TRICKED INTO BAD COMPANY
The heads of fifty eighth grade pupils were bent over as many broad
volumes on geography. It was study period; recitation would be called in
five minutes.
Old Dut looked up from a report blank over which he had been poring, to
shoot out this question:
"Why doesn't the tide rise and fall in inland rivers?"
It was a habit of Old Dut's to throw out questions like this in study
time, for the purpose of waking up some of the intellects that needed
rousing.
"Master Holmes, you may answer that," proclaimed the principal.
Greg started out of a brown study at hearing his name spoken. He had a
vague recollection of having heard a question asked. But his mind was
still far away, so he did not realize the enormity of his offense as he
replied:
"I don't know, but I'll be the goat. What's the answer?"
A gasp of amazement sounded around the room.
"Master Gregory Holmes," uttered Old Dut sternly, "ten checks for that
impertinence. And go and stand in the corner by the piano. Turn your
back to the school that you've insulted!"
At that moment there came a rap on the door. Then a young man entered,
handing a sealed envelope to the principal.
"Master Prescott, put your books away and come here," directed Old Dut.
The class looked on wonderingly, while Dick obeyed.
"Here is a note from your mother, which requests that you be allowed to
go home at once, as your father has been injured in an accident. I hope,
my boy, that it is nothing serious," said the principal in a low tone.
"Your mother has sent a carriage in order that you may get home sooner.
Go at once, Master Prescott, and may you learn that the news is not too
bad."
Old Dut held out the note, but Dick barely saw it. Instead, he turned
and ran to the coat room, caught up his coat and cap and sped
downstairs. The messenger had already started downstairs.
"There's the rig," announced the messenger, as Dick appeared on the
steps.
Alongside a surrey was drawn up. A rain curtain and side panels covered
the rear seat, but the driver, a silent individual, who had a full,
heavy red beard and wore smoked glasses over his eyes moved to make room
for Dick on the front seat.
"How badly is dad hurt?" demanded Dick breathlessly, as he bundled
himself in on the front seat.
"Can't say," replied the driver, in a low, weak voice. "I was only hired
to come after you."
"Hurry!" appealed Dick. The driver nodded, and started the horse away
briskly.
Young Prescott was fearfully worried. His mother was a woman of cool,
calm judgment. She was not likely to send a driver after him unless his
father's injuries were dangerous.
"I hope dad isn't going to die," breathed the boy to himself. "If he
must, then I hope I get home in time before he goes."
So absorbed was he in his own gloomy thoughts that Dick gave no heed to
the road that was taken. Nor had the surrey gone far when the rain
curtain behind parted, but Prescott did not see that.
Yet he had no suspicion of foul play until a pair of hands from behind
gripped him about the throat.
In a twinkling Dick was drawn over the back of the front seat. Then he
vanished behind the curtain.
"Anybody in the street see that done, Driggs?" whispered the voice of
Abner Dexter.
"Nary one," retorted Driggs, in a more natural voice than he had used
before.
Though Dick Prescott was half strangled he heard both voices, now, and
they sounded wholly natural to him. Driggs was disguised, but Dexter had
taken no such pains.
"Now, you keep mighty quiet, or you'll be worse off than you thought
your father was," snarled Ab. Dexter. He had Dick jammed down on the
floor, the boy's head just above the man's lap. Dexter's fingers kept
their fearful grip at the boy's throat.
Not that Dick didn't fight back. He fought with all his strength. Yet
that was not for long. Dexter had taken a foul hold and had the boy at
his mercy. The gripping at the throat continued until Dick's muscles
relaxed and he was still.
"He'll come back to his senses, though, in a minute," uttered Dexter to
himself. He drew out a big handkerchief and a bottle. There was an odor
of something sickishly sweet in the air for a moment, as the
handkerchief was pressed to the boy's nostrils.
All the time Driggs had continued to drive onward at a brisk trot.
"I've got to open up this curtain a bit, Driggs," called Ab. Dexter, in
a not-too-loud voice. "I don't want to whiff in much of the stuff that
I'm giving the youngster."
Yet, though some air was admitted to the rear part of the surrey Dexter
took pains not to expose himself to the possibly too-curious glance of
any passer on the street. At the same time the man bent over Dick, to
note any signs of returning consciousness.
At last, seeing that second inhalation of the drug had rendered Dick
wholly senseless, Dexter drew another handkerchief from a pocket, and
with this he gagged the boy. Then, a moment later, he reached down and
tied the youngster's hands.
It was in a direction very different from that of Dick's home that the
surly, silent Driggs was driving. Before long he was out in the suburbs
of the town, traveling up the back country into the hills.
"The cub will learn, this time," mused Dexter savagely. "If he doesn't,
it will be because he's too stubborn to learn anything. And, in that
case----"
After the first half hour the road grew wilder. After going some two
miles up into the hills Driggs turned off at the right, following a road
used only in winter, and then principally by wood-cutters. Thus on,
farther and farther into the woods, and turning, now and then, off into
branching roads.
Though given an occasional whiff of the stuff from the bottle, that kept
him senseless, Dick was allowed to regain his wits after the surrey had
branched off over the forest roads.
"Keep quiet and be a good boy," admonished Dexter grimly. "You don't
want any more of the stuff, do you? Too much of it might wind you up for
good. We don't want to go that far--if you've got sense enough to be of
use to us at last."
"Where on earth are they taking me--and what for?" wondered Dick,
struggling against the nausea that the inhaling of the drug had caused.
"What's Dexter's newest piece of villainy, I wonder? Whew! But that was
a slick trick! Anyway, dad can't be hurt at all. Mother would never pick
them as the messengers to send for me! I'm glad dad's all right, anyway,
even if I may happen to have a rough time ahead of me."
The messenger who had entered the schoolroom, it may be said in passing,
was not in the plot, nor had he been aware that there was any one at all
in the rear part of the surrey. That messenger had been picked up on the
street, by Driggs, and had been offered a quarter to take the note
upstairs to the principal's class room, "because," Driggs had explained,
"I don't dare leave my horse."
"How on earth did this rascally pair ever manage to write a note that
would look enough like mother's handwriting!" was Dick's next puzzle.
As this, of course, was beyond his fathoming, Dick's next and very
natural thought was:
"What on earth do these scoundrels want of me? I don't believe they have
brought me away just for vengeance."
"A nice ride like this, off amid the beauties of nature, is a whole lot
better than spending your time over dull school books, isn't it?" Dexter
asked mockingly.
But Dick could gain no idea as to the kind of country through which he
was passing, more than that the surrey was moving over rough road.
Jammed down where he was he could see nothing but the half dark interior
of the vehicle.
At last Driggs began to whistle softly. That being a signal, Ab. Dexter
again produced the bottle. There was the same sickening odor as a wet
handkerchief was placed against Dick's nostrils. Then he lost track of
what was happening.
"Whoa!" called Driggs and willingly enough the horse stopped. There was
a ripping aside of the rubber side panels to the carriage, after which
Driggs stood on the ground to receive the senseless boy as Dexter passed
him out.
"Into the house, I suppose?" inquired Driggs.
"Yes," nodded Dexter.
"Go ahead, then, with the key, and open up."
The house stood at some distance from the road, and, in summer time,
would have been hidden from the road. The house had not been occupied in
a quarter of a century by any lawful tenant. It was a two story affair,
and had been originally built for the superintendent of a lumber and
milling camp. Beyond was a brook that had been dammed, furnishing good
water-power for all the year excepting in the summer months. By the old
water course lay the ruins of what had once been a saw-mill.
Running up the short flight of steps to the front door of the
dilapidated old dwelling off in the forests, Ab. Dexter produced a rusty
iron key and swung the door open.
"Where you going to put him?" asked Driggs.
"In the rear apartments, upstairs," answered Dexter, with a laugh.
Accordingly Dick was carried upstairs and into a roomy back apartment.
There were inside shutters that Dexter swung open while Driggs dropped
the breathing though unconscious Grammar School boy on the floor.
"Now, you'd better get that borrowed rig back in the part of the world
where it belongs," advised Ab. Dexter.
"I will," nodded Driggs. "But--say!"
"Well?"
"That Prescott boy is young, but he's tricky."
"I know that, don't I?"
"Then, when he comes to, you won't let him play any trick on you that
will give him a chance to bolt from here?"
"Not I," promised Dexter. "You needn't worry. There are too many
thousands of dollars at stake. Run along, Driggs. I'll do my part, here
on the scene."
Driggs went out. He had a long drive ahead of him. The point at which he
intended to abandon the stolen surrey was nearly ten miles from the
present spot. For the horse and surrey had been stolen from a farmer
known to be away for the day with his family. Driggs meant to abandon
the rig two or three miles from the farmer's home, and then return on a
bicycle which he had hidden near the spot.
As soon as Driggs had gone, Dexter bent over, tying Prescott's hands
more securely.
Soon after that Dick, still lying on the floor, opened his eyes.