A DESPERATE ENCOUNTER.
All that long, silent afternoon, he wandered through the woods, the
fields and the meadows. The cool shadows of the forest enfolded him,
and the balsamic fragrance of spruce and pine and juniper soothed his
troubled spirit. He sat on a decaying log, listening to the chatter of
a squirrel, and hearing the occasional soft _pat_ of the first-falling
acorns. He noted the spots where Jack Frost had thus early begun his
work of painting the leaves pink and crimson and gold. In a thicket he
saw the scarlet gleam of hawthorne berries.
Beside Silver Brook, which ran down through the border of the woods, he
paused to listen to the tinkle and gurgle of the water. There the
blackberried moonseed clambered over the underbrush. When he crossed
the brook and pushed on through this undergrowth, his feet and ankles
were wet by water spilled from many hooded pitcher plants. Near the
edge of the woods, with a sudden booming whir of wings that made his
heart jump, a partridge flew up and went diving away into the deeper
forest.
At the border of the woods, where meadow and marshland began, he
discovered clusters of pale-blue asters mingling with masses of
rose-purple blazing star. Before him he sent scurrying a flight of
robins, driven from their feast of pigeon berries amid the wine-stained
pokeweed leaves.
The sun leaned low to the west and the day drew toward a peaceful
close. He seemed to forget for brief periods his misfortune and
wretchedness, but he could not put his bitter thoughts aside for long,
and whenever he tried to do so, they simply slunk in the background, to
come swarming upon him again at the first opportunity. At best, it was
a wretched afternoon he spent with them.
He had escaped facing disgrace and expulsion by declining to return to
the academy that afternoon; but his trunk and clothes were at Mrs.
Jones’ and he must get them, which led him, as night approached, to
turn back toward the village.
On the southern slope of Turkey Hill he lingered, with the valley and
the village below him. The sunshine gilded a church spire amid the
oaks, and in its yard of maples he could see the roof and belfry of the
academy.
The afternoon session was over by this time, and from that elevation
Ben could look down on the fenced football field, where he beheld the
boys already at practice. Once the still air brought their voices to
him even from that distance. His heart swelled with a sense of
injustice and wrong, until it seemed to fill his chest in a stifling
manner.
Of course Bern Hayden was there with the boys who had so joyously
hailed his return to Oakdale. But for Hayden he might also be there
taking part in the practice, enjoying that for which his heart
hungered, the friendly companionship of other lads.
The shadows were thickening and night was at hand as he crossed the
fields and reached the road to the north of the academy. He hoped to
avoid observation and reach Mrs. Jones’ house without encountering any
one who knew him.
As he quickened his steps, he suddenly realized that he must pass the
wretched little tumble-down home of Tige Fletcher, a dirty, crabbed,
old recluse, who hated boys because he had been taunted and tormented
by them, and who kept two fierce dogs, which were regarded as vicious
and dangerous. Beyond Fletcher’s house there was a footpath from High
street to the academy yard, and this was the course Ben wished to
follow.
Knowing he might be set upon by the dogs, he looked about for a weapon
of defense, finally discovering a thick, heavy, hardwood cudgel, about
three feet in length. With this in his hand, he strode on, grimly
determined to give the dogs more than they were looking for if they
attacked him.
He was quite near the house when, on the opposite side, there suddenly
burst forth a great uproar of barking, with which there immediately
mingled a shrill scream of terror.
Unhesitatingly, Ben dashed forward, instinctively gripping his stout
cudgel and holding it ready for use. The barking and the cry of fear
had told him some one was in danger from Old Tige’s dogs.
Immediately on passing the corner of the house, he saw what was
happening, and the spectacle brought his heart into his mouth. The dogs
had rushed at a little girl, who, driven up against the fence, faced
them with her blue eyes full of terror, and tried to drive them back by
striking at them with her helpless hands.
Giving a shout to check the dogs and distract their attention from the
girl, Ben rushed straight on. He saw one of the dogs leap against the
child and knock her down. Then he was within reach, and he gave the
animal a fearful blow with the club as it was snapping at the girl’s
throat.
A moment later Ben found he had his hands full in defending himself,
for the second dog, a huge brindle mastiff, having a protruding
under-jaw and reddish eyes, leaped at his throat, his teeth gleaming.
By a quick, side-stepping movement, the boy escaped, and with all his
strength he struck the dog, knocking it down, and sending it rolling
for a moment on the ground.
The first dog was a mongrel, but it was scarcely less ferocious and
dangerous than the mastiff. Although Ben had seemed to strike hard
enough to break the creature’s ribs, it recovered, and came at him,
even as the mastiff was sent rolling. The yellow hair on the back of
the dog’s neck bristled, and its eyes were filled with a fearful glare
of rage.
The boy was not given time to swing his club for another telling blow,
but was compelled to dodge as the dog sprang from the ground. His foot
slipped a little, and he flung up his left arm as a shield. The teeth
of the dog barely missed his elbow.
Quickly though Ben recovered and whirled, he was none too soon. This
time, however, the mongrel was met by a well-directed blow on the nose,
and the terrible pain of it took all the fight out of him and sent him
slinking and howling away, with his tail curled between his legs.
The mastiff was not disposed of so quickly; for, although it had been
knocked down by the first blow it received, it uttered a snarling roar,
and again flung itself at the boy the moment it could regain its feet.
Against the fence the white-faced little girl crouched, uttering wild
cries of fear, as, with terror-filled eyes, she watched the desperate
encounter.
Knowing he would be torn, mangled, perhaps killed, if the teeth of the
great dog ever fastened upon him, Ben fought for his very life. Three
times he beat the creature down with his club, but for all this
punishment the rage and fury of the animal increased, and it continued
to return to the attack with vicious recklessness.
The boy set his teeth and did his best to make every blow count. Had
his courage and nerve failed him for a moment, he must have been seized
and dragged down by the frothing dog. He kept his wits about him, and
his brain at work. Repeatedly he tried to hit the mastiff on the nose
in the same manner as he had struck the mongrel, but for some moments,
which seemed like hours, every attempt failed.
Once Ben’s heart leaped into his mouth, as his foot slipped again, but
he recovered himself on the instant and was fully prepared for the big
dog’s next charge.
At last he succeeded in delivering the blow on which he believed
everything depended. Hit fairly on the nose by that club, which was
wielded by a muscular young arm, the raging beast was checked and
paralyzed for a moment.
Seizing the opportunity, Ben advanced and struck again, throwing into
the effort every particle of strength and energy he could command. The
dog dropped to the ground and lay still, its muscles twitching and its
limbs stiffening; for that final blow had broken its neck.
Quivering and panting with the excitement and exertion of the struggle,
Ben stood looking down at the body of the dog, giving no heed for the
moment to the hoarse cries of rage which issued from the lips of Old
Tige Fletcher, who was hobbling toward him with his stiff leg. Nor did
he observe three boys who were coming along the path from the academy
at a run, having been led to quicken their steps by the cries of the
girl and the barking of the dogs.
Of the trio Roger Eliot was in the lead, and he was running fast, the
sound of the frightened girl’s screams having filled him with the
greatest alarm. He was followed closely by Chipper Cooper, while Chub
Tuttle brought up the rear, panting like a porpoise, and scattering
peanuts from his pockets at every jump.
These boys came in sight soon enough to witness the end of the
encounter between Stone and the huge mastiff. They saw the dog beaten
back several times, and Roger uttered a husky exclamation of
satisfaction when Ben finally finished the fierce brute with a blow
that left it quivering on the ground.
By that time Eliot’s eyes had discovered the girl as she crouched and
cowered against the fence, and he knew instantly that it was in defense
of her that Ben had faced and fought Fletcher’s dreaded dogs.
Even before reaching that point Roger’s heart had been filled with the
greatest alarm and anxiety by the sounds coming to his ears; for he
believed he recognized the voice of the child whose terrified cries
mingled with the savage barking and snarling of the dogs. His little
sister had a habit of meeting him on his way home after football
practice, and he had warned her not to come too far on account of the
danger of being attacked by Fletcher’s dogs. That his fear had been
well-founded he saw the moment he discovered the child huddled against
the fence, as it was, indeed, his sister.
“Amy!” he chokingly cried.
Reaching her, he caught her up and held her sobbing on his breast,
while she clung to his neck with her trembling arms.
“Drat ye!” snarled Tige Fletcher, his face contorted with rage as he
stumped forward, shaking his crooked cane at Ben Stone. “What hev ye
done to my dorg? You’ve killed him!”
“I think I have,” was the undaunted answer; “at any rate, I meant to
kill him.”
“I’ll hey ye ’rested!” shrilled the recluse. “That dorg was wuth a
hundrud dollars, an’ I’ll make ye pay fer him, ur I’ll put ye in jail.”
Roger Eliot turned indignantly on the irate man.
“You’ll be lucky, Mr. Fletcher, if you escape being arrested and fined
yourself,” he declared. “You knew your dogs were vicious, and you have
been notified by the authorities to chain them up and never to let them
loose unless they were muzzled. You’ll be fortunate to get off simply
with the loss of a dog; my father is pretty sure to take this matter up
when he hears what has happened. If your wretched dogs had bitten my
sister—” Roger stopped, unable to find words to express himself.
The old man continued to splutter and snarl and flourish his cane, upon
which Tuttle and Cooper made a pretense of skurrying around in great
haste for rocks to pelt him with, and he beat a hasty retreat toward
his wretched hovel.
“Don’t stone him, fellows,” advised Roger. “Let’s not give him a chance
to say truthfully that we did that.”
“We oughter soak him,” said Chub, his round face expressive of the
greatest indignation. “A man who keeps such ugly curs around him
deserves to be soaked. Anyhow,” he added, poking the limp body of the
mastiff, “there’s one dog gone.”
“Ain’t it a dog-gone shame!” chuckled Chipper, seizing the opportunity
to make a pun.
Roger turned to Ben.
“Stone,” he said, in his kindly yet unemotional way, “I can’t thank you
enough for your brave defense of my sister. How did it happen?”
Ben explained, telling how he had heard the barking of the dogs and the
screams of Amy Eliot as chance led him to be passing Fletcher’s hut,
whereupon he ran as quickly as possible to her assistance.
“It was a nervy thing to do,” nodded Roger, “and you may be sure I
won’t forget it. I saw some of it, and the way you beat that big dog
off and finished him was splendid.”
“Say, wasn’t it great!” chimed in Chub, actual admiration in his eyes
as he surveyed Ben. “By jolly! you’re a dandy, Stone! Ain’t many
fellers could have done it.”
“I won’t forget it,” repeated Roger, holding out his hand.
Ben flushed, hesitated, then accepted the proffered hand, receiving a
hearty, thankful grip from Eliot.
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