FOUL PLAY
It was nearing sunset on Friday, the fourteenth of June; the
Pentathlon was scheduled for ten o'clock on the following day. Dick
Randall, dressed in his street clothes, but with his spiked shoes on
his feet, stood, hammer in hand, listening to McDonald's final words
of explanation and advice. McDonald's protege, Joe, the little French
Canadian, lay stretched on the grass, near the edge of the field,
looking on.
It was a bright, clear evening, and the sun, now almost level with the
horizon, smote blindingly across the field. McDonald shifted his
position to escape its glare. "Now then, Dick," he said, "just one
more try, to be sure we've got it. That's all I'm going to let you
take. We'll run no risk of damaging that ankle of yours again."
"Oh, the ankle's all right," Dick answered. "I honestly couldn't feel
in better shape. And you don't know what a load it takes off my mind
to have the hammer coming right at last. It makes me feel as if I
really had something of a show."
McDonald nodded. "Of course, you have a show," he answered. "Now take
your try, and remember the two things I've been telling you! Pull away
from it, all the time, as if you were hauling tug-of-war on a rope;
and don't start to turn too quick. But when you do start, spin fast,
and the rest will come by itself. And if you don't throw within ten
feet of Dave Ellis to-morrow, I'm a liar."
Dick took his stand within the circle, and made ready for his trial.
After weeks of disappointment, there had finally come a day when the
whole theory of the double turn had worked itself out satisfactorily
in his brain, and had remained there, so that for the past fortnight
he had kept his form, and had steadily increased the distance of his
throws. Yet McDonald, although a great believer in light work before a
competition, knew from experience how easily the knack with the hammer
may be lost, and while he had made Dick stop his running and jumping,
he had kept him at light practice with the weight, taking half a dozen
throws a day, until his pupil had acquired a method that was almost
mechanical in its certainty. Now he found little to criticize as Dick
spun around quickly and smoothly, keeping well within the circle, and
sending the missile far down the field. He nodded approval. "All
right," he called, "that's enough. We'll stop right there. Let's put
the tape on it."
While they were measuring, Joe, from his position near the fence,
happened to glance into the woods beyond the field, and having looked
once, he seemed to take no further interest in the hammer throwers,
but lay still, and without appearing to do so, kept a watchful eye on
the spot of light which had gleamed from the branches of the big oak
tree on the border of the wood. The last rays of the sunset streamed
gloriously across the field; in answer, flash after flash came
sparkling from the oak; and then the sun dipped behind the hills, and
the soft shadow of the twilight crept downward toward the town.
Dick and McDonald, talking earnestly together, started to leave the
field. At the corner of the wood, Dick turned, gazing out at the
darkening west. "Fine day to-morrow, I guess, all right," he said.
"Yes," McDonald assented, "it looks like it. And we're going to have
you in shape to do a good performance, Dick. Wait till you've eaten
the steak I've got for you. That's going to put the muscle on. It'll
mean a foot in the hammer, I know."
Dick laughed. "Well, you were good to invite me to stay," he answered.
"I told Mr. Fenton we had a few last things to talk over, and that I'd
come back after supper. And he said that would be all right. Now,
about that high jump--"
They walked on toward the cottage. As they passed the angle of the
woods, Joe, who had been walking along behind them, hurried up to
McDonald, spoke a few quick words to him in an undertone, and darted
away among the trees. Dick looked after him in surprise. "What's
struck the kid?" he asked.
McDonald shrugged his shoulders. "Don't know myself," he answered, "he
takes queer notions sometimes. Something, he said, about a big bird in
a tree. But he's all right. He's a smart youngster, and he knows the
woods like a book. He'll be back by supper-time."
They walked on again, still discussing the all-absorbing topic of the
morrow's meet. In the meantime, Joe's little figure was flitting
onward through the woods, slipping silently from tree to tree, from
time to time stopping to listen, until finally, ahead of him, he heard
the murmur of voices. Dropping quickly on his hands and knees, he
crept forward through the underbrush. Then, reaching the edge of a
little clearing, he peered cautiously through the bushes, and saw
before him the figures of two men, standing talking together in the
fading light. One of them was slight and dark, and fashionably
dressed, and as Joe saw the pair of field-glasses slung over his
shoulder, his eyes gleamed, and he gave a quick little nod to himself,
as if now sure of something which he had only suspected before. The
other man was short, broad, powerful, his thick chest and long arms
suggesting a strength far above the average. It was he who was
speaking, and Joe strained his ears to listen to every word.
"I don't like it," he was saying; "the whole thing's too big a risk.
You're safe, I guess, if you play it straight. Ellis is going to win."
"No, he isn't going to win," the dapper young man replied. "I've
climbed that cursed tree every afternoon for the last week, and I know
how far Randall's getting that hammer, and I tell you again that,
barring accidents, he's going to lick Ellis on the show-down. It will
be close, but Randall wins."
His companion grunted. "Humph," he said, "this Dave Ellis must be a
beaut. He makes you lots of bother. First he loses two hundred to you
at poker, and then he cries baby, and says he can't pay, and then he
puts you on to this athletic business, to get square, and now at the
last minute, when your money's on, it turns out you've backed the
wrong man. Don't blame you for being a little worked up. That comes
close to being what I should call a pretty raw deal."
"No," the younger man answered, "hardly that. Ellis meant all right.
He thought he could win. He thinks now he can win. But he can't. I'm
sure of it. Because, as long as I've got five hundred dollars on him,
I've taken pains to find out how things stand. He can beat Johnson,
all right, but he can't beat Randall. The men I got my money up with,
were pretty wise guys--they had the tip from McDonald, I believe.
Anyway, it's too late to hedge, and so--I wrote you. And, as I tell
you, it's a hundred dollars in your pocket, and as easy as breaking
sticks. So don't go back on me now."
The older man appeared to hesitate. "I don't like it much," he said
again, then added, "When do you mean to pull it off?"
"Right away," answered the other. "I meant to do it later to-night,
but now I find he's going to stop at McDonald's for supper, and then
walk back. It's a straight road, and a lonely one. There's a patch of
woods about half-way home. It's easy. We've got the team. And there's
no harm done to any one. You're the gainer, and so am I, and so is
young Dave. The whole thing's no more than a joke, except that it
means five hundred dollars to me, and five hundred dollars is money,
these times. So let's get going."
Still his companion hesitated. "Here's two things I want to know," he
said at length; "first, where do I take him?"
"Smith's old barn," answered the other promptly; "pleasant and retired
health resort. No bad neighbors. Quiet and peaceful. Keep him till
about noon to-morrow, and then let him stray back any way you please.
Oh, the thing's a cinch. I almost hate to do it. It's too easy. But,
as I say, I need the money."
"Oh, yes, it's all a cinch," grumbled the older man, "where I do the
work, and you do the heavy looking on. It's always easy for the fellow
that's superintending. But now look here. Here's question number two.
Suppose Randall doesn't show up to-morrow, at ten o'clock, what
happens then? Won't they postpone the whole darn business? I'm not
going to live in Smith's old barn for ever, you know. I'm not as
strong for this rest-cure idea as you seem to think I am. I like some
action for mine."
His companion smiled. "You don't seem to give me any credit for
working out this scheme," he complained. "I thought of the chance of
their postponing it, the first thing, so I asked a lot of innocent
questions of Dave, and found out there wasn't any danger in that
direction. They make a lot of fuss over this athletic business, you
know, just as if it really amounted to something. And one of the
'points of honor,' as Dave calls 'em, is never to postpone. Kind of
'play or pay' idea. They've had a base-ball game in a rainstorm, and a
foot-ball game in a blizzard, and once they tried to row a boat race
in half a gale of wind, and swamped all three shells. Oh, no, if
Randall isn't there, they'll go ahead without him; that's all there is
to that. He can explain afterward, but it's going to sound so fishy,
they'll think he's lying. It isn't bad, really, the whole plan. Hullo,
what's that?"
At the edge of the clearing, a twig snapped sharply. Joe, in his
eagerness to hear all that was being said, had crept nearer and
nearer, and now the accident nearly betrayed him. Both men listened
intently, and Joe hugged the ground, hardly daring to breathe. "Guess
'twasn't anything," said the older man, at last. "Don't believe these
woods is very densely populated. Well, let's get out. We want to be in
time," and a moment later Joe heard their footsteps growing fainter
and fainter in the distance.
For an instant or two, he thought hard. He did not understand all that
he had heard, but the main points in the scheme were clear enough to
his mind. He must warn Dick at once, before it was too late. And
rising to his feet, he started to run. Yet his very haste proved his
undoing. It had grown dark. The woods, even by daylight, were hard to
traverse; and now, in his hurry and excitement, he momentarily bore
away too far to the right, and missed his way. Then, striving to make
up for lost time, he became more and more confused; and finally,
catching his foot in a clinging vine, at the top of a little ravine,
he pitched forward, half fell, half rolled, down the slope, struck his
head violently against some hard substance at the bottom, and lay
still, his face upturned to the sky, over his forehead a little
trickling stream of blood.
An hour later, Dick came out of McDonald's cottage. "Well, we've got
everything straight now," he said, "and you'll be there tomorrow.
Hopevale Oval, ten o'clock sharp."
McDonald nodded. "I'll be there," he answered, "and remember my words,
Dick; you're going to win. Good night, and good luck."
He watched Randall's form vanish in the darkness; then turned his face
toward the wood. "Oh, Joe," he called, "supper's ready," and then
again, more loudly, "Oh, Joe," but no answer came back to him, and
with a puzzled look on his face, he reentered the cottage.
Dick walked leisurely along through the gloom of the summer night. He
felt happy, knowing that he was in the very pink of condition, and now
that his chance to do something for the school had really come, he was
determined to meet the crisis as gamely and as resolutely as his
classmates on the crew had done. Far away, in the distance, the lights
of the school shone out across the fields. He gave a sigh of
anticipation, feeling alive in every nerve and muscle; fit to do
battle for his very life.
Half-way home, he entered the patch of woods which bordered the road,
for some little distance, on either hand. And then suddenly he gave a
start of surprise, for midway through the thicket, a dark figure
loomed up ahead of him, advancing through the gloom. In spite of
himself, Dick felt a thrill of uneasiness, but the stranger hailed him
cordially enough. "Beg pardon," he said, "but have you a match about
you? My pipe's gone out."
Dick moved to one side, to let the man pass, his muscles on the alert
to make a dash for liberty, if the need should come. "Sorry," he
answered, "I don't carry 'em--"
He got no further. Suddenly, even as he became conscious that the man
was still advancing, a brawny arm was thrown about his neck from
behind; his head was jerked violently backward; he choked and gasped
for breath; and then, before he could struggle or utter a cry, he was
gagged, bound, and lying helpless as a log, was borne swiftly away
down the road.
The following morning, at seven o'clock, Mr. Fenton heard a hurried
knock at his study door. "Come in," he called, and Harry Allen hastily
entered, his face pale. "Mr. Fenton," he said, "here's trouble. I just
went into Dick Randall's room, and he's not there. His bed hasn't been
slept in. What do you suppose can have happened to him?"
Mr. Fenton looked at him in surprise. "I can't imagine, Harry," he
replied. "He told me, yesterday, he would take supper with McDonald,
and come home shortly afterward. He might have stayed there overnight,
I suppose. Still, that's not like Randall. He would have telephoned me
from the village, I think. It seems curious, doesn't it? I'll send to
McDonald's at once, and we'll see. Will you ask Peter to slip the mare
into the buggy, please; and you go with him, Harry, and show him the
way? I don't doubt you'll find Dick there."
It was an hour later when Allen reentered the room, the lack of good
news showing in his face. "He wasn't there," he cried, "and what's
stranger still, McDonald wasn't there either, or the boy. What can it
mean, Mr. Fenton? You don't suppose McDonald--"
Mr. Fenton finished the sentence for him. "Would have caused Dick to
vanish?" he said. "I don't know, Harry. Your guess is as good as mine.
Probably it's some very simple circumstance which we're not bright
enough to see. But I confess I'm puzzled. I shall go down to the
village directly after breakfast, and see what I can discover there.
But I've no doubt everything's all right. McDonald and Dick must be
together, wherever they are."
Allen paused, with his hand on the knob of the door. "Shall I tell the
fellows, sir?" he asked.
Mr. Fenton deliberated. "I think not," he said at last. "We don't wish
a tempest in a teapot. You know what the newspapers are, these days.
No, I think you'd better say nothing, for the present. Perhaps Dick
will turn up at Hopevale, if he doesn't come back here before then.
No, I think, on the whole, I wouldn't alarm the boys," and Allen,
nodding, left the room.
At the selfsame hour that this conversation was taking place at the
school, Dick Randall sat moodily in a chair, in what had been the
harness-room of Jim Smith's big barn, now long disused, and falling to
decay. The gag had been taken from his mouth, but his arms and legs
were still bound. Opposite him sat his captor, the brawny thick-set
man whom Joe had seen in the woods on the previous night. He had
coaxed a fire into an unwilling start in the old, rusty stove, and was
laboring hard to produce a dish of coffee in an old tin dipper. A
couple of sandwiches lay on the floor beside him. Finally, with the
fire going to his satisfaction, he turned to Dick. "Well, now," he
observed, "I call this doing pretty well. Real nice and sociable like.
Two regular old pals, we're getting to be. You've promised not to
holler, which is sensible, because no one would hear you if you did,
so you've got your jaws free to eat; and if you'd only promise not to
try to get away, I'd untie them arms of yours, and you'd be as fine as
a fiddle. Come now, give me your word, and I'll cut that rope in a
minute. That shows what a trust I've got in you."
Dick made no answer. His face was drawn and anxious, there were dark
circles under his eyes; he was thinking desperately, as he had thought
all through the long summer night. Some means of escape he must
find--and yet--how was it possible? And then, even as he recklessly
considered the giving and breaking of his word, and the chance of a
struggle with his jailer, the man pulled his watch from his pocket,
and yawned.
"Ten minutes past eight," he said. "Just a little longer, and them
games will be going on, over at Hopevale. Too bad you can't see 'em; I
guess they'll be a fine sight. They tell me this Dave Ellis is a
likely man at all such things as that. I suppose most likely he'll
beat."
Dick did not deign a reply. In their long, solitary sojourn together,
he had become accustomed to his captor's ideas of humor. So that now,
he did not even permit his eyes to meet those of his tormentor, but
gazed steadily past him, toward the door of the carriage house. "Ten
minutes past eight," he reflected; "it is too late--nothing could help
me now."
And then, like lightning from a clear sky, came the climax to all this
startling series of events. For even as he looked, slowly and
cautiously he beheld the door of the harness-room slide back, and the
next instant there appeared in the doorway the figure of Duncan
McDonald, a revolver in his outstretched hand.
The look of amazement in Dick's eyes must have warned his jailer, for
he wheeled sharply, to find himself looking into the muzzle of
McDonald's pistol. Then came the quick command, "Hands up, lively,"
and as he reluctantly obeyed, McDonald called sharply, "All right,
Joe. Come on. Go through his pockets, now."
[Illustration: "Hands up, lively," McDonald called]
Dick started with surprise and pity, as the little French Canadian
limped forward into the room. His face was deathly pale, and streaked
and matted with blood. Yet he went resolutely at his task, and a
moment later drew out from the man's pocket a big revolver, and handed
it to McDonald. The latter smiled grimly. "Now cut Dick loose," he
directed, and Joe quickly obeyed. With a long sigh of relief, Randall
managed to struggle to his feet, walking haltingly around till the
thickened blood began once more to stir into life. McDonald motioned
to the door. "Hurry, Dick," he said, "Joe will show you. Down the
path. I've got a team. And food, and a set of my running things.
Hurry, now. I'll be with you in a minute. I'm going to keep a watch on
your friend here, till you give a yell to show you're ready to start."
Fifteen minutes later they had left the woods and were speeding down
the road toward Hopevale. Dick's face was transfigured. With every
turn of the wheels, he was coming back to himself. A chance was left
him after all.
"How did it all happen, Duncan?" he asked, and hurriedly and
disjointedly McDonald told him the tale.
"Joe saw something shining up in a tree, last night," he said;
"thought it was queer. Went to investigate. Man had been up there,
watching us with a field-glass. Joe stumbled on him, talking with
another fellow--this chap that had you tied up there in the barn. Joe
can't tell me the whole thing, but I gather they had something in for
you, about the Pentathlon. I guess they wanted Ellis to win. So Joe
heard 'em say they were going to get you, and carry you off to Smith's
old barn. He started home to put us wise, and as bad luck would have
it, he pitched down a gully, and cracked his head open. I went looking
for him about ten o'clock, and I was in the woods all night. Never
found him till five this morning. He'd come to, poor little rascal,
and was trying to crawl home, but he was so weak he could hardly stir.
But he got out his story, and you can bet I did some quick thinking.
"First, I was going up to town, to telephone the school, and see if
you were all right. And then I thought, if I did that, it might waste
too much time, and if things had gone wrong, I might be too late,
after all. So I went back to the house, got together my running things
and the grub you've just been eating, and then hustled off to my
nearest neighbor's, and did a little burglar act. This is his favorite
colt we're driving; I knew this fellow could eat up a dozen miles in
jig time, and so--I took him. The old man had gone up to town with a
load of garden truck. His wife tried to stop me taking the horse, but
I brandished my revolver at her, and she ran. I suppose she thought I
was crazy, And then Joe piloted me to the barn--I'd never have found
it by myself in a hundred years--so here we are." He pulled out his
watch. "Ten minutes of nine, and ten miles to go. We're all right on
time. But you must feel pretty stiff, Dick; I don't know whether you
can do yourself justice or not."
Dick stretched himself. "Oh, I'm limbering up a little," he answered,
"I think a good rub will help a lot. And I don't feel tired. The
excitement, I suppose. I guess I'll last through, all right. But oh,
I'm grateful to you and Joe, Duncan; thank Heaven, you came when you
did. If I'd missed the Pentathlon, I'd never have got over it in the
world."
McDonald smiled, the smile of a man looking back over his own boyhood.
"We get over a lot of things, Dick, in a lifetime," he answered, "but
I know just how you feel. I guess Joe did all he could to square up
with you for helping him, and I'm mighty glad we got there in time."