If we had carriages enough we could drive," said Hal Foster. "The wagon
road to Mooretown is shorter than the railroad line."
"We never could do it in time," objected Frank Rutley.
At this moment the agent came out from the office with several telegrams
in his hand.
"I'm sorry," he announced, "but they say at headquarters, Mr. Hamilton,
that they'd like to oblige you and the boys, but two hours is the
shortest time in which they can get the special in shape again. No
engineer is available."
Once more dull hopelessness fell upon the boys. Dick was almost in
despair. He saw all his plans of being captain of a championship
football team being dashed to the ground. It was a bitter blow.
The two coaches, likewise, were much disappointed, for it would be not a
little to their credit to have whipped into first class shape a team
that, the season before, was the tail-ender of the military colleges.
The young captain was pacing up and down the depot platform. His
companions left him alone for a space for they knew how he felt.
"Well," began Dick after a pause, "I guess----"
He did not finish the sentence, but stood in a listening attitude. From
down the road there came a steady hum and roar that told of some
approaching vehicles.
"Automobiles," remarked Paul Drew. "If we had enough of them----"
An instant later there swung into view around the bend in the road four
big auto trucks, new ones, each in charge of a man. The trucks were
powerful ones, designed to carry heavy loads a long distance and they
glistened with new paint, while in gold letters on their sides was the
name of a business firm in a large city just beyond Mooretown.
At the sight of these--of their ample capacity--large enough to take the
team and the crowd with them, Dick's heart gave a bound. He made up his
mind instantly.
"Fellows!" he cried, "if those men will hire me those trucks we'll play
Mooretown yet. I'm going to see!"
"Hurray!" cried George Hall, and Mr. Hamilton smiled in a gratified way
at the quick wit of his son.
"I say!" cried the young millionaire, stepping out in front of the first
truck and holding up his hand, "will you do us a favor?"
"What's this--a--hold up?" asked the man good-naturedly, as he jammed on
the brakes.
"Yes, we're held up--our special has gone--we've got to get to Mooretown
soon or we forfeit the championship game. Will you take us in those
trucks? I'll pay you well, and stand for all damage. Will you?"
His voice was eager, and the man, who had been a boy himself once, and
fond of sport, was visibly impressed.
"I'd like to oblige you," he said slowly, "but I don't know as I can.
You see I'm in charge of these four trucks. I work for the auto firm
that built them, and the flour company in Denville that purchased them
made an agreement that before they would accept them, the machines must
be run from the factory to their place. That's what I and my men are
doing now. The flour concern wanted to test the running gear, and it
will be a good test all right."
"It will be a better test with a load of us fellows in," said Dick with
ready wit.
"I suppose so," admitted the man, scratching his head, "but I don't know
as the flour firm would like it. There might be some damage, and----"
"I'll stand for it!" put in Mr. Hamilton quickly. "I'm Mortimer
Hamilton, of Hamilton Corners."
Though he spoke quietly his words had an instant effect for the man had
evidently heard of the millionaire.
"Is that so?" asked the chief auto driver quickly. "I know you. I own
two shares of stock in your electric road. Simpson is my name--Ruddy
Simpson. I hope the rumors that the road is going to fail aren't true,
Mr. Hamilton."
"The road will never fail, if I have to sink in it every dollar I own!"
cried Mr. Hamilton. "But we've got other business in hand now. Can you
take these boys to the game?"
"I'll do it!" suddenly cried Mr. Simpson. "I'll take a chance. Hop in
boys, and I'll get you there on time if the gasolene holds out. We've
got to pass through Mooretown to Denville. Hop in!"
"Hurrah!" cried the now hopeful cadets, and they piled into the four big
trucks. They had to stand up, and there was considerable crowding, but
they did not mind this, and there was room for all.
"Now for the game!" cried Dick as the ponderous machines started off,
the station agent waving a farewell.
"I guess this will put a spoke in Porter's wheel," murmured Beeby.
"He'll feel sick to think that we got to the game after his mean
trick."
"We're not there yet," remarked Dick a bit dubiously, for he knew the
eccentricities of autos. "We've got to make pretty good time, and there
are several hills to climb."
"Don't let them hills worry you," said Mr. Simpson. "I helped build
these trucks, and I know what they can do. We'll take any hill you can
give us, with a heavier load than this on. Only, of course, we haven't
an awful lot of speed. But I'll push them to the limit. Turn on all you
can!" he called back to the three men.
"Sure!" they shouted in reply, and the motors hummed and throbbed under
the strain.
For the first few miles the roads were good, and speedy time was made,
so that Dick ceased some of his worry lest they arrive too late. Then a
sandy stretch was encountered, and the motors whined out a protest, but
they kept on.
"Think you can do it?" asked the captain of the man in charge. Dick and
the team and substitutes, together with his father, were in the first
machine.
"Oh, we'll do it," was the reply, and Mr. Simpson's voice had a
confidence he did not altogether feel. It was no small responsibility,
for it was a desperate race against the fleeting minutes and hours.
After the sand, came a good piece of highway, and then a stiff hill, but
the trucks made it safely and at fair speed.
"We'll do it!" announced Mr. Simpson after about two hours. "There's
one long hill now after this one we're climbing and then we can coast
down into Mooretown."
"Good!" cried Dick, and he felt some of the strain of anxiety leaving
him.
A few minutes later, when the foremost auto had reached the crest of the
rise, the driver of the truck containing Dick and the team remarked, as
he pointed ahead:
"There's Mooretown, but you can't see the cadet football field yet."
"Oh, I guess they'll be there expecting us," replied the young captain.
Down the other side of the long slope started the first truck, the
others following in procession.
"Well, we did better than I expected we would," remarked Mr. Simpson.
"These trucks----"
He stopped suddenly, as a sharp jar and crash came from somewhere in the
mechanism of the machinery. The brakes had been set as the descent was
begun, and the car had been traveling slowly, but now a sudden increase
in speed was noticed.
"What's the matter?" asked Mr. Hamilton quickly.
"Aren't we going a bit too fast down hill?" inquired Mr. Martin.
The driver shut his lips with a grim tightening. He yanked back on the
brake handle with all his force. Then a startled look came over his
face.
"The brake rod is broken!" he cried.
Gathering speed the ponderous truck, with its load of humanity--the
cadet football team shot down hill, bumping over stones and hollows,
swerving from side to side, the steering wheel making the firm hands of
the driver tremble.
"Haven't you got two brakes?" gasped Dick.
"Yes--got the foot on one--she won't hold her with this load," was the
panting answer.
"Can't we jump out before it goes any faster?" asked Hal Foster.
"Stay where you are!" fairly shouted the man. "Maybe I can guide her
down."
He was tooting the horn frantically to warn possible approaching
vehicles that his was out of control. Fortunately the hill was straight,
and a level stretch at the bottom gave promise of a long coast that
might check the awful speed the car would have when it reached the foot
of the declivity.
Faster and faster went the runaway truck, and now from behind came the
frantic calls of the other cadets who realized the danger to their
football team. And there was grave danger--danger that could not be
avoided, for Simpson, yanking again and again on the brake lever, only
made more certain that it would not work, and the foot brake was
pitifully inadequate to check the now rushing vehicle.