BORROWERS' LUCK
With something of an effort, Bunny wrenched his gaze from the back of
the disappointing automobile and turned to Specs.
"No, not everybody," he said, striving hard to be cheerful. "There's
the peddler, you know; he isn't busted any more--quite!"
"What peddler?" The farmer lifted an inquiring head.
Everybody squirmed uncomfortably. It was the code of the Black Eagle
Patrol not to talk about the good turns it did, because that sounded
like bragging. But the farmer was persistent. Bit by bit, with question
and guess and prompting, he pieced out the story: how the boys had
found the peddler on the road, with his second-hand wagon that had
come to grief; how he had confessed he had no money for the necessary
repairs; how the boys, because they were Scouts and it was their duty
to do a good turn when they could, had given him their last cent and
sped him on his way rejoicing. When the last scrap of confession had
been dragged from them, the farmer held out his hand to Bunny.
"So you are the patrol leader, are you, Payton? Well, I am glad to know
a boy like you. Jenkins is my name; Alfred Jenkins."
Gravely, Bunny introduced the other Scouts. "And this is young
Prissler," he concluded. "He is training to be a tenderfoot, and just
as soon as there is a vacancy in the patrol he will be taken in."
"So?" Mr. Jenkins nodded understandingly. He scratched at his beard. "I
reckon," he added, "you get a lot of satisfaction doing good turns like
that. By ginger, I'd like to have that feeling myself. If the old 'bus
would only run--"
"What's the matter with it?" demanded the practical Specs.
Mr. Jenkins spread his hands helplessly. "I wish I knew. But I'm no
mechanic. She's just dead; dead on her feet, you might say. Won't go.
Won't even start."
"Gas line clogged, maybe."
"Loose connections."
"Carburetor float stuck."
"Magneto points burned off."
The farmer's eyes kindled before this volley of suggestions. "Say," he
exclaimed, "do you boys know anything about a car?"
"A little," Bunny nodded. "Specs here is trying for a merit badge for
automobiling, and we all got sort of interested in his studying. You
have to know a good deal about a car to get that badge."
"Well, say!" Mr. Jenkins was as eager as a youngster. "Say, let's
trundle her out here and look her over. You might find out what's
wrong."
Because Specs had honestly devoted a great deal of his spare time to
his ambition of qualifying for a merit badge in automobiling, Bunny put
him in charge. It was no trick at all, of course, to release the brake
and roll the car out of the homemade garage. Once in the open, Specs
hopped into the front seat.
"No, that self-starter hasn't worked for a long time," Mr. Jenkins
confessed, as the Scout pressed a tentative foot against it and cocked
his ear expectantly for the hum of the motor. "Batteries dead, I
'spose. You'll have to crank her."
"All right, Bi!" called Specs; "you're the boy to wind her up."
Bi grimaced. He might need his good right arm for pitching that
afternoon. But at a nod from Bunny, he sprang readily enough to the
crank. Unless the car started, it looked like there wouldn't be any
baseball game to play.
Balancing the crank once or twice against the compression, he lifted it
suddenly and spun it with all his might. But no explosion signaled the
success of his effort. Bi straightened up to catch his breath and wipe
off the perspiration that was trickling down his face.
"Try her again," Specs ordered. "I'll work the spark when you get
going."
Bi bent to his task for the second time. Round and round whirled the
crank. But, as before, the motor refused to "catch."
"Prime her," suggested Bonfire.
Once more Bi cranked till he was ready to drop. In the meantime,
Bonfire began prowling about and muttering to himself: "Tank full. Gas
flows all right. Carburetor float not stuck. Must be the ignition."
He tested with a long-bladed screwdriver. "Yep; no spark. Sure
you've--Hello! Why, you muckle-headed McGrew, do you expect to get a
merit badge for trying to start a motor without throwing on the switch?"
"What!" Bi threw himself on the ground and kicked feebly. "Do you mean
to say I've been cranking my head off when you didn't even throw over
the switch? Help!"
Specs grinned sheepishly. "I thought you needed the exercise," he said.
"All right; she'll start now."
But she wouldn't. Bi cranked till he was red in the face, without the
reward of even one feeble puff from the exhaust. With a last spin of
the handle, for good measure, he stepped back disgustedly.
"If anybody else thinks he can twist her tail any better than that," he
announced, "let him step up and try. I'm through; postilutely through."
By this time, even Specs was ready to admit that the motor was
"busted." "It's the ignition," he explained. "As soon as we find out
why she doesn't get a spark, we can fix her in a jiffy."
But discovering the nub of the trouble proved no easy job. The spark
plugs were taken out; all connections were examined; each wire was
traced to coil and magneto; the magneto itself came in for critical
inspection. But no break or short circuit revealed itself. Already, the
first glowing enthusiasm of the boys was blowing cold and dead.
Bonfire snapped the switch backward and forward. "Feels loose," he
said. "Let me have that screwdriver, Specs." With deft hands, he
removed the face of the switch-box. "Here's the little nigger in the
woodpile, fellows!" he called exultingly. "See, those loose nuts allow
the contact plate to drop down. The circuit is not completed even when
you throw on the switch. No wonder she won't run!" He twirled the nuts
with his fingers and clamped them tight with a wrench. "Now try her."
"Not me!" jeered Bi. "I've cranked her from here to Belden already. Let
somebody else crank her home again." But even while he talked, he was
walking toward the front of the car. Roundy reached for the swinging
handle, only to be pushed aside by Bi. With scarcely an effort, the
strongest Scout in the patrol turned her over again--and the motor
sprang into life with a roar.
"Throttle her down!" Bi shouted to Specs. "Wake up there! Don't let
her race! If ever you win a merit badge for automobiling, I'll eat it
for breakfast. Isn't he rotten, Mr. Jenkins?"
The farmer smiled. "Oh, he'll pass, I reckon. Now, let me see. Five of
you on the back seat, two on the collapsible chairs--that's seven--and
two of you on the front seat here with me. Wait just a minute till I
get my coat and tell my wife I'm going, and we'll start."
"With any kind of luck at all," Bunny promised happily, looking at
his watch, "we should be at the Belden ball park a little after one
o'clock. It's 11:42 right now, and we have about thirty-seven miles to
cover."
Specs held up his hand. "I've got my fingers crossed," he said. "Don't
forget all the things that have happened to us so far to-day. Touch
wood when you say that, Bunny."
But luck seemed at last to be roosting with the Black Eagle Patrol.
Once out upon the main highway, the motor settled down to a contented
purr, with never a miss or hint of trouble, and the big car rolled
placidly toward Belden, piling the miles behind it quite as if it were
shod with seven-league boots instead of rubber tires. Mr. Jenkins
admitted that he was "no great shucks at driving", but he more than
made up for any lack of technical skill by his careful and common-sense
handling of wheel and accelerator. An hour before, Belden had seemed to
the Scouts some far spot on the rim of the world; now, as everybody
felt, it lay just over the hill.
There is no denying that the boys enjoyed the ride. More than once,
they had watched enviously as Royal Sheffield dashed into Lakeville
with his trim roadster; more than once, too, if the truth be known,
they had lingered hungrily as he backed it out of Grady's barn after
school and made ready for the homeward trip. But Sheffield lived in
Charlesboro, and his motoring was done largely in the roads about that
village. True, the Sefton automobile never had a vacant seat when any
boy could be found to fit it; but Mr. Sefton used the car for business,
and it was also frequently out of town. This was different, too; this
was a cross-country jaunt, over unfamiliar roads, mile upon mile, with
every turn and rise revealing new wonders.
"Like it?" asked Mr. Jenkins, without turning his head.
There was no adequate way of expressing their gratitude and pleasure,
but the farmer seemed well content with Specs' explosive, "You bet we
do!" It was curious about Mr. Jenkins. He owned the car, and he must
have ridden thousands of miles in it; yet he seemed to be getting just
as much fun out of this trip as any of his guests. "Haven't felt so
young in thirty years," he said once, with a chuckle, as he swung wide
to avoid a bump.
On and on sang the car: uphill, biting on second speed; across a
bit of tableland, feeling its oats on high; down a long incline,
pulsing with such eagerness that it had to be restrained; through wood
roads, bowered with cool, overhanging trees; into the bright sunshine
again; past farmhouses, with barking dogs and waving people; over
long stretches of concrete, that gave back never a jounce or jolt;
through sleepy little villages, waking and nodding a single welcome and
good-by in one; out into the country once more, between green fields
of sprouting corn and wheat; and on and on, motor humming drowsily
and rubber-tired wheels crisping their chorus. It was good just to be
outdoors on such a day in June.
They climbed a long, winding hill. At the top was a little cottage,
bordered by a trim lawn, which was splashed here and there with gay
flower plots. In the background loomed a barn, more than twice the size
of the house, with a silo at one side and a windmill just beyond. Mr.
Jenkins squinted meditatively from the spout of his radiator, steaming
a bit, to the windmill.
"Reckon we'd better stop for water," he announced.
A gray, bent wisp of a man answered his knock on the door and listened
gravely to his request for the loan of a pail. He seemed to be looking,
not at Mr. Jenkins, but through him, as if he were only vaguely aware
of the other's presence. But he said, "Oh, yes," and brought the pail.
It took only a minute to fill the radiator. Mr. Jenkins began to screw
on the cap, while the boys piled back into the car. Bunny picked up
the pail and carried it to the house. As he lifted his hand to knock on
the door, he heard something that made him hesitate.
Inside the house, a woman was crying softly, and a man's voice was
soothing, over and over, "Now, Ma! Now, Ma! Don't take on so! It can't
be helped! Now, Ma! Now, Ma!"
After a moment of indecision, Bunny rapped. The sobbing stopped.
Footsteps approached the door, and presently it was opened, a little
hesitatingly, by the man from whom Mr. Jenkins had borrowed the pail.
Bunny extended it to him, with a word of thanks. He had meant to turn
away at once, but something seemed to hold him.
"Is--is anything wrong there?" he asked, jerking his thumb toward the
darkened room within.
"It's just Ma," the little man told him. He spoke meekly, almost
apologetically, but his high-pitched voice carried clearly to the other
boys. "She's all broke up over not seein' John."
"John?" Bunny put a question in the word; then, when it brought no
reply, he added, at a hazard, "He's your son, sir?"
"Yes, John's our boy. He's a good boy, John is. But he's been away a
long time, and now--"
"Is he coming home?"
The man raised his hand as if to ward off a blow. "No," he said in a
wavering voice. "He's going away, mebbe for years; going away to China.
He's an engineer, John is; works for a big construction company in
New York City. This spring he wrote that he would come home to visit
Ma and me. So we tidied up all about for him." The little man waved an
expressive hand, and Bunny understood, all at once, why the grass was
so neatly cropped, and why the flowers studded the lawn, and why the
pathway to the door was made of clean, white pebbles. It had all been
done for their son. "But to-day we got a telegram--delayed, they said
over the 'phone. He can't come. He's ordered to China, right away, to
help build a new railroad. His boat leaves San Francisco on the sixth,
and he can't even stop on his way across the country. But he said--"
"Yes?" Bunny encouraged.
"He wired to meet his train at Middletown on the third--that's to-day.
It stops there twenty minutes. But the telegram just came, and we
haven't any way of getting there. That's why Ma is all broke up. She
won't see him for years more, mebbe."
"Oh!" said Bunny. A queer, numb feeling seemed to be gripping him. "How
far is Middletown?"
"Eighteen mile; nearer nineteen, mebbe."
"And Belden?" Perhaps Mr. Jenkins could come back.
"Nine mile and a half."
"When does that train get to Middletown?"
"Goin' on two o'clock, I think."
"Oh!" said Bunny again. He looked at his watch: 12:51. No, even if Mr.
Jenkins were willing, it would be out of the question for him to come
back to Laurel in time to take the old couple to Middletown. There was
just one way out of the difficulty.
The man's wistful eyes were staring again, looking straight through
him, just as they had been when he answered Mr. Jenkins' knock. Bunny
understood now what they were straining to see. It was another boy,
this little man's boy, bound for a foreign country. And inside the
house, striving bravely to stifle her sobs, was the mother.
Bunny made up his own mind quickly enough. He knew what he wanted to
do. But there were the other fellows to consider. They wouldn't agree
to his plan; no, not in a thousand years. They had a right to--
Behind him, he caught the murmur of a low question and answer. Then a
voice called, "Oh, Bunny!"
"Yes?" He turned to the car. Save for Mr. Jenkins, it was quite empty.
All the boys had climbed to the ground.
"Mr. Jenkins will take them to Middletown." It was Bi speaking. "He
says he will be glad to do it. Tell her to hurry."
Bunny's heart gave a glad leap. It wasn't wholly because of the
sacrifice they were all making, although that counted, of course, but
because of the way in which they had decided the matter, unanimously
and without a single objection. He wondered if anywhere else in the
world there were fellows like that!
"All right," he said, fighting hard to keep the catch out of his voice.
Then to the man in the doorway: "Mr. Jenkins will take you and your
wife to Middletown, sir, so you can see your boy. Oh, no, we'll be glad
to stretch our legs and walk a bit. That's nothing. Good-by, sir."
"Good-by," said the little man. His eyes were shining now. He held out
a trembling hand. "Good-by and God bless you!"
And with this benediction ringing in their ears, the nine boys waved to
Mr. Jenkins, who was fussing with something on the dash, and began the
hike down the long hill toward the wooded valley at the bottom.