The nine Lakerimmers who had set forth to the rescue of Tug and
History had no more clue as to the whereabouts of the kidnapped twain
than some broken furniture and an open door; and even one who was so
well versed in detective stories as B.J., had to admit that this was
very little for what he called a "slouch-hound" to begin work on.
There had been no snow, and the frost had hardened the ground, so that
there were no footprints to tell the way the crowd of hazers had gone.
As Jumbo said:
"It's like looking for a needle in a haystack after dark; and it
wouldn't do you any good to sit down in this haystack, either."
The only thing to do, then, was to scour the campus in all its nooks
and crannies, pausing now and then to look and listen hard for any
sign or sound of the captives. But each man heard nothing except the
pounding of his own heart and the wheezing of his own lungs. Then they
must up and away again into the dark.
They had scurried hither and yon, and yonder and thither, until they
were well-nigh discouraged, when, just as they were crashing through
some thick underbrush, B.J. stopped suddenly short. Sawed-Off bumped
into him, and Jumbo tripped over Sawed-Off; but B.J. commanded them
to be silent so sharply that they paused where they had fallen and
listened violently.
Then they heard far and faint in the distance to the right of their
course a little murmur of voices just barely audible.
B.J.'s quick ear made out the difference between this far-off hubbub
and the other quiet sounds of the night.
That dim little noise his breathless fellows could just hear was the
wild hullabaloo the foolish Crows had set up to drown out the voices
of Tug and History, as they gave the Lakerim yell.
B.J.'s ear was correct enough not only to understand the noise but to
decide the direction it came from, though to the other Lakerimmers it
came from nowhere in particular and everywhere in general. Before they
had made up their minds just how puzzled they were, B.J. was striking
off in a new direction at the top of his speed, and was well over the
stone wall before they could get up steam to follow him. Across the
road and through the barbed-wire fence he led them pell-mell. There
was a little pause while Jumbo helped the lubberly Sawed-Off through
the strands that had laid hold of his big frame like fish-hooks.
B.J. took this chance to vouchsafe his followers just one bit of
information.
"They're at Roden's Knoll," he puffed.
Roden's Knoll was a little clearing in the woods that marked the
highest point of land in the State, though it was approached very
gradually, and nothing but a barometer could have told its elevation.
It was a long run through the night, over many a treacherous bog
and through many a cluster of bushes, which, as Jumbo said, had
finger-nails; and there was many a stumble and jolt, and many a short
stop at the edge of a sudden embankment. One of these pauses that
brought the whole nine up into a knot was the little step-off where
Tug and History had thought they were being shoved over the precipice
of a Grand Cañon.
At length Roden's Knoll was reached, but there the weary Lakerimmers
were discouraged to find nothing but a smoldering fire and the signs
of a hard straggle.
"We're too late; it's all over," sighed Pretty, thinking sadly of the
mud and the rips and tears that disfigured his usually perfect toilet.
"I move we rest a bit," groaned Sleepy, seconding his own motion by
dropping to the ground.
"Shh!" commanded B.J.; "d'you hear that?"
Instantly they were all in motion again, for they heard the noise of
many runners crashing through the thicket.
Soon they saw a shadowy form ahead of them and overtook it, and
recognized one of the Crows. They gave him a glance, and then shoved
him to one side with little gentleness, and ran on. Two or three of
the Crows they overtook in this manner, but spent little time upon
them.
They were bent upon a rescue, not upon the taking of prisoners. Then,
just as they were approaching the edge of the woods, they heard a cry
that made their weary blood gallop. It was the "L`¨¡y-krim! L`¨¡y-krim!"
of Tug making his last charge on the flock of Crows.
In a moment they had reached the mass of humanity that was writhing
over him, and they began to tear them off and fling them back upon the
ground with fierce rudeness. Man after man they peeled off and flung
back till they got down to one fellow with his knee on somebody's
nose.
That nose was Tug's, and they soon had the boy on his feet, and turned
to continue the argument with the Crows. But there were no Crows to
argue with. The Dozen had made up in impetus and vim what it lacked in
numbers, and the Crows had fled as if from an army. A few black ghosts
flying for their lives were all they could see of the band that had
been so courageous with only History and Tug to take care of.
So the ten from Lakerim gathered together, and while B.J. beat time
they spent what little breath was left in them on the club yell. It
sounded more like a chorus of bullfrogs than of young men, but it was
gladsome enough to atone for its lack of music, and it was loud enough
to convince History that it was safe to come out, of the bushes where
he had been crouching in ghostly terror.
The Lakerimmers were inclined to laugh at History for his fears, but
Tug told them that if it had not been for his seizing the red-hot
pokers there would have been a different story to tell; so they hugged
him instead of laughing at him, and Sawed-Off clapped him on the back
such a vigorous thump that History thought the hazers had hold of him
again.
Now they took up their way back to the Academy, and B.J. began to plot
a dire revenge on the cowardly Crows. But Tug said:
"I move we let the matter drop. They're the ones to talk now of
getting even, for they have certainly had the worst of it. It'll be
just as well to keep a sharp eye on them, though, and it is very
important for us to stand together."
When they had reached the dormitory they all joined in straightening
up and rearranging Tug's room before they went to their well-earned
sleep.
* * * * *
I am afraid the Lakerim eleven had the bad taste to do a little
gloating over the Crows. Their wit was not always of the finest, but
they enjoyed it themselves, though little the Crows liked it, and it
kept them all unusually happy for many days--
All except Reddy. He showed a strange inclination to "mulp"--a
portmanteau word that Jumbo coined out of "mope" and "sulk."