Barbour Ralph Henry
The Lucky Seventh

CHAPTER VII
THE BLUE RUNABOUT

But although Jack Tappen drove out a two-bagger over shortstop’s head and Pete Robey got safely to first on an error by the third baseman, the next three players went out in order, Lanny on a foul that was pulled down by third baseman, Fudge on strikes and Tom Haley on a weak effort to second baseman.

Encouraged by the valiant cheers of its supporters, the Point went to work in its half of the seventh in a very business-like way. Townsend beat out a bunt in front of base, Morris Brent hit safely into short left field, advancing Townsend, and Gil Chase sent a hot one through the pitcher’s box which Tom couldn’t handle. With the bases full, things looked bad for Clearfield. Tom knocked down House’s drive, however, held Townsend at third, and worked the first out. Then Leary, after spoiling three good ones, fouled out to Lanny, and Clearfield breathed easier. But Pink Northrop, although a tail-ender on the batting list, came through with a hit that brought shrieks of delight from the Point sympathizers and sent two runs across. Billy Houghton trickled a slow bunt toward first and the man on third tried for the plate. But Gordon, running in fast, got the ball to Lanny ahead of the runner and the side was out.

“You’re up, Harry,” announced Dick. “There’s a fine opening for a bright young man between third and short. See what you can do.”

“I’ll try it, but I’m batting pretty punk,” replied Harry doubtfully. “What’s the matter with a bunt, Dick?”

“Nothing doing, Harry. Hit it out. Get to first and try a hit-and-run with Will.”

But Harry’s effort was a weak grounder that bounded nicely into shortstop’s hands and there was one out. Gordon, behind first, looked worried as Will faced the pitcher. But, “Pick out a good one, Will,” he called cheerfully. “He hasn’t much on it.”

Will, profiting by the advice, sought to select one to his liking and Porter very soon found himself in a hole. The umpire didn’t like Porter’s offerings any better than Will and after six deliveries Will walked to first.

“That’s the stuff!” cried Jack Tappen, relieving Gordon on the coaching line. “He’s all in! Whale it out, Gordon! Here we go, fellows!”

Gordon swung viciously at the first ball across and the third baseman stepped cautiously back. Then came a wide one that Gordon disdained. The next was likewise a ball by a narrow margin. At first Will was dancing back and forth and Jack was coaching at the top of his lungs, while from behind third Lanny was offering his budget of advice and comment. Porter wound up again, Will started for second and Gordon swung his bat. There was a crack as ball and bat met, and Will, nearing second, saw Lanny’s entreating gestures and never paused in his stride.

Out in center field the ball was bounding along the turf and Gordon was already rounding first. Luck helped Clearfield then, for just as center fielder slackened his pace to get the ball the latter struck against a tuft of the coarse grass in front of him and bounded erratically aside. At third Lanny waved Will on to the plate. Gordon, pausing a few yards past first, took up his running again while the center fielder turned and raced back for the rolling ball. When he reached it Gordon was sliding to second in a cloud of dust and Will was halfway to the plate. The fielder, Jim House, made a beautiful throw, but Will beat it, and the best the catcher could do was to hold Gordon on second.

On the Clearfield bench the purple-hosed players cheered and cavorted, while on the shady side of the diamond a strange silence held. Way tapped the base impatiently with his favorite bat and Harry implored him to hit it out. Porter looked nervous for the first time.

“He’s up in the air!” shrieked Harry. “Wait for your base, Way. You don’t have to hit it! He’ll pass you! Here we go! Here we go! Here – ”

Harry paused only because Way had picked out the first ball offered him and had banged it across to shortstop. Gordon scurried to third and Way raced toward first. Shortstop got the ball on a low bound, cast a hurried look toward third and pelted it across to first. But the throw was poor and although first baseman got it he dropped it the next instant and the umpire spread his hands wide.

“Watch home!” implored the catcher. But Gordon was taking no chances with only one out and contented himself with dancing up the base line a few yards to draw the throw. The ball went back to pitcher and pitcher and catcher met and held a conference. Gordon spoke to Lanny and Lanny nodded.

“Well, I guess we’ve got them guessing, Harry,” he called across.

“Here’s where we break it up, fellows!” responded Harry. “On your toes, Way! Here we go!”

Porter glanced over his infield, tugged at his cap, hitched his trousers, studied the catcher’s signal and wound up. But the throw was to first and Way was nearly caught napping. Twice more Porter tried to clear that base, and then, anticipating a steal, threw out to the catcher. But Way hugged first and only grinned, while the umpire announced “One ball!” Then a curve went over the corner of the plate and Jack Tappen had a strike on him. The Point infield was playing close and Jack knew that a bunt would not help any. He let the second strike go by, a deceptive drop, and then came the signal from Harry.

“Make it be good, Jack!” called Harry. “Here we go! Here we go!”

Porter wound up again and Way started for second. It was now or never for Jack and desperately he glued his eye to the oncoming sphere, swung and felt the pleasant tingle that announced that he had hit it! Then he was racing for the base. Shortstop had the ball a dozen feet back of the base line. Second baseman ran to cover that bag. Perhaps he thought a throw to the plate would fail to head off the speeding runner from third, or perhaps he had some idea of starting a double play. At all events, Chase tossed the ball quickly toward second. It reached there simultaneously with second baseman and Way. Second baseman made a grab for it and got it, but at that instant Way, sliding into the bag feet-foremost, collided with the defender of the sack and the ball trickled away in the dust. Gordon slid across the plate, Way was safe at second and Jack was grinning from first!

That misadventure was the Point’s undoing. Porter went to pieces then and there. Pete hit a liner that sent in Way, put Jack on third and himself on second; Lanny, enjoined to wait for his base, stood idle while the pitcher slammed four balls past him, and then, with the bases full, and one out, Fudge, with the score two strikes and two balls, resisted the temptation to swing and was presented with his base. Jack was forced across for the fourth tally.

Tom, eager to add his mite to the slaughter, hit a beautiful drive toward left field and the runners started around. But Caspar Billings performed the impossible. Although the ball was at least a yard over his head, he knocked it down with his right, spoiling what was intended for a two-bagger, and sped it to the plate ten feet in front of Pete, who, with the possible exception of Caspar himself, was the most surprised youth on the field. Back flew the ball to third, but Lanny had luck with him and somehow managed to slide into the bag ahead of Caspar’s descending arm.

Encouraged, Rutter’s Point set about getting the third out, and Porter settled down to deceive Harry Bryan. But Harry, realizing that in all probability this would be his last time at bat, and seeing what a fine opportunity was presented him to write his name on the annals of fame, was cautious and watchful. Porter worked a low ball over for a strike, followed it with a ball wide of the plate, coaxed him with a slow one that failed to entice Harry or please the umpire and then tried to sneak a fast one across in the groove. But Harry saw it coming, laid all his strength along that slender piece of ash he held and swung! And when the excitement was over three more runs had been piled on to Clearfield’s score and Harry was seated, breathless but happy, on third, having lined out a two-base hit into deep center and taken third on the throw to the plate. That ended it, however, for Will Scott popped a foul into first baseman’s hands.

With the score ten to four against them the Rutter’s Point team was discouraged and beaten. It tried half-heartedly to get a man around in the last of the eighth and managed to stop Clearfield in the first of the ninth, although some poor base-running on the part of the visitors did more than any efforts of the home team to save the plate in that inning. And in the last half of the ninth the Point actually got a runner as far as third. But there he stayed while the next two batsmen fell before Tom’s slants and a third sent up a short fly that settled comfortably into Pete Robey’s hands and brought the game to an end.

Clearfield cheered Rutter’s Point, in the intoxication of the moment using the regular High School slogan, and Rutter’s Point cheered Clearfield and bats were gathered up and the two teams started off the field. They came together at the corner of the hotel and Caspar called to Dick: “We’d like to try you again, Lovering, some time.” And Dick answered: “Glad to play you, Billings. We’ll talk it over soon.”

Morris Brent laid a hand on Gordon’s arm and pulled him aside. “Say, Gordon, I’ve got my car here. Come on back with me, won’t you? I’ll get you home quicker than the trolley will do it.”

“Why, much obliged,” murmured Gordon, “but – ”

“Oh, come on! I want you to see how dandy it runs.”

“I’m not insured,” laughed Gordon, trying to pull away from the other’s detaining hand.

“Oh, pshaw! I won’t dump you out. I’ll run as slow as you like. Come on.”

“Well, all right,” agreed Gordon without enthusiasm. “Oh, Dick! I’m going back with Morris. I’ll see you this evening.”

Morris led the way toward the pier, where the Clearfield road joined the shore avenue, and Gordon saw the blue runabout standing at the side of the road. It was a very attractive little car, in spite of the layer of gray dust which sullied the shining varnish.

“Isn’t she a peach?” demanded Morris. “And go! Say, I went nearly forty miles an hour in her the other day!”

“Yes,” replied Gordon dryly, “Dick saw you, I guess. He said you were racing with the trolley.”

“Oh, shucks, not that time! I was only doing about thirty then. I had to slow down for a team. You ought to have seen me the other morning on the Springdale road. That was going some, I tell you!”

“Well, if you try any thirty mile stunt to-day I’ll fall out the back of it,” warned Gordon.

“I won’t. Wait till I start it. All right. In you get. Pretty comfortable seats, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” agreed Gordon as the runabout swung around in the dusty road and headed toward Clearfield at a moderate speed. “Does – does your father know about it?”

Morris chuckled. “No, not yet. I don’t want him to, but I suppose some busybody will tell him.”

“Bound to,” said Gordon. “Especially if you do such spectacular stunts as you did the other day. Folks on the trolley, Dick said, expected to see you go off the road any minute.”

“Pooh! Folks who don’t drive autos always think that. Why, you’re just as safe in this thing as you are in the trolley. Safer, I guess. Remember when the car jumped the track year before last and killed six or seven people?”

“Yes, but I’ll take my chances with the trolley,” replied Gordon. “There it goes now. I wonder if the fellows caught it.”

“Sure. Anyway, we’ll soon see. I can catch that trolley as though it was standing still!” Morris pulled down his throttle and the little car bounded forward with a deeper hum of its engine. Gordon grasped the arm of the seat beside him.

“Never mind!” he exclaimed. “I don’t care whether they did or not, Morris! Pull her down!”

Morris obeyed, laughing. “Shucks,” he said, “that wasn’t fast. We were only going twenty-five or six miles an hour.”

“How do you know?” grumbled Gordon, relaxing his grip.

Morris indicated the speedometer with his foot. “That thing tells you,” he explained. “Watch the long hand. We’re doing sixteen now. I’ll hit her up a bit. There, see the hand move around? Twenty – twenty-two – twenty-four – ”

“That’ll do, thanks! And for the love of mud, Morris, keep her away from this fence!”

“Why, there’s five feet there,” protested the driver.

“Y-yes, but the old thing wabbles so it gives me heart failure!”

“You just think it does,” returned Morris. “I can keep her as straight as an arrow if I want to.”

“Want to, then, will you?” laughed Gordon uneasily. “And – and here’s another car coming, Morris. Hadn’t you better slow down a little?”

“Say, you’re an awful baby,” commented the other. But he lowered the speed of the car still further and, to Gordon’s relief, hugged the fence pretty closely while a big gray touring car shot by them in a cloud of dust. Morris turned a speculative, admiring gaze on it as it passed.

“Thirty-five easily, she’s making,” he said. “Some day I’m going to have one like that. These little cars are all right to knock about in, but they’re too light to get much speed out of.”

“How fast do you want to run, anyway?” grumbled Gordon. “Isn’t twenty miles an hour fast enough?”

“You wait till you run one and you’ll see,” laughed Morris. “Why, twenty miles will seem like standing still to you!”

“It’s fast enough for me,” sighed Gordon. “Besides, this road is so rough that —Morris!”

But Gordon’s cry was too late. There was a bump, a crash, the sound of splintering wood, and —

CHAPTER VIII
ACROSS THE GULLY

Gordon raised himself on one aching elbow and looked dazedly about him. Up the bank a dozen feet away lay the blue runabout on its side, one forward wheel – or the remains of it – thrust through a broken panel of the white fence that guarded that side of the road. A cloud of dust still hovered above the car, proving to Gordon that the accident had happened but the moment before. If it was not for that he could well have imagined that he had lain huddled up in a clump of bushes halfway down the steep bank for some time. His head was spinning wildly and he felt horribly jarred and bruised. But a tentative effort to get to his feet, while it was not successful because of dizziness, showed that at least he had no limbs broken. A second effort, made when the clouds had stopped revolving overhead like a gigantic blue-and-white pin-wheel, brought him staggering to his feet.

Strangely enough, it was not until he stood swaying unsteadily on the bank that he remembered Morris, or, rather, that he felt any concern for him. Anxiously then he looked about on every side. But no Morris was to be seen. Gordon called in a weak and shaky voice. There was no reply. Summoning his strength, Gordon crawled slowly up the side of the declivity, pulling himself by bushes and grass-tufts until at last he was clinging limply to the fence rail. There he leaned for an instant and closed his eyes. He felt very much as if he was going to faint, and perhaps he would have had he not at that moment, just as he seemed about to go off into a deliciously fearsome black void, heard the sound of a low groan.

Gordon pulled himself erect, opened his eyes and tried to look about, but the sunlight was frantically hot and glaring and the dusty road and the helpless hulk of the overturned auto danced fantastically before him. It was a full minute before he dared attempt to again lift his head and look. Even then sight was uncertain. But he realized that the groans – he heard them quite plainly now, low and monotonous – came from the further side of the car. He squirmed through the stout rails and stepped dizzily out into the road. Then he saw Morris.

He lay half in and half out of the car, one arm stretched from him in the dust and the other caught between the spokes of the steering wheel. Evidently the wheel had saved him from being thrown out as Gordon had been, but the latter, gazing with horror at the white face that seemed crushed against the dirt of the highway, surmised that it would have been better for Morris had he too been hurled over the fence. The dreadful thought that Morris was killed assailed Gordon, only to be banished by the comforting knowledge that dead folks don’t groan.

Gordon cast despairing looks up and down the road. Not a team or person was in sight. Then he knelt by Morris and spoke to him. But only low, unconscious moans answered him. Panic-stricken for an instant, Gordon gazed helplessly, his wits quite deserting him. Then common-sense whispered and he drew a deep breath of relief and seized Morris under the shoulders. Tug as he might, though, he could not budge the limp body. Then he saw why. Morris had evidently started to leap from the car and had got his left leg over the side when the car struck. Now that leg was imprisoned with the whole weight of the runabout upon it. Again Gordon looked along the highway for assistance, but, as before, the road stretched in either direction empty and deserted. Off toward town a cloud of dust hovered, but whether it indicated an approaching vehicle or a farmer’s wagon moving slowly toward Clearfield there was no knowing. Gordon set his lips firmly, striving to close his ears to Morris’ groans, and tried to think what to do. Perhaps if he could find water he could bring Morris back to consciousness, but what use to do that so long as the boy was pinned there under the car? No, the first thing to do was to set him free, and Gordon strove to think of a way to do it. He didn’t believe for an instant that he was capable of lifting that car and at the same time pulling Morris’ leg from beneath it. In fact, he doubted if he was strong enough to raise the weight of it. To make certain, however, he tried. It did move a little, he thought, but there was no question of raising it. Then he recalled seeing automobilists lifting their cars with jacks to put on new tires. If Morris had a jack – !

In a moment he was struggling with the cover over the box at the rear of the seat. It was jammed at one corner and it took him a full minute to wrench it open. When he finally did, however, the lifting jack was the first thing he saw. It was a small contrivance, scarcely a foot high, and Gordon viewed it doubtfully as he hurried with it around to the side. Morris’ leg was held down at the ankle by the edge of the turning-board and there was barely space between the ground and the side panel of the car in which to slip the jack. But it went in finally and Gordon began to work the handle. There was a heartening click as the cogs slipped into place and a cracking of frame and varnish as the car slowly rose. Bit by bit it went and at last Gordon pulled the imprisoned leg out. And not an instant too soon, for there was a lurch, the jack toppled sideways and the car settled back again in the dust, a forward wheel spinning slowly around.

Gordon turned Morris over on his back, placed a seat cushion, which had toppled out, under his head and again viewed the road anxiously. In the distance the dust cloud had disappeared and the road was still empty. He groaned with disappointment and exasperation. Usually a half-dozen vehicles would have passed in the ten minutes that had elapsed. To-day, because Morris’ life perhaps depended on getting him to a doctor, not one appeared! Gordon again thought of water and looked around him. Only dry hillside met his gaze on one side and only the equally dry gully separating road from trolley track on the other. But sight of the track gave Gordon an idea. The cars ran every quarter of an hour or so and if he could somehow get Morris down the bank, across the wide gully and up the slope on the other side it would be only a matter of a few minutes to town. But the distance was a good two hundred and fifty yards, he calculated, and Morris was no light burden. And, to increase his difficulties, he himself was in poor shape to make the effort. There was nothing else for it, however, and Gordon hurried to the fence and viewed the descent. A little further along was a place where the bank had at some time loosened and fallen in a miniature landslide and toward that spot Gordon was presently making his way.

He tried carrying Morris in his arms, but after the first few yards he had to give up. Instead, he took him by the wrists and dragged him as he might have dragged a sack of potatoes. It was hard work getting him through the fence, but easier when that obstacle was negotiated, for the descent helped. At the bottom of the bank it was necessary to worm in and out between bushes, while briars caught at him and tripped him as he toiled backward toward the further side of the gully. Twice he stopped to regain his breath and mop his streaming face. And it was while he was taking his second rest that a buzzing, humming sound came to him from the direction of town, a sound that grew louder even while he turned to look. Far down the track, visible here for a half-mile, came one of the big trolleys, swaying from side to side and eating up the rails in its rapid flight. There was but one thing to do, and Gordon did it.

Dropping Morris’ wrists, he set off at a run for the track. Once he tripped and measured his length in the briars, but he was up again in the instant, while, almost at hand as it seemed, the buzzing and throbbing of the rails sounded. When he finally reached the foot of the bank it seemed that he had not enough strength left to climb it. But climb it he did, somehow, with toes digging into the loose gravel and hands clutching at the infrequent tufts of grass or weeds. And when he reached the top and the side of the track the plunging car was almost up to him.

He knelt there on the edge of the embankment and waved his arms, shouting at the top of his exhausted lungs. A screech from the whistle sent its warning and then the big car was hurtling past him, the motorman casting a puzzled, indifferent glance as he shot by and the few passengers turning inquiring faces toward the boy crouched beside the track. Dust enveloped him and a great despair crushed him, and he did what was perhaps the one thing that could have stopped the car. He crumpled up in a heap at the ends of the ties and then rolled, slowly at first and then gaining momentum as he went, down the gravel slope into a clump of bushes at the bottom.

The conductor, who had leaned outboard at the warning shriek of the whistle, had seen the boy and had kept his eyes on him as the car had gone past. “Some kid wants to get on,” he explained to a passenger beside him on the rear platform, “but there’s no stop here.” Then his hand flew to the bell-cord. Boys didn’t crumple up like that and go rolling down embankments for the fun of it! With a loud grinding of brakes the big car came shivering to a stop a hundred yards along the track. The conductor tugged again at the cord and slowly the car crept backward. By that time the passengers were on their feet and the conductor was hanging over the steps. Then he had dropped and was plunging down the embankment in a cloud of dust and a cascade of loose gravel, the passenger on the platform following more carefully.

Gordon was already struggling to his feet when they reached him, and somehow he made them understand that some thirty yards away lay the unconscious form of Jonathan Brent’s son. After that events were very hazy and confused to Gordon. Kindly hands pulled and lifted him up the embankment and into the car, where he subsided weakly on a seat. Voices asked questions and he tried to answer them. Someone caught sight of the overturned automobile and there was much pointing and much exclaiming. And then three men came toiling across the ground below with Morris and others slid and stumbled down to help them, and almost at once the big car was pounding back the way it had come, its strident whistle shrieking above the hum of the rails in an incessant warning and alarm!