A NARROW ESCAPE.
The following morning, not a little to his wonderment, Rod found his
legs were lame and his ankles a trifle stiff. Being a fellow of active
temperament and athletic mold, and having ridden the range and punched
cows, it vexed him to find his efforts at skating, having lasted less
than two hours, should have done him up to such an extent.
“I must be getting soft,” he muttered, as, following a sponge bath, he
rubbed himself down and massaged the sore muscles of his legs. “I’ll
slump out of any sort of condition if I don’t look out.”
Gradually, as he moved around, the lameness passed away, although it
did not wholly disappear. At school he heard the boys talking ice
hockey and discussing the organization of a basketball team to furnish
sport when, later, snowfalls should put an end to skating; and once
more, with a sensation of resentment, he felt himself barred from their
circle, although as a student at the academy he should have been one of
them. This led him openly to accept the friendly overtures of Spotty
Davis, observing which, Ben Stone, who had remained faithful despite
public sentiment, did not seem to be wholly pleased. Nevertheless,
Stone made no comment.
Lander was not a student at the academy; he had never completed his
course in the grammar school, and he now spent his time loafing around
the village, being closely watched by the people who knew him of old;
for no one trusted him.
With suppressed impatience, Grant waited the coming of another night.
It fretted him to see the boys and girls skating on the lake during
noontime intermission, yet he found a fascination in watching them, and
he noted that Barker and Eliot seemed to be the most graceful,
accomplished and proficient of all the fellows. Not until he had
acquired much more skill would he be ready to make a public appearance
on skates.
Leaving his aunt clearing the table after supper, with the monkey
watching her from its perch on the back of a chair and the parrot
grumbling in its cage, Rod secured his skates and again turned his
steps toward Bear Cove. As he approached the cove he was surprised to
hear voices and laughter, and, pausing to listen, he learned that Davis
and Lander were there ahead of him.
They were sitting on the shore in the shadow of the pines, and their
voices sounded strange, while their laughter was of a high-pitched,
unnatural sort. They looked up with a start as he paused beside them,
for the carpet of pine needles had muffled his footsteps.
“Who the dickens——” cried Spotty.
“Why, it’s Rod—our friend Rod, Spot,” said Lander. “’Lo, old chap.
We’re waiting for you. How is the weather in Texas to-night?”
“’Tis Rod, ain’t it?” whooped Spotty familiarly. “Good old Rod, the
cow-puncher and fabricator. Glad to see you, old man. Say, Bunk,
where’s that flagon of joy juice?”
“Here ’tis,” said Lander, handing something over. “Great stuff for a
cold night; it’s good as an overcoat.”
“Have a nip, Rod,” invited Davis, holding it out as Grant sat down at
the edge of the ice.
“What is it?” asked Rodney.
“Some of old Gran’ser Lander’s bottled elixir of life. Gee! it does
stir up a feller’s blood and make him feel good and warm. Don’t be
afraid of it; take a good pull.”
Davis thrust a gurgling bottle into Grant’s hand.
“Oh, I don’t believe I want any of that stuff,” laughed Rod. “I’m not
cold.”
“Do you good, just the same,” declared Bunk. “You don’t know what we’re
offering you. It’s nothing but harmless cider. Go ahead and try it.”
Thus adjured, the boy from Texas removed the stopper and tipped the
bottle to his lips. One small swallow was quite enough; he spat out the
second mouthful.
“Cider!” he exclaimed. “It tastes like vinegar to me. You don’t mean to
say you like that stuff?”
“No vinegar about it,” said Lander, with a touch of indignation. “It’s
just plain hard cider, doctored and bottled by my old grandpop. I had
hard work sneaking it out under my coat. Perhaps you may not like the
taste of it at first, Rod, but you’ll get so you’ll like it if you keep
trying it.”
“It gives you that funny feeling, that funny feeling,” chanted Davis,
ending with a silly laugh.
Disgusted with them, Rod forced the bottle into Spotty’s hands.
“My father is a temperance man,” he said. “He won’t have a drop of
booze around the ranch, for he’s seen the bad effects of it. One of our
best men got his skin full and was lost in a norther. When they found
him he was pretty near gone, and he lost both hands from that
freeze—made him a cripple for life.”
“Oh, that was different,” said Bunk. “He had been drinking the real
stuff; this is only cider.”
Nevertheless, Grant, preparing to clamp on his skates, firmly refused
to touch the bottle again. Lander and Davis had another drink, and then
they attached their own skates to their feet.
“I’m afraid,” Said Spotty, rising somewhat unsteadily, “that you’re a
rather tame old cowboy, Rod. I’m afraid that’s why the fellers don’t
take much stock in you. You duck at everything.”
“They’re welcome to take as little stock in me as they choose,” said
Grant, a trifle warmly. “I came out here to learn to skate, not to
guzzle old cider.”
They followed him onto the ice, and Spotty, attempting to do some fancy
tricks, sprawled at full length, whereupon he sat up, whooping with
laughter.
“Hold on, Grant,” called Lander, as Rod started off. “We’re going to
give you further instructions, you know. Don’t mind Spotty. That upper
story of his is so light he can’t keep his balance.”
“Never mind me,” returned Rodney; “I reckon I’ll get along all right.”
He was gratified to find he had lost none of the slight knack at
skating acquired on the previous night, and this gave him so much
confidence that he rapidly improved. At first his lame ankles
protested, but they soon ceased their rebellion, and a sense of
exhilaration came to him as he found himself swinging back and forth
across the cove with fairly long strokes and remarkable steadiness.
Nevertheless, he was annoyed by his companions, who persisted in
following him and getting in his way, offering suggestions and making
silly remarks. To get away from them he skated out toward the open lake.
Suddenly round Pine Point flashed a light, followed by another and
another. Half a dozen boys, bearing torches, came upon Grant and his
persistent mates ere they could escape. Three of the torch bearers were
Eliot, Barker and Rollins. Berlin flashed the light of his torch upon
them, and then, whirling to skate backwards as he went past, cried out
to the others:
“Here’s a fine collection! The cow-puncher has found some company to
suit his taste.”
This produced a laugh, which appeared greatly to irritate Lander, who
shouted:
“Go on, you bunch of dubs! Nobody wants anything to do with you,
anyhow.”
Spotty Davis broke into a series of derisive cat-calls and taunting
jeers, to which the torch bearers gave no heed. Some of the party
turned back at that point, but two or three continued on round the
northern end of Bass Island.
“They make me sick!” snarled Lander. “I’m going to get at that feller
Barker some day, and when I do he’ll know something has happened to
him.”
In spite of himself, Grant could not wholly smother a feeling of regret
over having been seen with those two chaps. Barker’s sneer had left a
sting, a fact which he would not have acknowledged had any one
intimated as much. Wishing to get away by himself, he improved an early
opportunity to skate off, leaving Bunk and Spotty still telling each
other what they thought of certain fellows in Oakdale; and he paid
little heed to his course until, of a sudden, he discovered the shore
of Bass Island not far away at his right.
“Jingoes!” he muttered, attempting to check his progress suddenly.
“This must be the dangerous place they told me about. Those ‘breathing
holes’ in the ice——”
In spite of his efforts, his momentum had carried him onward, and
suddenly both skate-irons cut through beneath him. There was a
terrifying, cracking sound, and in a twinkling he felt himself plunged
into the icy water. A cry was cut short on his lips as he went under.
Although he rose almost immediately to the surface and clutched at the
thin edge of the ice, he could feel the current which swept round the
island pulling at his legs. The ice gave way, and he clutched again and
again, struggling to keep himself from being sucked beneath it.
“Help!” he cried.
A moving, flashing light gleamed across the glassy surface of the lake.
It was followed by another and still another. The three torch bearers,
who had circled round the island, were now speeding southward. Two of
them seemed to be racing far over toward the western shore of the lake.
Apparently the third had not joined in this contest, and he was much
nearer.
“Help!” called Rod once more.
The nearest skater heard the cry and swerved suddenly in Grant’s
direction.
“What’s the matter?” he shouted. “Where are you?”
“Here—here in the water. I’ve broken in.”
Grant’s teeth rattled together as he uttered these words, the icy chill
of the lake seeming to benumb him through and through. Nevertheless, he
fancied he had recognized the voice of the approaching fellow as that
of Hunk Rollins, and a moment later the waving torch, lighting the face
of its bearer, showed beyond question that it was Rollins.
At a safe distance Hunk came to a full stop. “Who is it?” he called
again.
“It’s I—Grant. Can’t seem to lift myself out. I can barely hang on.”
“Jerusalem!” gasped Hunk. “I don’t dare to get near you. It’s dangerous
there.” Then he whirled swiftly and went skating away as fast as he
could, yelling at the top of his voice: “Hi! hi! fellers! Come back!
Grant’s broke in!”
To the dismay of the boy in the water, the racing torch bearers did not
seem to hear Rollins, who continued to pursue them, repeating his
calls. Farther and farther away they went, the sound of their skates
ringing over the surface of the lake.
“By the time he overtakes them I’ll be done for,” thought the
unfortunate lad; and even as this passed through his mind the ice broke
again, compelling him to make another struggle to fling his arms out
upon it. In that terrible moment it seemed that Rollins had
deliberately deserted him—had even been willing to leave him there to
perish.
“I must get out alone. I must get out somehow,” he mumbled huskily. “If
it wasn’t for the current I might——”
Again the ringing sound of skates reached his ears, and hope flared up
strong as that sound became more and more distinct. It came from the
direction of Bass Cove, and, approaching across the ice, he discovered
two figures, one in advance of the other.
“Hi, there! Hi, Grant! Is that you? Where are you? What’s the matter?”
It was the voice of Lander.
“Here! here!” answered Rod, as loudly as he could. “I’ve broken in.
Can’t you help me?”
“Look out, Bunk,” warned Spotty, who was behind. “It’s dangerous there.”
One of Lander’s skates raked along the ice as he set it sidewise to
check his speed.
“I see him!” he cried. “There he is, Spot! Hang on, Grant, old feller;
we’ll get you out somehow. Hang on a little longer.”
Away he went toward the nearby island, while Davis, getting down on all
fours, crawled cautiously toward Rodney. From the shore of the island
came a cracking sound, like some one thrashing amid the underbrush and
saplings which grew upon it.
“We told ye,” said Spotty—“we told ye to keep away from here. Gee!
you’re in a bad fix. If we had a rope or something, we might haul you
out.”
“You’ll have to get busy pretty soon,” returned Grant. “The way this
current pulls is something fierce.”
Out from the shore of the island flashed Lander, bearing a long pole in
his hands. Making a half circle, he passed Spotty, who uttered some
cautioning words, slowing down as he drew near Grant.
“Come on, Spot,” he urged. “The ice seems to be solid here. We’ve got
to pull him out of that. Here, Rod, old man, get hold of the end of
this pole if you can—get hold and hang on for your life.”
Grant grasped the end of the pole with both hands, having lifted the
upper part of his body onto the edge of the ice, which buckled and
permitted the water to flow up around him, although it did not break.
Urged by Lander, Davis ventured nearer and added his strength in
pulling. Together they dragged the weakened and nearly exhausted lad
out onto the solid ice.
“Come,” said Bunk, seizing the water-soaked chap and lifting him,
“stand on your pins if you can. We’ve got to hustle you under cover
before you freeze stiff. Just stand up, and we’ll push you along.”
Down the lake they swept with him, meeting Rollins, Barker and several
others, who, still bearing torches, were returning.
“Oh, you’ve pulled him out, have you?” cried Hunk.
[Illustration: TOGETHER THEY DRAGGED THE WEAKENED AND NEARLY EXHAUSTED
LAD OUT ONTO THE SOLID ICE. —Page 148.]
“No thanks to you,” flung back Lander. “We heard him hollering to you.
Why didn’t you stop and help? He’d ’a’ drownded for all of you.”
“I went after the other fellers,” said Hunk.
“And if you’d had any sense at all,” sneered Lander, “you’d known he’d
’a’ gone down before you could bring them. You didn’t have nerve enough
to give him a hand, that’s all. Here’s your friend Barker with Mr.
Rollins, Grant.”
“So I observe,” said Rod. “He’s found some company to suit his taste.”
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