UP THE MOUNTAIN
Altogether, that was a hectic day. Barry didn’t accompany the others
to Watkins and Boyle’s after dinner, for Major Loring made a change
in his plans and called the candidates together in the gymnasium at
one-thirty. But he got a graphic account of the affair from Peaches.
Mr. Benjy, declared Peaches, was superb. Reminded by Davy of the
circumstances, Mr. Watkins recalled asking for the bond and being
summoned to the telephone a moment later. He did not remember placing
the bond in the drawer, but was convinced that he had done so.
Complete exoneration for Davy had ensued, and both Mr. Watkins and
Mr. Boyle had been profuse in their apologies. They had offered
reinstatement to Davy at a larger salary than he had received before,
and had almost begged Mr. Benjy to return. Both invitations had,
however, been refused. Mr. Benjy had been dignity personified,
displaying a quite unbelievable hauteur all through the interview and,
at the last, leaving the office with his arm through Davy’s and his
head in the air, like a conqueror; which, when you came to think of it,
he was!
Davy, said Peaches, had decided to return to Springfield, while Mr.
Benjy, relieved of the necessity for making further reimbursements
to Watkins and Boyle, and with a comfortable check in his pocket,
representing what he had previously paid to them, was content to remain
at the freight-office. The whole occasion, Peaches remarked, had been
eminently satisfactory until the return. Then he had been obliged to
enlighten a perplexed and much dissatisfied Toby, a Toby still of the
opinion that, in some underhand fashion, he had been “crooked”――the
word was his――out of at least a third interest in that bond!
“Well,” said Barry, thoughtfully, “it’s mighty funny how things happen.
If Clyde hadn’t decided to room with Hal Stearns, I wouldn’t have gone
to Mrs. Lyle’s; and if I hadn’t gone there, I wouldn’t have had to buy
a desk; and if I hadn’t bought that desk――”
“The bond wouldn’t have been found until the lot of us were wearing
chin whiskers,” interrupted Peaches, “if then! Because no one but you,
Barry, would ever have bought that funny old thing!”
“Funny old thing!” exclaimed Barry. “Huh! I guess you wish you
could find some funny old things just like it! Let me tell you, Mr.
Jones, it isn’t every one can go into an antique store and pick up
thousand-dollar bonds!”
At half-past one o’clock there was a session of blackboard drill in
the gymnasium. At a little after two the players went out to the field
to find the home stand crowded with a cheering mass of schoolmates and
friends from the village. For half an hour there was light practice,
during which Barry got off some very satisfactory punts and Pete Zosker
kicked goals from every conceivable angle and possible distance. All
the time the audience sang and cheered and excitement was in the chill
November air. At three the first squad trotted back to the gymnasium,
pursued by thunderous “Broadmoors!” leaving a handful of substitutes to
amuse the spectators a while longer. At twenty minutes to four came the
send-off at the station.
Those who were to make the trip to “Overlook” had been conveyed in the
bus to the station, their bags between their knees, while the rest of
the school had marched thither, still singing, still cheering. At the
last the little branch-line train of a baggage-car and two ancient
coaches was surrounded by a horde of shouting partizans, and not until
the wheels were actually revolving did confusion give way to order.
Then cheers began again, Billy Bassett, standing atop a baggage-truck,
leading. Long after the train had pulled out of sight of the station
Barry could still hear the hoarse refrain of “Team! _Team!_ TEAM!”
“Overlook,” or, as it was more usually called, “The Cabin,” belonged to
a council of Boy Scouts in a near-by city and was each year loaned to
Broadmoor for the use of the team on the night preceding the Hoskins
contest. Major Loring had inaugurated the plan of taking the players
away on the eve of the big game, his theory being that the change of
scene benefited his charges both physically and mentally. The cabin
stood just short of the summit of Mount Sippick, at the end of a trail
which started at the little village of Alden, about eight miles from
Wessex, not as the crow flies but as the ever ascending, ever winding
single-track railroad went. From Alden there was an uphill hike of well
over a mile.
The party consisted of twenty players and eight noncombatants. The
latter included the Major and two assistant coaches, two managers, the
trainer, and two helpers. Travel was never heavy on the line and the
Broadmoor party had the two coaches almost to themselves. Barry, rather
excited by the adventure, shared a seat with Larry Smythe, regular left
end. Larry was a quiet chap and, while there was plenty of noise from
other parts of the coach, conversation in the end seat was scanty.
Barry was well enough pleased to be silent. There was much to think
about. Clyde had seemed to expect Barry to sit with him a few seats
back, and Barry still puzzled over the look of surprise on the other’s
face when he had gone past. Barry was especially thankful that Larry
Smythe didn’t insist on talking football. Larry’s only approach to that
subject was in the form of an indifferent reference to the absence of
Waterman.
“He was on the list yesterday. Must have missed the train.”
Barry agreed and the matter was dropped. His feet propped on his
suit-case, he watched the hillclad slope as the train panted around
the curves. He found himself wishing that Peaches were there. Behind
him there was a good deal of noise and horseplay, encouraged rather
than frowned on by the coaches. At Sanborn Mills, the first halt, half
the party flocked outside and indulged in all the pranks they could
think of. There wasn’t much to be seen there: a few houses climbing a
straggling road, a store, the station, and the old brown buildings of
the mills leaning over the bank of the splashing stream across from the
railroad.
The train went on, following the East Fork, hardly more than a
trout-brook now, and jerking and grinding around a shoulder of the
mountain. When the shrill whistle announced their approach to the next
station, Barry arose.
“Guess I’ll get a breath of air,” he said. Larry Smythe yawned and
nodded, but didn’t accompany the other. As the train slowed, another
rush down the aisle began, and Barry was jostled through the door.
Clyde, one of the laughing crowd, hailed him.
“Come on, Barry!” he cried. “Take a look around the city!”
But Barry shook his head soberly and kept his place on the car
platform. Mount Sippick was even less of a metropolis than Sanborn
Mills. A narrow dirt road climbed upward, hugging the mountain, and
along it were four buildings, the nearer combining the purposes of
dwelling, store, and post-office. There was no baggage-truck here for
the amusement of the invaders, but they managed to create plenty
of noise and a good deal of interest on the part of the half-dozen
inhabitants gathered for the daily event. Some of the fellows wandered
as far as the little bridge which hung well above the boisterous
stream, and when without warning the train started on, they had to
sprint hard to reach it. Most of them climbed aboard the rear platform,
but Clyde, finding so many ahead of him there and fearing that by the
time he got a chance to clamber up it would be too late, raced on to
the platform ahead. As the track was nearly level for a short distance
beyond the station, the train acquired speed quickly and there was
a moment or two when Clyde doubted the issue. The station loiterers
jeeringly cheered him on, and after running the length of the platform,
he reached the intersection of two coaches and made a desperate leap.
Only his right hand reached its goal. This attained a firm grasp on the
railing nearest the rear car. His left hand clutched emptily, missing
the forward rail. As he had left the station platform before he sprang
for the steps, he had not been able to reach the latter with his feet.
The most he could attempt was to lodge his knees on the bottom step,
and at that he was only half successful. His right knee did get there,
but only by a bare inch, while his left leg hung in space. Then the
forward impetus of the train swung him around, his right knee slipped
off the step and, supported only by his right hand, he hung there,
scared, breathless while the train sped on, preparing for its start up
the next grade.
Try as he might, he could not reach the railing with his left hand, nor
could he find the step with his right foot. All he could do was hold
agonizingly with that one hand. Beside him the rocky bank of the cut
rushed past, at times dangerously close. To let go would mean certain
injury, if not death; indeed, it seemed hardly possible that, dropping,
he would not be hurled beneath the wheels. He cried out frantically,
but the noise of the train, doubled as it was thrown back by the rocky
wall, almost drowned his voice. It seemed to Clyde that he had dangled
there many minutes, although in reality his plight had lasted but a few
seconds, when absolute terror came to him with the knowledge that his
grasp on the rail was slipping. One trailing foot struck the end of a
tie and he drew his legs up and put his remaining breath in a shrill,
agonized shout.
Barry had remained on the car platform until the train was well under
way, ignorant of the narrow escape from being left behind that had
threatened the handful of adventurous youths who had gone back to the
bridge, an escape that had moved the remaining occupants of the car to
laughter. Slamming the door behind him, he stepped back to his seat
beside Smythe and settled his feet again on his suit-case.
As he did so a sound came to him above the rattle and jar of the train,
a sound that startled him until he laid it to the screeching of the
wheel flanges against the curving rails. It came again as, discovering
that his backward thrust at the door had failed to close it, he
once more arose and approached the platform. As he stood there, the
door-knob in his hand, the strange sound fell once more on his ears and
seemed to turn his heart over. Instinctively he sprang outside, drawing
the door shut behind him, and stared about. The platforms and steps of
the swaying cars were empty. Still shaken, he turned to reënter the
coach and saw a straining hand clasped about a railing.