THE PURSUIT
They stood staring at each other--Tom Fairfield and the ragged man, the
latter holding the electric torch so that it was focused on our hero.
And yet this did not prevent some of the rays from glinting back and
revealing himself. He seemed too surprised to make any move, and, as
for Tom himself, he remained motionless, not knowing what to do. He
had come out in the storm expecting to meet a certain person, and a
totally different one had appeared, and yet one whom he much desired to
meet.
"Well," finally growled the ragged man. "What is it, young feller?
Was you lookin' for me?"
"Not exactly," replied Tom with a half smile, "and yet I'm glad to see
you."
"Oh, you are, eh? Well, I don't know as I can say the same. What do
you want, anyhow?"
"A few words with you."
"And s'posin' I don't want any words with you?"
"I fancy it will be to your advantage to talk to me," said Tom coolly.
He was glad of a chance to stand still, for his ankle was paining him
very much, and even though the rain was coming down in torrents, and it
was cold and dreary, he did not mind, for he felt that at last he was
at the end of the trail that meant the clearing of his name.
"Nice time for a talk," sneered the tramp. "If you have anything to
say, out with it. I'm not going to stand here all night."
"I don't fancy the job myself," remarked Tom easily. "In the first
place, you came here to meet the same person I did, I think."
"What makes you think so?" asked the tramp uneasily, and he lowered his
light so that it no longer pointed in Tom's face.
"Well, I have reasons. Assuming that you did come here to meet a
certain Ray Blake, what do you want of him?"
"I'm not going to tell you--how did you know I wanted to see Ray?"
stammered the ragged man, hastily correcting himself.
"He told me so," replied Tom frankly. "Now I want you to let him alone
after this. You've done him harm enough, and you have done much to
ruin his life. I want you to promise not to make any more attempts to
force him to lead the kind of a life you're leading."
"S'posin' I won't?"
"Then I'll make you!"
"You'll make me? Come, that's pretty good! That's rich, that is! Ha!
You'll make me, young feller? Why it'll take more'n you to make me do
what I don't want to do."
"I fancy not," said Tom easily, and with a cautious movement he
advanced a step nearer the tramp. The latter did not appear to notice
it.
"Well, what else do you want?" asked the ragged fellow. "That's not
sayin' I'm goin' to do what you asked me first, though," he sneered.
His light was now flickering about on the rain-soaked ground, making
little rings of illumination.
"Will you tell me how you got that scar on your cheek?" asked Tom
suddenly.
Involuntarily the man's hand went to the evidence of the old wound. Up
flashed the light into Tom's face again, and as it was held up there
came this sharp question, asked with every evidence of fear:
"What--what do you know about that?"
"I know more than you think I do," said Tom, still speaking with a
confidence he did not feel. Again he took a cautious step forward. He
was now almost within leaping distance of the tramp.
"Well then, if you know so much there's no need of me telling you,"
sneered the ragged man. "I've had enough of this," he went on,
speaking roughly. "I don't see why I should waste time talking to you
in this confounded rain. I'm going to leave."
"Not until you answer me one more question," said Tom firmly, and he
gathered himself together for that which he knew must follow.
"Seems to me you're mighty fond of askin' questions," sneered the
tramp, "an' you don't take the most comfortable places to do it in.
Well, fire ahead, and I'll answer if I like."
Tom paused a moment. He looked about in the surrounding blackness, as
if to note whether help was at hand, or perhaps to discover if the
person he had come out to meet was near. But, there was no movement.
There was no sound save the swish of the rain about the two figures so
strangely contrasted, confronting one another. Off in the distance,
down the hill, could be seen the dim lights in the old farmhouse of Mr.
Appleby.
"Well?" asked the tramp, in a hard voice. "Go ahead, an' get done with
it. I'm tired of standing here." He had released his thumb from the
spring of the electric torch, and the light went out, making the spot
seem all the blacker by contrast.
Tom drew in his breath sharply. Taking a stride forward, and reaching
out his two muscular arms in the darkness, he asked in a low voice:
"How much did you pay for that cyanide of potassium, Jacob Crouse?"
Tom could hear the surprised gasp from the tramp, he could hear his
teeth chatter, not with cold, but from fright, and a moment later, with
a half audible cry, the man turned and fled away in the storm and
darkness.
"No, you don't!" cried Tom, and with, a spring he sought to grab the
ragged fellow. But the lad was just the fraction of a second too late,
and though he did manage to grasp a portion of the tramp's coat, the
ragged and rotten cloth parted in his hand.
"I'll get you yet!" exclaimed Tom fiercely, as he took up the pursuit
in the darkness. He had been expecting this, and yet it had come so
suddenly that he was not quite prepared for it. He had hoped to get
near enough to the tramp, undetected, to grab him before asking that
question which so startled the fellow. Now the man, on whom so much
depended in the clearing of Tom's name, was sprinting down the farm
lane.
"My ankle!" gasped Tom, as a sudden turn on it sent a twinge of pain
through him. "If it wasn't for that I'd stand a better chance. And
yet I'm not going to give up. I've got to get him, or all my work will
go for nothing."
On he ran, the rain-soaked ground giving forth scarcely a sound save
when he or the man ahead of him stepped into some mud puddle, of which
there were many.
Tom, however, could hear the footfalls of the tramp, who was seeking to
escape, and by their nearness he judged that the fellow was not very
far in advance.
"He hasn't much the start of me," mused Tom. "But if he gets out on
the main road he can easily give me the slip. I've got to corner him
in this lane."
The lane was a long one, bordered on either side by big fields, some of
which were pastures, where the patient cattle stood in the storm, and
others whence fall crops had been gathered by the farmer. Tom glanced
ahead, and from side to side, to see if the tramp had leaped a fence
and was seeking to get away across some pasture. But he saw nothing,
and was aware of a dim moving spot just ahead of him. It was as if the
spot was a little lighter in darkness than the surrounding night.
"He's in the lane yet, I think," said Tom, to himself, trying to run so
as to bring as little weight as possible on his injured ankle. "At
least I hope he is. And the lane doesn't end yet for some distance."
A moment later he was given evidence that the fellow was still running
straight ahead. There came a muttered exclamation, and the sound of
splashing water. Then there shone a brilliant patch of light for an
instant. The tramp had blundered into some puddle, and had flashed his
electric torch to get his bearings. This Tom saw, and he also saw that
the man had increased the distance between them.
"He's going to get away from me if I can't do a little better sprinting
work," murmured Tom grimly. "If I was making a touchdown I'd have to
do better than this. I'll just pretend that I am out for a touchdown."
Clenching his teeth to keep back exclamations of pain, that, somehow or
other, would force themselves out, as his ankle twinged him, Tom swept
on. He fancied he was gaining a bit, for he could hear the labored
breathing of the man ahead of him.
"Wind's giving out!" thought Tom, and he was glad that he was well
trained. Undoubtedly the life of dissipation the tramp had led would
tell on him. He could not keep up the race long. And yet the lane
must soon end.
"I've got to get him! I've got to get him!" said Tom to himself, over
and over again, and he lowered his head and raced on in the storm and
darkness.
He came to the same puddle where the tramp had flashed his light, and
the muddy water splashed high. It was slippery, too, and, in an
endeavor to maintain his balance, Tom further wrenched his ankle.
"I'll be laid up for fair!" he groaned. "No more football for me this
season. Well, I can't help it. This is more important. Oh, if I can
only land him in jail where he belongs!"
Recovering himself, he dashed on. He could still hear the lumbering
footsteps of the tramp. And then suddenly, out of the blackness ahead
of Tom there came a strange sound. It was like a grunt. Then the echo
of voices.
"Look out where you're going!" someone exclaimed.
"Get out of my way!" snarled another, and Tom recognized the tramp's
tones.
"Ray! Ray Blake!" cried Tom, as he again heard the first voice. "Hold
that man! Don't let him get away. That's Jake Crouse!"