THE LONE CABIN
In the afternoon before, Hike had been reading in the Washington
papers all the things he _hadn’t_ said to the reporters, and a great
many things he hadn’t done, with some things such as discovering
Crocker Land by aeroplane, which he’d like to do but didn’t expect
to. His hostess’s maid, a colored girl, knocked at his door to say
that “a man from Gennul Tho’ne wanted to see him.” Going down, Hike
found a thick-set, low-browed fellow, built for rough and tumble
fights, quietly dressed in neat clothes, who said:
“Mr. Griffin? General Thorne’s compliments and he wishes to see you
at his office in regard to the aeroplane. He is waiting there—though
it’s after hours—and would be grateful if you could come at once. I’m
connected with the office, and I’ll go down with you in the carriage,
if you don’t mind.”
“Certainly. Just a moment, till I get my cap,” and Hike dashed
upstairs.
He was so busy wondering what General Thorne wanted, and thinking how
different it was to ride in a carriage instead of in a gale-tossed
aeroplane, that he did not waste much time in asking himself why
General Thorne should have sent an ordinary public four-wheeler, with
a seedy coachman, instead of a private carriage, or an army Q. M. D.
carriage. He noticed that the carriage did not turn directly down
toward town, but that did not interest him much till suddenly there
they were, emerging on a bridge that certainly was not the Rock Creek
Bridge. No—it was the long Aqueduct Bridge, crossing the Potomac—and
not leading down town, but to Virginia and the country.
He was surprised and a little indignant. He was starting to ask his
companion why they were going this way.
The carriage stopped, the door swung open, another man sprang in and
handed to the “messenger from General Thorne” a big cloak, which the
latter deftly threw over Hike’s head.
Stiffening his lean, sinewy legs, Hike hit out with tangled fists and
elbows. He was stifling and his head was all in darkness, but he made
out that he had caught his stocky companion a good one in the chest.
But strong hands were holding his ankles; others were binding the
cloak about him with light rope; then some one was tying his thighs,
his ankles, and jerking the cloak ever tighter about him.
To save his strength, Hike sat quite still. He panted with the little
air that crept in among the tight folds of the cloak; and the hastily
arranged cords seemed to cut his legs in two. But he made himself be
calm and think this all out.
Now, he noticed, the cab door had slammed again; and the vehicle
had started up. He could feel the vibration of the carriage as the
horse’s hoofs sharply clattered on the bridge-planks. Apparently the
second man, who had brought the cloak, was gone.
“Yump, sure’s got something to do with a plot against Priest and the
_Hustle_,” Hike continued in his thinking. “Well, there’s nothing
to do but wait. Maybe I’ll get a chance at a shindy, bimeby, if I
act peaceful, and make ’em think I’m scared. Oh, and a peach of a
shindy it’ll be if I get the chance to bash the fat head of the kind
gentleman that put this muffler on me. And if Cap’n Wibbelty-Wobbelty
has anything to do with this—and I’ve got a funny hunch he has—I hope
I’m in at his finish. You bet. ’Fact, I hope I _am_ his finish. I
remember Dad used to say the Cap’n had ‘finished manners.’ They’ll
sure be finished if he’s had anything—if he’s—he will—”
Hike Griffin was going to sleep!
In those few days of terrific strain in driving the _Hustle_, he had
learned that there was nothing that was quite so useless as worrying.
Even when things were not going well, it was up to him to wait till
he could get the _Hustle_ into a calmer current of air.
Well, all right then, he’d have to wait; and rest his nerves till
the time when there was something he could do. So now he let himself
go to sleep—which he did the more quickly in the close air of the
folds of the cloak.
He woke once, to wonder if any policeman had noticed the curious
stopping of the four-wheeler on the Aqueduct Bridge. He had a funny
little picture of Poodle, dressed as a policeman, riding an aerial
motorcycle, stopping the _Hustle_ for speeding, and then changing
into a general and conducting a large brass band. This last sound was
caused by the ringing in his ears.... He seemed to be choking.... He
tried to pull at the cloak.
Then, some one was loosening it a little, so that he could breathe.
He fell asleep again.
Once more he awoke. He was being carried out of the four-wheeler,
and, apparently, placed in a wagon, and covered with something that
smelled as though it might be hay. Then this wagon—if that was what
it was—went jolting off. He heard it dully, drowsily.
After what may have been any number of hours, Hike really woke up.
The cloak had been removed from his eyes. It was now night. He was
lying in front of a door, dimly seen by a small lantern; a rough
door of unpainted pine. Judging from the way he could look down and
see starry sky, he was on a hill.
Though he still kept his nerve, Hike had never been so confused in
his life as he was then. Where was he? Why had he been taken there?
Who were his captors? What did they want? A thousand questions were
pounding away inside his sorely aching head, even while he drew in
deep delightful breaths of fresh air.
Gradually he made out something of the place. The door belonged to a
log cabin, apparently not twenty-five feet long. There was a rough
door-stone—simply a flat rock; up to which led a rude path overgrown
with struggling grass. The roof was of thatch, or of thatch and
boards. He couldn’t make out, in that dim light. Overhead was the
good clean sweep of star-lit heavens. (If he were only up there, in
the _Hustle_!) Trees rustled near him. The hill seemed well-wooded.
Far away, seemingly, there was the bound of a wagon—that must be, he
thought, the vehicle in which he had been brought. Frogs were loudly
piping down at the foot of the hill. (Must be marshes there, he
thought. Marshes—if he had to escape, he’d remember that.)
But what of the men who had brought him? Well, that was what he
was wondering. Then he heard noises within the cabin, a light was
kindled, and he made out a broken window, near the door. At the
door appeared the stocky man who, “coming from General Thorne,”
had enticed him away. The fellow was now clad in sweater, cap, and
laced leather hoots. He bore a rifle. All his business-like, suave
expression had changed to a hard, criminal look.
Behind him was a taller thug with a vicious twist to his mouth,
leering at Hike. This taller person said to Hike’s first captor,
“Well, Bat, you watch for a couple of hours and then call me, and
I’ll get on the job, heh?”
“Yup. All right,” said Bat, as the two men stooped and lifted Hike.
They bore him into the cabin, and dropped him roughly on the floor.
“Now I guess you’ll run tetrahedrals—_not_, young smart Aleck,”
snarled the taller man.
“Shut up, Snafflin. Beat it,” ordered Bat.
“A’ right. Keep your collar on. Got the makings?”
Bat scowled at the vicious companion, and silently handed him
cigarette papers and tobacco. While the taller tough rolled a
cigarette, Hike, watching the lean, quick, yellow-stained fingers,
sympathized with his enemy Bat for having to play with tall Mr.
Snafflin, who was the sort of chap to make a good pick-pocket, or a
better sneak-thief, with those quick, hideous fingers.
“Well,” and Snafflin stretched, scratched his head and yawned,
“well, guess I’ll pound my ear. How do you feel, youngster? You ain’t
saying much, are you? Sorry—’cause if you said anything I’d smash
your jaw, and that’d tickle me, all right, all right.”
Just then, Bat the stocky turned his back. The tall rascal
deliberately kicked Hike in the chest, strolled to the door, and
disappeared.
Then Bat came back, bringing a rolled coat which he thrust under
Hike’s head.
“Griffin,” he said quietly, “I’m sorry we had to kidnap you. I can’t
tell you why, but you’ll find out. You won’t be badly treated. I’ll
see you get enough to eat—that is, if you listen to reason, to-morrow
or next day, when a gentleman comes to talk to you about a little
matter.... I guess you’re wise to what’s up—something to do with that
fool aeroplane. But I don’t know what it is, and I don’t want to....
Well, you’re a brave kid, all right; and I never knew one that could
keep his mouth shut as well as you can.... Good night.”
Then Hike spoke his first words since he had been captured. “Good
night. Much obliged for the pillow.” He twisted his head around, and
pretended to go to sleep.
But he didn’t. One reason why he had made himself go to sleep when
covered by the cloak—even after it had been loosened enough to give
him tolerable air to breathe—was so that when the time came he could
stay awake. And that time was now.
Through narrowed eyelids, he saw Bat roam to the door, and sit on the
sill, lazily looking out, his rifle resting against his knees.
The room, Hike made out, could not have been used for years. It had
evidently been the home of the poorest sort of “poor white trash”
farmers. The floor was littered with broken whiskey-bottles and dirt.
In the wretched light, given by a small lantern placed on a rickety
wooden table by the wall, Hike could see that weeds had thrust
themselves up through the cracks of the puncheon-floor. In one corner
was piled broken furniture—a couple of wretched wooden chairs, the
wreck of a bed, a few broken dishes.
The light, flickering, made ghostly shadows along the thatch. In all,
it was far more desolate than a haunted ruin.
Hike did not spend very much time thinking about that, however. He
had to plan an escape.
His knife and what little money he had on his person had been taken
by the tall Snafflin. How could he cut the two bonds, of thin but
strong and new rope, which fastened his wrists and ankles?
He wriggled away at them, making as little motion as possible, and
saw that it would be impossible to untie them. The knots were tight.
Then he would have to burn them—yes, and he’d do it, though he did
not carry a single match. He had something better—nitric acid!
Martin Priest had always been interested in chemical experiments,
to find the best explosive for use with bombs to be dropped from
aeroplanes; one lighter and safer than any other. Hike had worked
with him, at Monterey, making tiny mixtures of strong chemicals, and
he had a little case of chemicals, that was still with him. In it was
a small vial of strong nitric acid—which eats through rope, rotting
it; and which turns the fingers strangely orange.
He made loud noises of sleepiness, deliberately getting Bat to look
at him, from the door. He curled up, as though for more comfortable
slumber. As he twisted about awkwardly, easing the strain of the
bonds, he caught the case of chemicals from his pocket, pulled out
the nitric acid bottle, shoved the case under him. When he finally
lay still, his bound ankles were near the hand that was tightly
closed over the vial.
Very cautiously, not moving an inch a minute, he drew out the stopper
of the little bottle, and let the liquid drop on the bonds between
his hands; then on the rope between his ankles. He took every care to
keep the acid from falling on his flesh and his clothes. The task was
a strain. He had to clamp his jaws together. But he kept at it.
Now, all he had to do was to wait, and the rope would soon be so
rotted that a slight pull would separate ankle from ankle, and wrist
from wrist. He waited.
The spot in his chest where tall Snafflin had kicked him was aching.
That gave him an idea. No; he wouldn’t attack Bat. Bat wasn’t so bad,
even if he had first enticed him away. He would wait, till the other
took his turn as guard, and then try to make it interesting for him.
He did not worry; he held himself in. He heard Bat call, “Hey you,
Pete Snafflin. Wake up. Two o’clock. Get up, will you? Your turn on
guard.”
So then, reflected Hike, the name of the tall and vicious rascal was
Mr. Peter Snafflin, and the time was two of the morning. Well, that
didn’t make much difference to him! He’d just as soon bash the head
of Mr. Snafflin if his name were O’Flannagan or Moskowski or Li Hung
Chang; and as soon do it at noon as at two A. M.
So he kept on talking to himself. Poodle had taught him that trick of
holding cheerful conversations with himself; and he kept at it only
the more because he wanted to be calm while he waited to find out
what his new guard would do.
Bat went out, Snafflin strolled in, rolling another of his
cigarettes. The lantern cast his lean cruel shadow on the rough
walls. He came up, deliberately stooped and slapped Hike’s cheek.
Hike pretended to awake with a start, then—while Snafflin watched
him—to groan, and turn over a bit to sleep again. As he turned over,
he felt the rotted bonds give a little.
Snafflin wandered to the doorstep, rolled up a coat, and lay
stretched out into the darkness. Then he swore viciously (Hike
watching him all the while, oh, so closely!) and, for greater
comfort, stuck his coat-pillow on the ground just in front of the
door. His rifle was left carelessly beside him.
Was it possible, Hike wondered, that the man had gone to sleep on
guard? Mr. Snafflin looked like too capable a tough to do that.
Hike made himself keep quiet till he saw, by the faint glow from
Snafflin’s cigarette-end, that Snafflin, though lying so sprawled
out, was wide awake, out there on the dark doorstep.
So then, Hike couldn’t rush out. Glancing about the shack, he made
out the window beside the door. All its glass was broken; half its
frame gone.
If he could get over to that window and drop out something on the
peaceful Snafflin—!
He noticed a long bed-slat in the heap of broken furniture. That
would do the trick.
He gave a quick though quiet jerk. His wrist bonds strained, then
the acid-rotted cord pulled apart, strand by strand. His hands were
free, though the cord still clung obstinately about his left wrist.
Then he broke the rope between his ankles. But he still lay there,
till after Snafflin had taken another lazy glance into the cabin, and
had settled down still more comfortably.
Then Hike made a quick, low-bent, silent dive, and caught the
bed-slat out of the pile of furniture. He sprang to the window. He
thrust out the slat. Snafflin’s rifle lay near the window, outside
the shack. Hike poked the end of the slat underneath, lifted the
rifle, and hurled it away. It clattered down on a rock, fifteen feet
away. The surprised guard sat up, with a jerk.
Hike brought the slat down, hard, on the head of Snafflin, who
fell back on the door-stone. Hike ran to the door, leaped out over
Snafflin, and darted away from the cabin. Behind him, he heard the
man’s shrill, ugly voice, whimpering loudly, “Bat! Bat! He’s got
away!”
Hike was almost instantly in the darkness, confused by bushes and
pools of water. He fell flat over a broken bough, on the earth. He
was all confused, as he scrambled up. His legs were both stiff and
weak. They wanted to give way. But he made them go, and plunged down
hill, through the underbrush, toward the marsh where he could again
hear the frogs.
If he could gain that, he could at least make it hard for the two men
to catch him. He heard them raging, cursing, running, behind him.
He crossed a bog, and suddenly he was ankle-deep in mud, while the
mosquitoes sang about him in crowds. He tested the mud carefully and
kept going, onward, into the marsh, though the mud grew deeper, and
presently he had to cling to the branches of what seemed, in the
utter darkness, to be stunted oaks, to keep from sinking in.
Hike had swiftly decided that the one thing the men would _not_
expect a youngster to do was keep on going into a marsh. They would
be sure to think that he would either reach the road, or stay on the
edge of the marsh.
He quietly broke off tree branches, and made of them a safe matting
which would not let him sink into the mud. Then he wrapped his coat
about his head, to keep off the scourge of mosquitoes, and pulled his
trouser cuffs down to his shoe tops, to protect his ankles. Even so,
the pests tormented him. But he kept very still, peering out of a
tiny opening at the coat collar, which he had left for his eyes.
He saw lanterns darting about the hill top. One came down, apparently
carried by a man who was following the road. There was the sound of
a horse’s neighing, some distance away, and then Hike had the worst
shock of the night.
From some distance away, along the road clattered three or four
horses’ hoofs; and the shouts of three or four riders were heard.
So, then, the two thugs had companions, who had been sleeping over
there, somewhere in the great darkness which was making him feel so
“awf’ly alone” against all these men.
The horsemen were circling, quartering what seemed to be fields about
the hill; hunting over every inch of the hill itself. At last, he saw
the lanterns, which marked the searchers, draw together, at the edge
of the marsh, and he heard a loud voice:
“Well, I tell you he must be in the marsh—way in, then, Bat. We’ve
looked everywhere else. He couldn’t ’ve gotten far.”
“All right,” came Bat’s voice. “Get out that auto light, then, and
we’ll search the blooming marsh.”
A horseman galloped away, soon returning. Then, to his horror, Hike
saw the group at the edge of the marsh kindle what looked to be a
powerful head-light, with strong reflectors. Its rays swept through
the thickets of the marsh, as the light was slowly turned.
A shout sounded from the knot of horsemen as the beams struck Hike.
He knew that he was found.
Calmly rising, he drew on his coat, stooped to kill a mosquito that
had caught in a fold, and strolled out through the thick mud as
calmly as though he were walking through the Santa Benicia Academy
Yard.
The men on the edge of the marsh received him with a broad grin.
“Well,” said Hike to them, “I think I’ll go to bed. Tired of walking.
Say, have you got anything to eat?”
“Kid,” said Bat, the leader, “you’re all right. (Shut up, you
Snafflin—you only got what was coming to you!)”
“Mosquitoes kind of thick to-night,” observed Hike, cheerfully.
“Think we’ll have a little rain. Seems wet.” He stooped down and
brushed an imaginary speck of dust off the only place on his trousers
that was not thick with mud.
“You’re all right,” grinned Bat, again. “Hanged if I’m going to tie
you up again. But there’ll be two men—_two_—watching you, all the
time. Kid for a kid—yes, and for a man—you’re a wonder. Say, how did
you cut through them ropes without a knife?”
“I let your friend Snafflin look at ’em,” said Hike, “and they just
rotted in two. Well, I guess I’ll go to bed. Is the water hot enough
for a bath?”