THE DUGANS TO THE RESCUE
It was a situation which no boy would care to confront, and as Joe and
Harry looked from one brutal face to another, their hearts sank within
them. They could see at a glance that the tramps were among the worst of
their class and would hesitate at little or nothing to accomplish their
ends.
To one side of the barn, where the flooring had rotted away, a fire was
burning, the smoke drifting forth through a broken-out window and the
numerous holes in the roof. Beside the fire lay the remains of two
chickens, which the tramps had probably stolen from some farmer’s
hen-roost. Three soda water bottles were also on the floor, but there
was no telling what they had contained, since all were empty. But as the
breath of each tramp smelt strongly of liquor, it is safe to say that
the bottles had contained—at least one of them—something stronger than a
temperance drink.
“See here, you haven’t any right to treat us in this fashion,” said Joe,
as soon as he could recover from the attack which had been made upon
him.
“You ain’t got no right to call us thieves,” was the answer, and the
speaker leered in a knowing manner at his fellows.
“That’s it,” spoke up another of the tramps. “It’s a downright insult to
honest men like us.”
“Thet’s wot it is,” came from the third tramp. “Boys, yer ought to
’polergize.”
“I want you to let us go,” went on Joe.
“Right away,” put in Harry. “If you don’t——”
“If we don’t,—what?” demanded the tramp who stood guard with the club.
“It may be the worse for you, that’s all.”
At this all three of the tramps set up a low laugh. Then the fellow at
the doorway called one of the others to his side and whispered something
in his ear.
“Dat’s all right, Noxy; but I don’t care to go until I see wot we
strike,” answered the man addressed.
“Oh, you’ll get your fair share, Stump,” was the answer, but Stump
refused to leave even when urged a second time.
“Say, just you tell us wot time it is,” put in the other tramp, who went
by the name of Muley. He had noticed that Joe carried a watch—a silver
affair, given to him by his father on his last birthday.
“It’s time you let us go,” answered Joe. He understood perfectly well
what the fellow was after.
He had scarcely spoken when Muley stepped forward and grabbed the watch
chain. The watch came with it, and despite Joe’s clutch for his property
it was quickly transferred to the tramp’s possession.
“Give me that watch!”
“They are nothing but robbers!” burst out Harry. “Joe, let us get out
right away!”
Unable to pass the tramp at the doorway, Harry made for one of the barn
windows, and feeling it would be useless to argue just then about the
timepiece, Joe followed his brother.
“Hi, stop ’em!” roared Stump. “Don’t let ’em get away!”
Instantly all three of the tramps went after the two lads. Muley was the
quickest of the number and in a trice he had placed himself in front of
the window.
“Not so fast!” he sang out. “We want what you have in your pockets
first!”
Cut off from escape by the window, the two boys turned around. They now
saw that the doorway was unguarded, and ran for the opening with all
speed. Harry reached the door first and tumbled it aside, and both ran
into the open.
“Stop!” yelled Noxy. “Stop, or we’ll fix ye!” And then, his foot
catching in a loose board of the flooring, he pitched headlong, and
Stump and Muley came down on top of him.
“Run, Harry, run, or they’ll catch us sure!” cried Joe.
Harry needed no urging, and in a minute the two lads were on the roadway
once again and running harder than they had ever done in any footrace.
For the moment they forgot how tired they had been, and fear possibly
gave them additional strength.
“Ar—are the—they coming?” panted Harry, after quarter of a mile had been
covered.
“I don’t—don’t know!” puffed his brother. “Do—don’t se—see anything of
’em.”
“What mean rascals, Joe!”
“Yes, they ought to be in jail!”
The boys continued to run, but as nobody appeared to be following they
gradually slackened their pace and at length came to a halt.
“Joe, I’m almost ready to drop.”
“So am I, but we had better not stop here. Let us keep on until we reach
some farmhouse. I’m going to get back my watch and chain if I can.”
“And the nuts. Think of losing them after all the trouble we had in
gathering them.”
“Yes, Harry, but the watch and chain are worth more than the nuts. If
you’ll remember, they were my birthday present from father.”
“Oh, we’ve got to get back the watch and chain. Come on—the sooner we
find a farmhouse and get assistance the better. More than likely those
tramps won’t stay at the barn very long.”
Scarcely able to drag one foot after the other, the two Westmore boys
continued on their way. The snow had now stopped coming down, yet the
keen fall wind was as sharp as ever. But presently the wind shifted and
then they made better progress.
“I see a farmhouse!” cried Harry, a little later.
“Not much of a place,” returned his brother. “Yet we may get help
there,—who knows?”
When the cottage—it was no more than that—was reached, Joe knocked
loudly on the door.
“Who is there?” came in a shrill voice from inside.
“Two boys,” answered Joe. “We want help, for some tramps have robbed
us.”
“I can’t help you. The tramps robbed me, too—stole two of my best
chickens. I’m an old man and I must watch my property. You go to
Neighbor Dugan’s—he’ll help you, maybe.”
“Where is Dugan’s place?”
“Down the road a spell. Keep right on an’ you can’t miss it.” And that
was all the boys could get out of the occupant of the cottage.
“He must be a crabbed old chap,” was Harry’s comment, as they resumed
their weary tramp.
“Well, an old man can’t do much, especially if he is living all alone. I
suppose he’s afraid to leave his place for fear the tramps will visit it
during his absence,” and in this surmise Joe was correct.
Fortunately the farm belonging to Andy Dugan was not far distant. The
farmer was a whole-souled Irishman and both boys had met him on more
than one occasion at Mr. Westmore’s store.
“Sure, an’ where did you b’ys spring from?” said Dugan, on opening the
door. “’Tis a likely walk ye are from town.”
“We’ve been out for some nuts, over to Glasby’s Hill,” answered Harry.
“Ah now, so ye’ve got there before me, eh? I didn’t know ’twas known
there was nuts there.”
“Mr. Dugan, we want your help,” put in Joe, quickly.
“Phat for, Joe—to help carry home the nuts? Where’s the bags?”
“We met some tramps, and——”
“Tramps? On this road ag’in?” Andy Dugan was all attention and his face
grew sober. “Tell me about thim at onct!”
The boys entered the farmhouse, where were collected the Dugan family,
consisting of Mrs. Dugan, who weighed about two hundred and fifty
pounds, and seven children, including three half-grown sons. All
listened with close attention to what the Westmore boys had to relate.
“Th’ schamps!” cried Andy Dugan. “Sure an’ they should be in the town
jail! An’ was the watch an’ chain worth much?”
“Twelve or fifteen dollars. And a birthday present, too.”
“I’ll go after thim, that I will. Pat, git me gun, and you go an’ take
yer own gun, too—an’, Teddy, git the pistol, an’ see if it’s after bein’
loaded. We’ll tache thim scallywags a lisson, so we will!”
“That’s the talk, Mr. Dugan!” said Joe, brightening. “But you’ll have to
hurry, or they’ll be gone.”
“I’ll hurry all I can, lad. But phat about you? You’re too tired to walk
back, ain’t ye?”
“Lit thim roide the mare, Andy,” came from Mrs. Dugan. “Th’ mare wants
exercise annyway.”
“So they shall, Caddy,” answered the husband, and one of the smaller
boys of the family was sent to bring the mare forth.
In less than ten minutes the party was ready to set out, Andy Dugan and
his son Pat with guns, Teddy, who boasted of a face that was nothing but
a mass of freckles, with the pistol, and Joe and Harry, on the mare’s
back, with clubs.
The mare was rather a frisky creature, and both boys had all they could
do to make her walk along as they wished.
“She’s been in the sthable too long,” explained Andy Dugan. “She wants a
run av a couple o’ miles to take the dancin’ out av her heels.”
“Well, she mustn’t run now,” said Harry, who had no desire to reach the
old barn before the others could come up.
The wind was gradually going down, so journeying along the road was more
agreeable than it had been. When they passed the little cottage they saw
the old man peeping from behind a window shutter at them.
“He’s a quare sthick, so he is,” said Andy Dugan. “But, as he is afther
lavin’ us alone, we lave him alone.”
The party advanced upon the barn boldly and when they were within a
hundred yards of the structure, Joe and Harry urged the mare ahead. Up
flew the rear hoofs of the steed and away she went pell-mell along the
road.
“Whoa! whoa!” roared Joe. “Whoa, I say!”
But the mare did not intend to whoa, and reaching the barn, she flew by
like a meteor, much to the combined chagrin of the riders. Joe was in
front, holding the reins, and Harry in the rear, with his arms about his
brother’s waist. Both kept bouncing up and down like twin rubber balls.
“Do stop her, Joe!”
“Whoa!” repeated Joe. “Whoa! Confound the mare, she won’t listen to me!”
“She is running away with us!”
“Well, if she is, I can’t help it.”
“Pull in on the reins.”
“That’s what I am doing—just as hard as I can.”
“Hi! hi!” came in Andy Dugan’s voice. “Phy don’t ye sthop? Ain’t this
the barn ye was afther spakin’ about?”
“Yes!” yelled back Joe. “But your mare won’t stop!”
“Hit her on th’ head wid yer fist!” screamed Pat Dugan.
“I don’t believe that will stop her,” said Harry.
“Perhaps it will, if she’s used to it,” said his brother, and an instant
later landed a blow straight between the mare’s ears.
Up went the creature’s hind quarters in a twinkling and over her head
shot the two boys, to land in the snow and brushwood beside the roadway.
Then the mare shied to one side and pranced down the road, and soon a
turn hid her from view.