TWELVE HUNDRED MILES AWHEEL TO COLLEGE.
The academy reopened with some new pupils and many old ones. John shook
hands with his few friends, glad to get back, and, with firm
determination to carry out the purpose that now possessed him, started
to work.
Professor Marston kept his word about the winter job, and John was duly
installed as janitor of the building, with opportunity to make extra pay
by sawing wood and doing errands.
He was fully occupied, as may well be imagined, and poor Lightning,
though sure of good care, missed the companionship that both he and his
master delighted in. John foresaw that he would not be able to keep the
horse, and he finally decided what to do with him. He would give him his
freedom.
One day the boy took him out on the prairie some distance from the town.
"Lite, old boy," he began, rubbing his nose and patting him, "we've had
good and bad times together, and we've been good friends, but we've got
to separate now."
He took off the saddle and bridle: "Take care of yourself, old boy."
The horse looked at him a moment inquiringly; then curvetted around a
minute in high glee; but as he saw his much-loved master leaving him he
turned and followed, refusing to be cast off. "Go back, Lite," John
commanded, waving his hat to scare him. "Go back!" But the little horse
refused to leave him, and followed him back to town, where he was taken
in and petted again. John was touched to the heart by this loyalty and
affection.
Next day a stableman took him out among the range horses and dismissed
him. This time he stayed, and John never saw or heard of him afterward.
That was a wrench.
Lightning gone, John allowed himself no pleasures, but instead took
every bit of work that came his way, whether it yielded money or
knowledge.
He joined the Debating Society and made it a duty to do his best when
called upon. Toward spring, as wood sawing became scarce, he took to
delivering morning papers to the more distant parts of town; and in
order to do this more quickly he hired an old bicycle, learned to ride
it, and made his rounds just after daybreak on that. So he was able to
get back to the school house and study a while before opening up.
"I don't see how you do it all, Worth," said Professor Marston.
"Well, I couldn't, I guess, if I didn't have a big stake to work for. If
I keep my present school work up and study this summer I'll get into
college this fall," and John told him of the offer Sherman had made him.
"I hope your friend won't forget," the Professor suggested, fearing that
his pupil was building high hopes on an insecure foundation.
"He won't forget; he's not that kind."
"I hope not; but how are you going to get there? It's a long way."
John looked up quickly: he had not thought of that before. It was a
serious question.
"I don't know; but I'll get there somehow." He spoke confidently but he
was much perplexed, for he was without money, his clothes were
threadbare, and it was a necessity to study all summer, with no chance
to earn money. It was certainly a question that could not be answered
offhand. He studied over this matter for days and no solution presented
itself. Borrow he might, but this he would not do without giving
security, and of security he had none. He left it for a while, hoping to
be able to think of a way out of the difficulty later.
Before he realized it Commencement had arrived, and with it the open
meeting of the Debating Society at the Opera House. To his astonishment
he found that he was appointed one of the two orators of the occasion.
In vain he protested that he was busy, that he was unfitted; he had to
accept. "Orator--Opera House--Me!" he fairly gasped with astonishment.
He was rather worried about it, but Gray, whom he consulted that night,
reassured him.
"Don't worry, anyhow," he advised. "Take a subject you're interested in,
write out what you think about it, boil it down so you can repeat it in
twenty minutes, then memorize it."
John also consulted Beeman, the other orator, who said he was going to
speak about the Chinese Question.
"Against them," he said, in answer to the other's sharply put query.
"That's the only way to please a crowd--take the popular side."
"Well, I'm going to take the side I want, and I'll tell 'em what I think
about it, too," said John vehemently, his spirit thoroughly roused.
"Go ahead," said Beeman, visions floating before him of an opportunity
to hurl his thunders at a definite champion (and an inexperienced one)
of an unpopular cause.
[Illustration: THE SUN RIVER RANCH HOUSE. (_Page 241._)]
John set to work on his speech with his usual eagerness and energy. His
heart was in it, and the prospect of a contest of wit or muscle always
stirred him. He wrote, rewrote, cut down, filled in and polished until
Gray, his friend and critic, pronounced it "good stuff."
In the meantime, he not only kept at work at his studies, his duties as
janitor and paper boy, but he was at work at something else that he
thought might prove most important.
At a half-mile race track, a little distance out, a very early rising
citizen, if he happened to be in that vicinity at daybreak, would have
wondered greatly to see a half-clad figure on an old bicycle go flying
round and round the track. If, overcome by curiosity, he had waited a
while, he would have seen the same figure, neatly clothed, appear from
under the grand stand carrying a bundle of papers under his arm. Then if
he watched he would see him mount an old bicycle and ride off. But this
performance took place so very early that no one witnessed it.
At last the day of the Debating Society's open meeting came--the day on
which John was to make his first public appearance. His speech was
complete, memorized, and ready for delivery. He spouted it for the last
time to Gray, who put the stamp of his approval on it and advised him to
forget it all till the time came to speak.
The Opera House was crowded when John and Gray reached it, for the
town's people took great interest in its institutions, and of these the
academy was one of the most important.
John looked out from the wings on the sea of upturned faces, appalled.
Beeman came first. He went out before the audience, cool,
self-possessed, graceful, and delivered his oration smoothly, forcibly,
and well. He chose the popular side, and the audience rewarded him with
generous applause.
Then John heard the chairman announce, "Oration by John Worth."
He walked out from the dimness of the flies into the full glare of the
brightly lighted stage, bewildered, and, without any preliminaries,
began:
"In the history of every country, however just, however good or great,
there are certain pages besmirched by the record of black deeds of
wrong."
So his carefully written, carefully memorized speech began. As he stood
before his audience he saw nothing but the pages of his manuscript: he
felt that he must keep his mind on them or he would be lost. He followed
down the first page, mentally turned it over, and began the second.
Beeman had touched a point on the second page, and treated it in a
ridiculous way, he thought. His concentration was broken, and he began
to fear for the first time that his memory would fail. A dozen lines
down the second page he faltered, stopped, and stood riveted, miserable.
The few moments' pause seemed endless. He tried to think of the next
line, next page, anything; in vain, it was all a blank. The pile of
manuscript, a minute ago so clearly before his mind's eye, had vanished,
and he stood staring at the crowd before him. Some one behind tried to
prompt him; it brought him to life. Beeman's fallacies had incensed him;
he'd tell them so, and in no uncertain way. With a whole-arm gesture he
mentally cast away his carefully prepared speech.
"It's wrong! All wrong!" he said intensely, and with conviction in his
tones. His own voice electrified him. His first few sentences were mere
bursts of indignation, his tongue went on of its own volition, it could
scarcely give utterance to his stirred feelings. As he went on, his
emotions grew more quiet but none the less earnest. Constant yodelling
to cattle for years had given him a voice which carried to the farthest
corner of the building. He had carefully studied his subject, and now
that he had regained his nerve he spoke his mind with enthusiasm and
vigor. His arguments were well chosen and his language terse and to the
point. Stimulated by excitement, new ideas came, and he uttered them
with a confidence that afterward amazed even himself. Parts of his own
prepared oration came back to him and he spoke it as if it was
impromptu, with force and freedom.
The time had come to stop, and without a pause he launched out on his
original peroration with the ease, confidence, and fire of a veteran
orator. The closing sentence rang out clear and strong: "Men and women
of America, let us wipe out the blot from this page of our country's
history and make her in truth the Land of the Free and the Home of the
Brave."
His speech over, John stumbled, rather than walked, off the stage to the
street. The reaction was great. He did not hear the applause, the
cheering; he did not know that he had aroused the enthusiasm of people
naturally prejudiced against his side of the question.
John went straight to his room and to bed, but not to sleep--his nervous
tension would not allow that. The thing uppermost in his mind, the
thing that worried him, was that he had forgotten his speech--the speech
he had so carefully prepared and learned by heart.
The papers had to be delivered in the morning, however, and a certain
self-imposed engagement at the racetrack kept, so he was up betimes.
After these two duties were finished, he rode down the street to
discover if possible the depths of ignominy to which he had been brought
by forgetting his speech. The idea that he had disgraced himself still
clung to him. Two fellows appeared right away, and before John could
voice his greeting they called out: "Say, Worth, you just ate Beeman up
last night. Are you sure you wrote it yourself?"
"He doesn't know that I forgot it," thought John, who hesitated a minute
before he answered aloud: "Of course, it was all my own."
"Well, it was a rattling good speech, anyhow."
John thanked him, and then the talk drifted to the games to be held next
day, and to the bicycle race especially, where the winner would receive
a brand new up-to-date bicycle as a prize.
"That's going to be a hot old race," said Searles, one of the two
students. "Every pedal kicker in town is after that new wheel."
"Yes, that's a prize worth riding for," and John had a look in his eyes
that Searles did not understand till later.
Several times that day persons of various degrees of importance--among
them Mr. Haynes, the financial and political corner-stone of the
community--stopped John, called him by name, and chatted pleasantly with
him. Mr. Haynes said that he was a credit to the school and the town. So
John's self-respect began to come back. His good fortune was dawning,
now that he was making preparations to leave it all.
Field day came clear and beautiful, and the crowd came en masse to see
the sports. A series of well-advertised events were to be run, the
climax of which was the one-mile bicycle race. The prize wheel had stood
labelled in the donor's window for a week, and every wheelman and boy in
the neighborhood had gazed at and coveted it.
The early events were well contested, and worked the spectators up to a
fever heat of interest. By the time the bicycle race was announced the
crowd was wildly enthusiastic. Discussions as to the probable winner
were rife.
"There's none of them that'll beat Tucker," said one. "He'll have a
walk-over."
"He won't walk over Bolton," declared another.
And so it went, till the contestants appeared on the track. Tucker and
Bolton were the favorites.
As the men lined up at the stake some one remarked: "Why, there's Worth,
with the old bike, too. He's the fellow that made the speech. I thought
he had more sense than to go out with that old rattle-trap."
"They're off!" The shout went up as the starter's pistol cracked.
Tucker jumped to the front, and everybody cheered him; but Bolton was
near, and as the riders passed the stand for the first time it was seen
that he was close behind. Following Bolton's rear wheel closely was a
strange rider on an old wheel, whom the crowd did not recognize at
first.
"By George! It's Worth," said a student, surprised. The men swept by,
closely bunched, their wheels rattling, their legs going like pistons,
and the bodies of some swaying as they exerted themselves to the utmost
to keep up.
"Bolton's going past. He's leading!" And the speaker jumped up and down
in his excitement. But John clung to the leader's rear wheel and went
with him. Faster and faster they raced, past Tucker, opening a big gap
between the bunch. Bolton was riding for glory, but John was riding for
something besides glory: his success meant position, standing, a great
opportunity, a future.
A hundred feet from the finishing tape he bent his head and made a
tremendous effort. Early morning training stood him in good stead now,
for he began to gain on Bolton, and inch by inch to pass him. The old
machine groaned alarmingly, but it stood up to its work in spite of its
protests. Twenty feet from the finish John seemed to leap forward, and
crossed the tape just ahead of the laboring Bolton.
The crowd was rather disappointed to see its favorites beaten, but
applauded the winner generously as he went up to the judge's stand to
receive his shining prize.
Gray was the first man to wring his hand; his was an honest, unfeigned,
glad congratulation.
"Say, Gray," said John, "you ride her home. I want a farewell ride on
this old wheel. I pull out to-morrow."
"What!" ejaculated Gray in astonishment.
"Yes, that's what I wanted that wheel for. I straddle it to-morrow and
go East. I haven't said anything about the plan, for I wasn't sure the
wheel would be mine."
"Did you expect to win?" Gray asked.
"I've trained a month. That's what gave me the wind to finish so strong.
You see my plans need transportation East. I had to win--I'm going to
ride that wheel to college."
That evening John bade the Marstons good-by. They tried to dissuade him
from going; they pictured the career that was open to him in the town
where he had made friends and had gained a reputation, but his mind was
made up, and though he was touched by their kindness, go he must.
"I don't like to have you leave," said the Professor. "You'll be thrown
into circumstances unlike any you have ever met before. But I know that
you can adapt yourself to new conditions, and for that reason it may be
best for you while your mind is growing. You will never forget the West,
but I feel sure you will not leave the East, once you are settled there.
Good-by, my boy, and God bless you."
John never forgot the kind parting words nor Professor Marston's always
considerate treatment.
The two friends, Worth and Gray, talked long and earnestly that night
and it was late when they retired, but at daybreak they were stirring.
John ate a deliberate breakfast, strapped a few necessaries to his
wheel, bade his friend a sincere farewell, and rode off.
He pedalled on in the crisp morning air till he reached a high point,
where he dismounted and took a long look at the town where he had
struggled so hard, but which was the scene of his triumph as well as his
trials. His satisfaction was mixed with regret, for he left behind good,
true friends and a known esteem, for--he knew not what. The town lay in
the hazy valley below, morning smoke-wreaths now curling from many
chimneys, the gray shingle roofs embedded in dark-green foliage; it was
a scene of contentment and rest. He contrasted this with other scenes,
active, restless, hazardous ones; the cattle range, the sheep camp, and
the mine. The thought of his home was not so clear as the later scenes,
though he had visited it during his stay at school. He had found Ben an
almost grown-up, vigorous, business-like ranchman, glad to see his
brother, but interested in his own affairs; not the same old boyish Ben
of old.
It was with real regret that he turned and left the town that had in a
way been a cradle and a home to him.
He mounted his wheel and sped down the slope--Eastward.
Day after day the traveller pushed on, following the windings of the
roads now where formerly he would have ridden his horse as the crow
flies.
Seventy miles a day. Eighty miles a day. Population increased; roads
were better, ninety miles a day. His training for racing stood him in
good stead. One hundred miles a day; his face always turned Eastward.
Rains came; the roads became rivers of mud. He was driven to the drier
railroad track and jolted along over the ties. Sixty miles a day. The
end not yet in sight, money exhausted, prospects not very cheerful; but
with resolution undaunted he pushed along. A brickyard afforded
temporary work. Five dollars earned, he "hit the trail" again.
Midday was fiercely hot; he took advantage of the cool mornings, and by
twilight pedalled continuously. Wide swamps intervened. Insects,
stingingly vicious, beset him. The sand along the river banks was
heart-breaking to a wheelman and the mountains formed almost
unsurmountable barriers. People he met misdirected or were ignorant, and
he often went far out of his way.
But the goal was sighted at last. The day he reached Sherman's town he
made one hundred and twenty miles and rode up the main street a sorry
specimen--tired, dirty, tanned leather color by sun, wind, and rain.
His plans were fully made. The wheel was pawned at once, and two hours
later John Worth emerged from a little hotel, bathed, shaved, and neatly
clothed.
The address of his friend written for him was made nearly illegible by
friction, sweat, and dirt. But by the aid of a friendly policeman he was
able to find Sherman's house. He rang the bell, was admitted promptly by
a neat maid, and ushered into a sumptuously furnished parlor, the like
of which he had never seen before. The chair that he at last dared to
use was soft and luxurious, and the journey had wearied him so that he
was just about dropping off to sleep when Sherman entered.
"How do you do, sir?" Sherman's greeting was rather formal. "What can I
do for you?"
At the sound of his voice John started to his feet with a jump.
"Don't you know me, Sherman?" he said.
"You--you can't be John Worth? Why, bless my heart, is it really you?"
cried Sherman.
In an instant the one idea that had sustained him through the trying
hours and apparently endless miles of his journey came to John's mind.
"Yes," he said, the light of triumph in his eyes. "I'm John Worth. And
I've come to college."
End of Project Gutenberg's Cattle-Ranch to College, by Russell Doubleday