JACK’S RUN FOR LIFE
Too late! The horrible truth flashed across him as he flung himself
on the platform, unable to speak and almost unable to breathe. He had
failed! He had been entrusted with that mission and he had failed. A
life, perhaps two lives now, could have been saved by a word from him
and he had failed! The picture of the men jogging quietly along the
road on that beautiful morning without a thought or dream of danger,
going to a certain robbery and perhaps to death came before him. He
put his hands over his eyes and groaned aloud.
What would Mr. Durland say? What would the Scouts say? Above all,
what would his own conscience say to the last day of his life? He had
never yet fallen short in any important mission and now on this day
of all days he had come miserably short, and he felt that he could
never forgive himself as long as he lived.
How bitterly he blamed his carelessness in crossing the brook! Of
course it was an accident, and after it had happened he had done his
best to remedy it. But why had the accident happened? Why had he
not been more careful? Why had he trusted that treacherous stone in
crossing the brook? His heart swelled up in bitter self-reproach. But
what was the use of that now? That wouldn’t save a life. He was too
late!
But _was_ he too late? The thought came to him like an electric shock
and roused him from his despair. How did he know but what he might
yet save them? While there was life, there was hope. Was he, Jack
Danby, to lie there like a coward and give up supinely while lives
hung in the balance? No, a thousand times no! He sprang to his feet,
pushed through the door and rushed into the little office.
The station agent, a long, lanky native of the woods, was sitting
with his back to him, looking over the orders left him by the
conductor. His back was to Jack, but at his tumultuous entrance he
sprang to his feet in alarm. Jack’s appearance was not prepossessing.
His forehead was still covered with clotted blood, his hat was gone,
his eyes were blazing. Less than that might have startled the agent,
used to the slow and quiet ways of that isolated spot. For one brief
moment he thought of a hold-up. In a moment he had slammed the cash
drawer shut and reached for a pistol that lay on his desk. A second
glance, however, showed him that it was no robbery he had to fear.
“Tell me,” gasped Jack, “can I get a horse around here anywhere?”
“Why, no, son,” replied the agent. “There isn’t anything less than a
mile from here and that old plug ain’t no good. He’s too lazy even to
switch the flies off him. What do you want him for?”
In quick, broken sentences Jack told him the danger. The station
agent became grave and frightened. “And Mr. Scott is with him too,”
he said. “That was him as got off the train and drove off with
Flannigan. He has come up to look over affairs at the logging camp.
He ain’t very husky, and I don’t know what would happen to him if it
came to a scrap. Flannigan’s all right, but ’tain’t at all likely he
can beat off two men if they take him by surprise. There ain’t no
telegraph station down here and there ain’t no telephone, either, in
these woods. What on earth are we going to do?”
Jack thought quickly. His brain never worked more swiftly than when
in the midst of danger. There was nothing to hope for from the
station agent. He put his head in his hands and tried to think.
Suddenly he remembered.
The road was hilly and roundabout, the horse was old and staid and
would probably go along just at a jog trot. He had noticed that they
had driven away slowly. Mr. Scott would have a lot to talk about on
matters connected with the camp, and they would be so engrossed in
talking that the old horse could jog along at his own gait. Could he
not intercept them?
A great deal of work had been done near the station by the young
pathfinders. Among other things, they had made a rough survey of a
proposed path that, starting near the Junction, had led almost in a
straight line to a point five miles distant, where it struck the road
along which Flannigan was driving. At intervals of half a mile they
had set up stakes with fluttering cloths tied to them, to mark the
most easily traveled path between the two points. He happened to know
that the work had been done well. He himself had led the squad that
planted the stakes and remembered clearly the general directions. If
he could only run across country and get to the main road, he might
beat Flannigan to it despite the heavy handicap. In all the games of
hares and hounds he had been easily the central figure. When with the
hares he had rarely been captured; when with the hounds he had always
brought a hare back captive. Now was the time to show his speed. If
he could do this much in games merely, what ought he to do when lives
were at stake?
An instant later the astonished station agent saw Jack bolt out of
the station, running like a frightened rabbit. The ground flew away
under him; the wind sang in his ears; his heart was beating like a
trip hammer. Lives hung on his speed that day, and he would win or
die trying.
The terrific pace at which he started soon began to tell and now that
he was fairly on his way, he had time to think. He was going the pace
that kills, and he realized that he must husband his speed. There
was no use throwing the game away at the very start. At the rate he
was now going, he would be blown before he had made a mile, and five
good miles lay before him. So while his instinct pushed him on at top
speed, his judgment began to get the upper hand. He must hold himself
in, he must watch the path, he must save his strength. He fell into a
swift lope that carried him over the ground with great rapidity, but
still left him strength in reserve. He must keep that reserve until
the last minute.
One pole marking a half mile flew by, then two, three, four. Two
miles already covered! Only three yet to go. His legs began to tire,
but his wind was good. Another pole and still another. Three miles
now! He began to pant. His chest was straining, his breath was
labored. He knew that he had reached the end of his first spurt, but
he also knew that this was only temporary.
Another half mile and he had gotten his second wind. Now he felt as
though he could run all day. He threw off his coat, his kit, his
hatchet. Everything that could possibly hinder him he shed as he went
along. He wasn’t going to carry an extra ounce. Another pole went by.
He dashed through a brook and dipped his head under for a moment;
then, refreshed and dripping, he ran on. Oh, if he were only in time!
His clean life and strong vitality were helping him. If he had spent
his strength in excesses, he would have been absolutely helpless in
this great emergency, but young, untainted life surged in him. He
called on all his resources and they responded.
Four miles now! Another pole and only a half mile more! The main road
was in sight. On and on he flew. Now he was within a few rods. He
caught a glimpse of a white horse, with Mr. Scott holding the reins
and Flannigan getting down to remove the branches of a tree that
blocked the path. The next instant he dashed into the road just in
time to see Red O’Brien fling himself upon Flannigan who was bending
over the tree, while Jacques Lavine with uplifted cudgel rushed
toward Mr. Scott.