Barbour Ralph Henry
The Crimson Sweater

As always there were favorites, and this year Chub, Roy and a Middle Class boy named Townsend were considered to have the best chances. Roy himself was doubtful of his prowess, for, while he could sprint and even do a quarter of a mile in good time, he had never tried long-distance running. But Chub gave him a lot of good advice, assured him that he stood a good chance to win and ended up with: "Anyhow, it's the best training in the world and will do you a whole lot of good even if you don't get the cup." So for a week preceding the day of the contest the countryside was sprinkled with boys panting up the hills, loping through the woods and trotting doggedly along the frosty road. And at two o'clock on Thanksgiving Day afternoon thirty-four boys awaited the word in front of the gymnasium.

CHAPTER X
THE CROSS-COUNTRY RACE

There were boys of all ages between twelve and eighteen in the group which awaited the word from Horace Burlen. And there were all kinds and descriptions of costumes. It was a frosty nippy day, cloudy and with occasional gusts of wind, but nevertheless several of the runners wore cotton running trunks and short stockings, and the expanse of bare leg between hose and trunk required lots of rubbing and slapping to keep the blood in circulation. Others were warmly attired in knickerbockers and sweaters. Roy had taken Chub's advice in the matter of apparel, and wore short trousers, woolen stockings, his crimson sweater and a pair of spiked running shoes. Chub was similarly dressed, as was Jack Rogers and a number of others. The Juniors had evolved a wonderful plan whereby certain of their runners were to save themselves until the final turn toward home and were then to pitch in and beat everything in sight, and they were gathered in a group plotting excitedly in whispers. Sid Welch was asking every fellow who would pay attention to him whether he thought he could last through the race. Sid had worn off eight pounds during the football season, but had already begun, greatly to his despair, to put them back again. Chub told him that if he'd run the last part of the race backwards he might finish – some day. And Jack assured him that they would see that dinner was kept warm for him.

"I'm going to keep with you fellows," said Sid, "if you don't mind." And he glanced devotedly toward Roy.

"You honor us," answered Chub with a low bow. "Just keep right alongside Roy and if he tries to run away from you make him take your hand. What do you weigh now, Sid?"

"Find out," answered Sid impolitely.

Whereupon Chub tried to catch him and Sid led him a wild chase through the crowd, finally seeking protection behind Roy. Roy, however, refused to be drawn into the affair and Sid was duly made to apologize for his cheek. By that time Horace was giving instructions again.

"The course is the same as last year," he announced. "At Carroll you must give your names to Mr. Cobb, who will be on the porch of the Windsor House and at Findlayburg you must give them to Mr. Buckman at the corner store. The finish will be at the gate here. No fellow whose name doesn't show on both Mr. Cobb's and Mr. Buckman's list will stand any show, so you want to be sure you get checked. All ready now, fellows. Get back of the gravel there, Townsend and Young. Are you ready? Go!"

The throng moved forward at a trot, pushed and scrambled through the gate and went across the field. At the farther side was the first obstacle, a high rail fence, and Sid had his first mishap there at the outset. He reached the top of the fence beautifully and then deliberately fell over on the other side into a mass of brush and wayside weeds. Chub paused to pull him out and put him on his feet again and Roy waited for them. As a consequence, when they had crossed the road, surmounted a stone wall and had begun to breast the long slope of meadow on the other side the three were well toward the rear of the crowd. By the time the hill-top was reached the field of runners was well spread out and not a few of the younger boys were already losing interest in the affair. Jack Rogers was well toward the front now and Chub suggested to Roy that they close up with him. So there was a little sprint along the ridge of the hill and they soon found themselves alongside Jack and with barely a half-dozen runners ahead of them. But the sprint had played havoc with Sid's wind and he was puffing like a young porpoise.

"Slow work so far," called Jack.

"Why don't you set the pace awhile?" asked Chub.

"I'll take it through the woods," Jack answered, "if you'll take it from there to the village."

"All right. Say, Sid, you'd better drop our acquaintance now. You've done beautifully and I wouldn't be surprised if you came in pretty near first – counting backward. But you don't want to overdo it at the start, you know."

Sid shot a doubting and suspicious glance at him, shook his head and puffed on.

Now that he had got his second wind, Roy found it exhilarating, this trotting up and down the slopes in the cold November afternoon. There was a fine glow in his face, the gusts of cold wind that met him now and then felt good as they ruffled his hair and the half-frozen turf offered firm hold to his spikes. He would have liked to speed ahead and try conclusions with the Middle Class boy who was in the lead, for he was not in the least tired and felt now as though he could run for weeks. But they had covered only a scant mile and three-quarters, according to Chub, and that meant plenty of hard work ahead. Down a hillside sprinkled with rocks and low bushes they went, forded a sandy stream, scrambled over a tumble-down wall and entered the woods. Here Jack, with a sprint, took the lead and made fast going. For the first hundred yards it was difficult work, but after that they found themselves on a grass-grown road which wound and twisted about over stumps and fallen logs. Many a youth took a cropper hereabouts, and among them was Sid. When Roy saw him last he was sitting on a rotted tree which had proved his Waterloo sadly watching the procession go by. And a procession it was by this time, for the runners were strung out in single file for a quarter of a mile.

Roy and Chub were running fourth and fifth as they left the woods and found themselves on the edge of a wheat field with the church tower of Carroll a half a mile away. Jack dropped back and Chub took his place at the head of the line. It seemed to Roy that Chub let up on the pace a little, but it may have been only that it was easier going here along the edge of the field. At all events, Roy was glad of it, for the work was beginning to tell on him. And he was still gladder when Chub, at the corner of the field, leaped the wall and went trotting down a lane and from there into a country road. In another minute or two they were jogging along the village street and Roy could see Mr. Cobb, paper and pencil in hand, on the steps of the old brown hotel near at hand. Quite a little group had formed about him and the runners swept along to a chorus of criticisms, laughter and applause. As they passed Mr. Cobb, they cried their names and were answered;

"Eaton!"

"Eaton!" And the instructor checked the name on the list he held.

"Pryor!"

"Pryor!"

"Townsend!"

"Townsend!"

"Rogers!"

"Rogers!"

"Porter!"

"Porter!"

"How are we making it?" sang out Jack as he passed.

"A minute and a fraction behind the record!" was the reply.

"Hit it up, Chub!" shouted Jack.

"Go to the dickens!" answered Chub. "Who wants the lead?"

"I'll take it," Pryor replied.

"All right." And Chub dropped back to Roy.

"Minute and a fraction – be hanged!" he gasped. "I'll bet – we're right on – time! How you coming?"

"Getting tuckered," answered Roy. "How much farther?"

"Not quite – three miles. Ouch! Stepped on – fool stone!"

"Better save your wind, you two," advised Jack.

"Wish I had some to save," thought Roy.

Then there occurred the first division in the ranks. Pryor left the road and scrambled over into a field. Jack, Chub and Roy followed, but Townsend kept to the road and others as they came up followed him.

"What's the matter – with the road?" asked Roy.

"Longer," Chub answered briefly.

They jogged up a steep hill, turning to the right at the top and then went down at a brisker pace, Roy wishing his sweater wasn't quite so heavy. All the spring had gone from his feet now and the exhilaration was forgotten. It was just hard work. The downward slope lasted for quite a way and Roy judged that Pryor was letting himself out in the hope of reaching the road again before the others who had kept to it arrived. There was a bad bit of brush to struggle through, and then came the wall and the road. As they climbed over they looked backward, but only a farmer's wagon was in sight.

"Beat 'em!" gasped Chub.

On the road they slowed down considerably and Roy gave silent thanks. He knew now that he would never be able to keep up with Chub and the others, but he was determined to stick it out as long as he could. Presently a little group of buildings came into sight ahead; a store, a blacksmith shop, a tumble-down shed and three houses. Mr. Buckman was awaiting them in front of the store, supported by the storekeeper and a handful of loungers.

"Are we ahead?" shouted Pryor as they came up. "Yes, and ahead of the record," was the answer. "All right, Pryor. All right, Rogers, Eaton and Porter."

Then they were past, trotting along a frosty, rutted country road.

"Anyone want the lead?" grunted Pryor.

"How about you, Roy?" asked Jack.

But Roy shook his head dumbly and Chub moved up to the head of the group. The wind had increased and was blowing icily out of the north-east, but it was almost behind them and so helped them along. Pryor nodded towards a dead beech tree beside the road. Jack nodded back.

"Two miles more," he said.

"Road or hill?" asked Chub, looking around a moment.

"Don't care," answered Pryor.

"Hill," said Jack.

At a turn of the road Chub left it to the right and the others followed.

"Is this – shorter?" asked Roy.

"About – even thing, I think," answered Pryor.

"A whole minute shorter," said Jack.

Roy sighed for the road as he dragged his feet up a little hill and saw before him a rough bit of country in which rocks and stunted bushes sprang everywhere. For the next quarter of a mile they were always either going up hill or going down; level ground was not on the map thereabouts. Jack took the lead again presently and Chub fell back to where Roy was heroically striving to keep his place. At last Roy stumbled over a root, went head over heels into a clump of bushes, and sat up with the last bit of breath knocked out of him. Chub had stopped, grinning. Roy shook his head and waved his hand for the other to go on.

"Hurt?" asked Chub anxiously.

Roy shook his head, found a little breath and gasped:

"I'm – all right. Go ahead. I'll – follow – presently."

Chub glanced hesitatingly from Roy to the others. Then he nodded and went on. At a little distance he turned, waved a hand to the right and shouted something about the road. Roy nodded indifferently and then fell back onto the turf and didn't care a rap what happened. It was blissful just to lie there, stretch his aching legs and get his breath back. Anyone who wanted that dinkey pewter mug could have it, as far as he cared. Only – well, he did wish he could have finished! Then it occurred to him that he could, that if he went on he might even finish well up on the list. He judged that five minutes had passed since the others had left him. He already felt better and had regained his wind remarkably. Well, he'd just go on and have a try; maybe he could help win the mug for the Second Seniors. So he climbed to his feet and set off in the direction taken by Chub.

But a minute or so later he concluded that he had lost the way, for now the wind instead of being behind him was coming against his left cheek. Of course the wind might have swung around, but it was much more probable that he had unconsciously borne to the left. The best thing to do, he thought, was to get back to the road, which was somewhere in the direction he was going. So he pushed on, his trot becoming a walk as the bushes grew thicker and thicker about him. Ten minutes, fifteen minutes passed and he had found no road. Up and down little hills he went, across open stretches and through tangles of leafless bushes. He kept the wind against his left cheek and went on. It was getting toward twilight and was still cloudy and cold. His legs began to feel stiff and his feet would drag in spite of him. A half an hour must have passed – he had left his watch at school and so could only guess – and he was still travelling over wind-swept upland. He began to feel a bit uncomfortable; the prospect of spending the night up there wasn't enticing. Observing a little bush-crowned hill that looked higher than any he had yet found, he made his way to it. From the top he could perhaps see the road, or, failing that, discover where the river lay.

So he climbed up the rise, his feet slipping over loose gravel. At the top he paused and looked about him. There was no road to be seen, but behind him were a few twinkling lights, perhaps a mile away, and – yes, surely, that was the river over there, that ribbon of steely-gray! He would get to the river, he decided, at its nearest point and then follow along the bank until he found the school, if he did not stumble across a road or a house or something before that. So he got the direction firmly fixed in his mind, broke through the bushes in front of him, gave a cry of terror, grasped ineffectually at the branches and went plunging, crashing downward to lie in a silent, motionless heap thirty feet below.

CHAPTER XI
HARRY FINDS A CLUE

When Chub left Roy lying gasping for breath in the bushes and took up the race again he was a good hundred yards behind Jack and Pryor, who were just dropping from sight beyond the brow of one of the little hills.

"Keep over that way – get back to the road," he turned and shouted. He saw Roy nod wearily. Then he set out in earnest to make up lost ground. That was the hardest bit of the whole run for Chub and it took him the better part of a mile to make up that hundred yards. Jack and Pryor did their level best to maintain their advantage. But when they were back on the road once more Chub was running even with them. Pryor tried to slip aside and make him take the lead and set the pace, but Chub was too wary. It could scarcely be called running now, for with less than a mile to go it became a question with each one of them whether they could stay on their feet long enough to finish and their pace was a slow jog that was little like the springy gait with which they had started out.

There was no breath wasted now in talk. They cast quick looks at each other, searching for signs of weakness and discouragement. It was every man for himself, Pryor struggling along with drooping head for the glory of the Middle Class, Jack resolved to win the honor for the First Seniors, and Chub equally determined to gain it for the Second Seniors. A quarter of a mile from the school, just as they turned into the Silver Cove road, Pryor's time came. He faltered once, stumbled, and Chub turning aside to avoid him, slowed down to a walk, his breath coming in agonized gasps. Chub and Jack went on without a turn of the head, side by side, their eyes glued doggedly on the red-tiled tower of the gymnasium visible now above the tree-tops a few hundred yards away. Then the road turned a bit and a group of waiting boys marked the corner of the school grounds.

Chub looked at Jack and the latter shook his head with a wry twisted smile. But when Chub threw his head back and strove to draw away from him Jack responded gallantly and refused to own himself beaten. So they had it nip and tuck down to the corner, pounding the hard road like cart horses and yet making but slow work of it, while the audience shouted them on, scattering away from the rail fence that they might have plenty of room. And they needed it. Twice Chub strove to throw his leg across the topmost bar and twice he failed. Jack, with set teeth, got over on the second attempt, and when Chub came tumbling after him he had a good six yards of lead. Ahead, at the gate across the field, stood Doctor and Mrs Emery and Harry.

"Hurry! Hurry!" cried the latter, dancing excitedly about. "Oh, it's Jack Rogers and Chub Eaton! Hurry, Jack! Hurry, Chub! Oh, can't you run faster?"

"Which do you want to win, my dear?" asked her mother smilingly. Harry answered breathlessly without turning.

"Oh, I don't know! Both!"

Meanwhile across the gridiron Chub and Jack, accompanied by applauding friends and partisans, were fighting it out gamely. Chub had almost made up the distance between him and Jack when the track was reached. Across the cinders they staggered, the gate and finish but a few yards away. Then fortune, thus far quite impartial, turned her face to Chub. Jack stumbled on the wooden rim of the track and, while he saved himself from falling, gave Chub his chance, and in another second the latter youth was through the gate and lying with tossing arms on the lawn. Jack finished a scant yard behind him and keeled over in his turn.

Horace Burlen set down the times on the list he held and others sprang to the aid of the exhausted runners. Then all eyes turned again toward the corner of the field, for someone was struggling over the fence there. Down he jumped and came trotting across, apparently much fresher than Chub and Jack. It was Townsend, of the Middle Class. When he was half way across the field a fourth runner appeared, made several attempts to surmount the bars, leaned against them a moment, and found his breath and then came over.

"It's Pryor," said Horace. "That's two for the Middlers, and one each for the First and Second Seniors."

"What was Chub Eaton's time?" asked Forrest as Townsend finished.

"Four and three-eighths minutes better than the record made four years ago by Gooch," answered Horace.

"Well, I'm glad Roy Porter didn't win," said Harry vindictively. Chub rolled over on his elbows.

"He went down and out – two miles back," said Chub. He looked across at Jack, who was sitting up and breathing like a steam-engine. "Sorry I beat you, Jack. I wouldn't have if you hadn't stumbled."

Jack nodded with a smile.

"Glad you won, old man," he said. "It was a tough old run, and you can bet I'm glad it's over. Phew! but I'm tuckered."

"Same here. That last mile was the dickens. There's someone else coming – two, three of them! One of 'em's fallen off the fence. Gee! I thought I'd never get over that thing!" He got up, followed by Jack, and passed through the gate. "Hello, Townsend! How was the road?"

"Rutty as anything and mighty hard running. I got a stitch in my side about a mile back and had to let up for a while. Passed Pryor moseying along down near the corner. Who's that coming?"

"Porter, by Jove!" cried Chub.

"Porter nothing!" said Horace. "That's Warren. And the next two are Glidden and Chase. That makes First and Second Seniors and Middlers tied for first so far. Chase is a Junior, isn't he?"

"Yes," answered Townsend.

Chase, a youngster of thirteen, made a plucky race across the field and beat Glidden of the Second Senior Class by three yards. Then for a while no more finished. Chub and Jack and the others disappeared into the gymnasium, and Doctor and Mrs. Emery returned to the Cottage. Harry, however, still remained. It was getting dim now, and when, after five or six minutes had passed, more runners reached the fence it was impossible to identify them. But when they drew near a shout went up. Two of them were First Seniors, one was a Middler and one a Junior. The First Seniors needed but one more runner now to give them the cup. And a few minutes later he came in the person of Bacon and received the biggest sort of a welcome. From then on until almost dinner time the others straggled in to find the finish deserted and to crawl weariedly up the gymnasium steps. Harry had taken her departure when Bacon had finished, returning to the Cottage through the gathering twilight, looking, unless her face belied her, rather disappointed, and telling herself over and over that she was awfully glad Roy Porter hadn't won.

Dinner that evening was a jolly meal. Every fellow was frantically hungry for his turkey and sweet potatoes and mince pie and the appropriate "trimmings." The First Seniors drank their sweet cider out of the mug they had captured, passing it from one to another like a loving cup. Perhaps there was no one there who had a bigger appetite or more to tell in the way of adventures than Sidney Welch, and he talked a steady streak until Chub told him he'd choke himself.

It was not until dinner was well-nigh over that Roy's absence was noted by any save Chub. But when, at half-past nine, he had not returned, the matter was reported to Doctor Emery and the telephone became busy. But neither Carroll nor Silver Cove knew anything of the missing boy. The Principal waited until eleven o'clock, and then a searching party was made up. Mr. Cobb and Mr. Buckman took charge and with four of the older boys and Chub, who was taken along to show where Roy had last been seen, left the Cottage at a little after eleven. They carried two lanterns and Jack Rogers had slipped a revolver into his pocket which, he said, could be heard where a shout couldn't. But he said nothing to the instructors about it, since firearms were forbidden and Jack feared confiscation. Mr. Emery saw them off from the Cottage porch and instructed Mr. Cobb to telephone him from Carroll or Silver Cove if he had a chance. It was as dark as pitch as they made their way across the field and found the road, and the wavering light from a couple of lanterns seemed only to accentuate the gloom. Once away from the school they began to call at intervals but got no response. Chub and Jack had some difficulty in finding the place where they had returned to the road from the uplands, but at last they discovered it and the party took off up the hill. It was soon after that that Mr. Buckman stopped and asked:

"How many are there in this party, anyhow?"

"Should be seven of us," answered Mr. Cobb. "Why?"

"Because, unless I'm much mistaken, I counted eight a minute ago. Who's that over there, the last one?"

"Warren, sir."

"No, I don't mean you. Who's next to you?"

There was a moment's silence. Then,

"Blest if I know, sir," answered Warren in puzzled tones.

"It's me," said an apologetic voice.

"Who's me?" asked Mr. Cobb moving toward the speaker.

"Harry," was the answer.

"Harry! Harry Emery?" exclaimed Mr. Cobb, forgetting his politeness.

"Yes, I – I thought I'd come along."

"Well, if that isn't the greatest! Did the Doctor say you could come?"

"I – I didn't ask him," answered Harry. "Please don't send me back, Mr. Cobb. I won't be in the way a bit and I can walk miles!"

"Send you back! Why, I can't send you back now – that is – not alone. I suppose you'll have to come, but supposing your mother finds you're missing?"

"Oh, she won't," answered Harry cheerfully. "She thinks I'm in bed and asleep. And I was – that is, I was in bed."

"Well, come along then, but see that you stick close to us," grumbled Mr. Cobb. "We don't want to loose any more persons to-night!"

So Harry trudged along at the tail of the party, keeping close to Jack Rogers and Chub and starting nervously when she heard strange noises in the bushes along the way.

It was slow going and when they were well up on the hills the night wind stung hands and faces. It was well upon midnight when Chub announced that they should have reached the place where he had left Roy. But a locality looks very different at night by the light of a wavering lantern than it does in the daytime, and when they had cast about for a while, calling and shouting, Chub was forced to acknowledge that he wasn't certain of the place.

"It ought to be about here," he said anxiously, "but somehow this doesn't look like it. It doesn't seem to me it was quite so hilly; and there weren't any trees about that I remember."

After a quarter of an hour more of unsuccessful search Mr. Cobb and Mr. Buckman held a consultation and decided that the best thing to do, unless they wanted to get lost themselves, was to stay where they were and wait for dawn. So they found a sheltered spot in the lee of a big rock and made themselves as comfortable as they could. Warren suggested a fire and a half-hour was spent in finding fuel within the radius of lantern-light. Finally, however, the flames were leaping and the sparks flying and the party regained some of their ebbing spirits.

"If he sees the light he will look it up," said Mr. Buckman. "That was a good idea of yours, Warren."

"What I'm afraid of," said Mr. Cobb, "is that he has met with an accident of some sort. Seems to me that if he had the use of his limbs he would have reached the school before this, or at least have communicated with us. Well, we'll have to make the best of things until the light comes. Better take a nap, fellows, if you can."

But they were in no mood for napping. The leaping flames lent their tinge of romance to a situation already sufficiently out of the common to be exciting and the boys wanted to live every moment of it. The uncertainty as to Roy's fate added a qualm of uneasiness, but when once Warren had got well into his story of the Wyoming outlaws who lived in a cave and robbed trains and stage coaches, even Chub forgot the purpose of the expedition for whole minutes at a time. I think Harry unconsciously dozed several times, although she always denied it indignantly. Now and then one of the party would mend the fire and then crawl back to the protection of the ledge and the waving bushes. Mr. Cobb followed Warren with some stories of Cornwall wreckers which he had read, and after that every member of the party save Harry, who happened to be very quiet about that time, contributed some tale of dark deeds. Presently Jack made the discovery that it was possible to see the branches of the wind-whipped bushes behind them. Chub climbed to the summit of the ledge and announced that there was light away down on the horizon toward the east. Then followed an hour of waiting during which the world gradually turned from black to gray. The fire died out for lack of fuel and the boys snuggled into the collars of their sweaters, for it seemed to grow more chill each moment. Then, when objects a few yards away could be distinguished, Mr. Cobb suggested that they "break camp." So they spread out in a line and took up the search again, calling as they went. The light grew quickly and in the east the sky took on a tinge of rose. Mr. Cobb stopped once and picked something from the ground.

"Must be slate quarries about here," he said. "There's a lot of broken pieces here and loose gravel. Yes, here's a hole," he went on, walking forward, "but they only went down a few feet. I wonder if there are more of them?"

Suddenly there was a cry from the other end of the line.

"Mr. Cobb, come see what I've found!"

It was Harry's voice and Mr. Cobb made his way to her where she stood at the edge of a thicket of leafless brambles.

"What is it, Harry?" he asked.

For answer she held up a tiny bit of crimson yarn.

"What do you make of this?" asked the instructor, looking at it in a puzzled way.

"I think it came from his sweater!" declared Harry triumphantly. "It was on that branch there."

"Good for you, Harry!" cried Chub, who had joined them ahead of the others. "Roy had his red sweater on and it's money to muffins that thread was pulled out as he went by."

"He didn't go by, though," said Harry. "He went through. Don't you see how the bushes are trampled down? Come on!"