ON DICK’S PORCH
“After that,” said Gordon, “I don’t know just what did happen. I was
too busy getting away from there to look back. I cut across an open
field and got into the shadow of the fence on Louise Street and pretty
soon Way came along. Where Lanny and Morris got to I don’t know. Maybe
they’re still running!”
It was Sunday morning and Gordon and Dick were seated on the latter’s
porch. Dick, who had listened to his friend’s narration with much
amusement, laughed again.
“And you forgot to turn off the steam before you jumped, eh?”
“No, I didn’t exactly forget to,” replied Gordon judicially. “I thought
of it, all right, but I couldn’t locate the throttle thing. You see,
it all happened so suddenly that there wasn’t time to do much but run.
That silly cop must have been standing in front of the little shed the
contractors put up out there last year and we never suspected he was
anywhere around until he jumped out on us about twenty feet ahead. He
shouldn’t have done that. He might have caused us heart-failure.”
“Haven’t you been over yet to see what happened to the roller?” Dick
asked.
“I have not,” was the emphatic reply. “Maybe this afternoon I’ll sort
of happen out there, but it might look suspicious if I went this
morning. I suppose there’ll be a dickens of a row about it. There
wasn’t anything in the paper, was there?” Gordon glanced at the Sunday
_Reporter_ on Dick’s knees.
“No, but I suppose the paper was out before it happened. Do you think
the policeman recognized any of you?”
“I don’t know. He might. We didn’t give him much chance, but, still,
it was broad moonlight. Gee, I’d like to know what happened to that
roller!”
“Call up the police station and ask,” suggested Dick gravely.
“Yes, I will!” But Gordon’s tone contradicted the statement. “Guess
I’ll call up Lanny and see if he got home. I had a fine time getting
in. There wasn’t a window unlatched and I had to squirm through the
coal hole. I made a horrible noise when I dropped, too. I thought the
coal would never get through sliding!”
“Did you get caught?”
Gordon shook his head doubtfully. “I guess mother knows, all right, but
I don’t think dad does. Anyway, he didn’t say anything. It was fierce
having to get up at eight o’clock! I felt like a――a――――”
“You still look like it,” laughed Dick. “Well, anyway, you got the job
done, and that’s something, even if you do go to jail for a while!”
“What do you suppose they’ll do?” asked Gordon uneasily.
“Oh, I don’t believe they’ll be hard on you. Maybe a small fine and a
month in jail.”
“Quit your kidding! If I go to jail I’ll see that you come, too.”
“I’ve always understood that there was honor even amongst thieves,”
responded the other, “but I see that I was――hello, see who’s here!”
It was Lanny who closed the gate behind him and walked up the short
path with a weary grin on his face. “Good morning,” he said, as he
sank to the top step and leaned his head against the pillar. “Also
good-night.” He closed his eyes and snored loudly.
“What became of you?” asked Gordon.
“What became of me?” Lanny opened his eyes protestingly. “When do you
mean?”
“Last night, of course. Where did you run to?”
“Last night? Run? I don’t understand you. I went to bed quite early
last night and slept very nicely. Once I thought I heard a noise, a
sort of jarring, rumbling noise, but I paid no attention to it. What a
beautiful morning it is! ‘O Beauteous Spring, thou art――――’” His head
settled back against the pillar again.
The others laughed, and Dick remarked soberly: “I suppose you’ve heard
that they got Morris?”
Lanny opened his eyes once more and winked gravely. “I just had him
on the phone a few minutes ago.” He smiled wanly. “He couldn’t get in
the house when he got back and had to sleep out in the stable in a
carriage.”
“How about you?” asked Gordon.
Lanny waved a hand carelessly. “No trouble at all. Merely shinned up
a water-spout and got in the linen closet window. Then I fell over a
carpet-sweeper and went to bed. I shall insist on having a latch-key
after this.”
“But where the dickens did you and Morris run to?” insisted Gordon. “I
never saw you once after I turned into the field.”
“By that time I was shinning up the spout,” replied Lanny. “You see,
I had a fine start on you, Gordie. I don’t know just what my time was
for the distance, but I’ll bet it was mighty good. I’m pretty sure that
I did the first two-twenty yards in something under twenty seconds! As
for Morris, I never saw him. He says he fell over something and lay
in the grass for about half an hour and then went home by way of the
river. Something of a detour, that!”
“Well, tell me one thing, Lanny,” said Dick. “Did the rolling do the
field any good?”
Lanny became almost animated. “It certainly did! Want to go over and
have a look at it?” Dick shook his head. “Well, it made a lot of
difference. Of course, as I told the others, it ought to have been gone
over two or three times to get it in real good shape, but it’s at least
a hundred per cent. better than it was before. I was afraid it might
be too dry, but it wasn’t. That old roller just squashed it right down
in great style. I think we broke the board around the track in a few
places, but it was pretty rotten anyway.”
“That’s good; I mean about the field. As I just said to Gordie, if you
fellows have got to go to jail it’s sort of a satisfaction that you
accomplished something. I’ll send you fruit and old magazines now and
then, and a month will soon pass.”
“Is that really and truly so? Your kindness――――”
“And I told _him_,” interrupted Gordon, “that if we went to jail I’d
see that he went along.”
“Naturally.” Lanny hugged his knees and smiled pleasantly at Dick. “We
couldn’t be happy without you, Dickums. Yes, you’ll have to go along
even if it’s necessary for us to swear that you were the ring-leader.
I’d be sorry for your folks, Dick, but――――” Lanny shook his head
inexorably. Then: “By the by, what about Way?”
“I left him at the corner of Common Street,” replied Gordon. “I guess
he managed all right.”
“He ought to have; he’s the manager,” said Lanny, with a yawn. “My
word, fellows, but I’m sleepy! And I had to pretend to be Little
Bright-Eyes at breakfast, too. I know I’ll fall asleep in church and
snore!”
“Do you think that cop recognized us, Lanny?” Gordon asked.
“Don’t ask me. If he did we’ll know about it soon enough. Look here,
whose idea was it, anyway? Who got us into this scrape?”
“Of course, you didn’t,” answered Gordon gravely, “and I’m certain I
didn’t. I guess it was Dick, wasn’t it?”
Lanny seemed about to assent until Dick reached for a crutch. Then:
“No, I don’t think it was Dick,” he replied. “You have only to look at
his innocent countenance to know that he would never do such a thing.
Guess it was Morris. He isn’t here, and, besides, his dad’s got enough
influence and coin to buy him off. I’m certain it was Morris.”
“So it was; I remember now. Another time we’ll know better than to
listen to his evil suggestions.” And Gordon sighed deeply.
“He’s older than we are, too, which makes it more――more deplorable.”
“You have a wonderful command of the English language this morning,”
laughed Dick. “I’d love to listen to you some time when you’re feeling
fresh and quite wide-awake!”
“Thank you for those few kind words,” responded Lanny gratefully. “I
shan’t attempt to conceal from you the fact that I am slightly drowsy
to-day. Well, I’ve got to go back and report for church parade. You
coming, Gordie?”
“I suppose so.” Gordon got up with a sigh.
“Come around after dinner,” suggested Dick, “and we’ll get in Eli
and take a ride. We might roll around to the scene of the late
unpleasantness and see what finally happened to that roller!”
“All right,” Lanny agreed, “only don’t display too great an interest in
the thing when you get there. Let us be――er――circumspect.”
“I don’t like the sound of that word,” murmured Gordon; “that is, the
first and last syllables! Change it to ‘cautious,’ Lanny.”
“Very well, let us be cautious. Farewell, Dickums!”
Their visit in the runabout to Brent’s Addition that afternoon proved
unsatisfactory. The steam roller, looking as innocent as you like, was
back where they had found it and there was nothing to tell what had
happened subsequent to their hurried departure. It was not until Monday
morning that they had their curiosity satisfied, and then it was the
_Reporter_ that did it. The _Reporter_ had chosen to treat the story
with humor, heading it
ROAD ROLLER RUNS AMUCK!
It told how Officer Suggs, while patrolling his lonely beat on the
outskirts of our fair city, had had his attention attracted by
mysterious sounds on Aspen Avenue. The intrepid guardian of the law had
thereupon concealed himself in ambush just in time to behold, coming
toward him, one of the Street Department’s steam rollers. Ordered to
stop and give an account of itself, the roller had promptly attacked
the officer. The latter, with rare presence of mind, leaped to a place
of safety and the roller, emitting a roar of rage and disappointment,
tried to escape. Then followed a vivid account of the pursuit, the
disorderly conduct of the roller, the wanton attack on the lamp-post
and the final subjugation and arrest of the marauder, an arrest not
consummated until several members of the police force and employees of
the Street Department had been hurried to the scene. It made a good
story and at least five of the _Reporter’s_ readers enjoyed it vastly.
To their relief the paper ended with the encouraging statement that
“so far the police are unable to offer any satisfactory explanation of
the affair. Superintendent Burns, of the Street Department, hints that
some person or persons unknown had a hand in the matter, but to the
_Reporter_ it looks like a remarkable case of inanimate depravity.”
And that ended the matter, save that eventually the true story leaked
out, as such things will, and became generally known throughout the
school. Whether it ever reached the ears of Superintendent Burns is not
known. If it did he took no action.
Brent Field profited in any case. That Monday afternoon the improvement
in the condition of the ground was so noticeable that many fellows
remarked on it. Fortunately, though, they were quite satisfied with the
casual explanation that it had been “fixed up a bit,” and for some
reason the marks left by the passage of the roller, plainly visible,
failed to connect themselves with the story in that morning’s paper.
Perhaps the principal reason for this was that very few of the fellows
read anything in the _Reporter_ outside of the sporting page. The
infield, and especially the base paths, was more level and smoother
than it had ever been, and during practice that afternoon there were
far fewer errors that could be laid to inequalities of the surface.
To be sure, when Harry Bryan let a ball bound through his hands he
promptly picked up a pebble and disgustedly tossed it away, but the
excuse didn’t carry the usual conviction.
Practice went well that afternoon. Fielding was cleaner and it really
looked to Dick as though his charges were at last finding their
batting eyes. Bryan, Cotner and Merrick all hit the ball hard in the
four-inning contest with the practice team, the former getting two
two-baggers in two turns at bat and Cotner connecting with one of
Tom Nostrand’s offerings for a three-base hit. The First Team had no
trouble in winning the decision, the score being 5 to 1. Meanwhile, on
the cinders the Track Team candidates were busy, and over on the Main
Street side of the field, where the pits were located, the jumpers
and weight-throwers were trying themselves out as extensively as the
ever-watchful “Skeet” would allow. Fudge Shaw, looking heroic――and
slightly rotund――in a brand-new white shirt, trunks and spiked shoes,
was taking his turn with the shot. So far only three other youths
had chosen to contest with him for the mastery in this event, but
unfortunately for Fudge two of the three were older fellows with
experience and brawn. One, Harry Partridge, a senior and a tackle on
the football team, was in command of the shot-putters. Partridge was
a good sort usually, Fudge considered, but to-day he was certainly
impatient and censorious, not to mention sarcastic!
“Look here, Fudge,” he asked after the tyro had let the shot roll off
the side of his hand and dribble away for a scant twelve feet in a
direction perilously close to a passing broad-jumper, “who ever told
you you could put the shot, anyway? You don’t know the first thing
about it! Now come back here and let me tell you for the fiftieth
time that the shot leaves your hand over the tips of your fingers and
doesn’t roll off the side. I’m not saying anything just now about your
spring or your shoulder work. All I’m trying to do is to get it into
that ivory knob of yours that the shot rests _here_ and that it leaves
your hand _so_! Now cut out all the movements and let me see you hold
it right and get it away right. Thank you, that’s very rotten! Go
ahead, Thad. Try not to foul this time. You start too far forward.
That’s better! Did you see――look here, Shaw, if you’re out here to put
the shot you watch what’s going on and never mind the jumpers! If you
don’t watch how these other fellows do it you never will learn! All
right, Falkland!”
“Maybe,” said Fudge when he and Perry were walking home, “maybe I’d
rather be a broad-jumper, anyway. This shot-putting’s a silly stunt!”