Scott Morgan
Ben Stone at Oakdale
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE ARREST
A lance of sunshine, piercing a crack in the old barn, struck squarely into Ben Stone’s eyes and awoke him. For a few moments he lay still without comprehending, the odor of the haymow in his nostrils; his head alone was uncovered by the hay into which the fugitives had burrowed. High up in the peak of the barn the morning light streamed in through a broken, dusty, cobwebby window; with the passing of the night the storm had passed also, and the new day was bright and fair.
Ben turned his head slowly, softly, and saw his brother sleeping beside him, which sight brought back with a rush the memories of recent events leading up to and including the flight by night from Oakdale. They were fugitives, he and Jerry – fugitives and wanderers upon the face of the earth.
Jerry awoke; the sightless eyes unclosed and a faint smile crept over his face. “Ben,” he called, moving a hand to touch the lad at his side – “Ben, is it you?”
“Yes, Jerry. Did I wake you up? I didn’t mean to do so.”
“Oh, I’m glad you did; I’m glad to know we’re together again. It is morning.”
“Yes, it is morning; the sun is shining.”
“I’m warm and dry and comfortable now. I was so wet and cold when we found this place last night!”
“It was a mean old night. If it hadn’t stormed, we’d got a much bigger start – we’d be lots further away from Oakdale now.”
“We’d better stay here all day long, Ben, for anyone won’t be likely to find us. That’s the way I did at first – hid in the daytime and traveled at night.”
“But we brought no food, and we must have something to eat. I’m afraid you’re hungry now, Jerry.”
“Oh, not a bit,” was the assurance. “It ain’t so hard for a feller to go all day without eating if he only tries; I know, for haven’t I done it lots of times! Perhaps when night comes again we’ll be able to find something to eat somehow.”
“I have money,” said Ben. “I can buy food.”
“But if you try it now somebody who sees you may send word back to Oakdale. Please don’t try it now, Ben, for truly I’m not hungry. Where’s Pilot?”
For the first time they thought of the little dog, and, to their surprise and dismay, he was gone. Ben, however, was far more concerned than Jerry over this.
“He’ll come back,” declared the blind boy. “He’s gone to hunt for his breakfast, and I know he’ll come back; he always does.”
They lay there for some time, talking of the past and planning for the future. The ray of sunshine that had aroused Ben crept on across the mow, leaving them in shadow, and presently Jerry once more betrayed tokens of drowsiness, slumber again claiming him at last.
“Poor little chap!” murmured Ben with infinite tenderness. “You’ve had a hard time of it, but I’m going to stick by you now and take care of you always. I can do it, and I will.”
The silence in the barn was so profound that he could hear crickets fiddling in the thickets of brown, rain-washed grass outside. With a clatter of hoofs and a rumble of wheels, a horse and carriage passed on the road near by. Ben listened till the sounds died out in the distance, and then after a time he likewise slept once more.
It was the barking of Pilot that next aroused the brothers, and the little dog came scrambling up onto the low mow and sniffed around them, whining strangely. He barked again, a short, sharp note, whereupon Jerry clutched his brother with both hands, whispering excitedly:
“Danger, Ben – danger! Pilot is trying to tell us.”
Even as these words were uttered they heard the voices of men and the tramp of heavy feet. One of Jerry’s hands found Pilot’s collar, and beneath that touch the dog crouched upon the hay and was still.
There seemed to be two men. “The critter sartainly come right in here,” said one of them. “Mebbe ’tain’t the same dorg, but he answers the deescription the Widder Jones give; and it’s mighty queer a dorg should be hookin’ it round here, where there ain’t no houses nigher than a quarter of a mile.”
“Where’s the beast dodged to, sheriff?” questioned the other man. “I heared him bark arter he skipped in through the open door.”
Sheriff! Ben Stone’s heart leaped into his throat at that word, and a shuddering sickness overcame him. He felt Jerry trembling violently at his side. Both lay perfectly still, scarcely breathing, but unable to repress the heavy beatings of their hearts. The men searched below, and after a time one of them climbed upon the mow. In a few moments he nearly trod upon them, halting to utter a shout:
“Here they be!”
As the other man came scrambling to the mow, Ben threw aside the hay and sat up.
“What do you want?” he asked huskily.
One man, tall and thin, with a bunch of tobacco-stained whiskers on his chin, answered immediately:
“We want you, and, by hokey, we’ve got ye!”
“Oh, Ben!” sobbed Jerry, likewise sitting up. “Oh, Ben!”
In a moment Pilot bristled and barked savagely at the men, who, however, betrayed no shade of alarm over this demonstration.
“If I hadn’t spied that yaller cur,” said the shorter man of the two, “we might never located them to-day. Nobody we questioned ’round here had seen anything of ’em. You’ve got to give me the credit, sheriff.”
“That’s all right, Hubbard; you’ll git all the credit that’s comin’ to ye, don’t worry.”
Ben had seen both men in Oakdale. The taller was William Pickle, a deputy sheriff; the other Abel Hubbard, a constable. The deputy stooped and fastened a strong hand on Ben’s shoulder.
“Come on,” he ordered. “You took a long walk last night; we’ll give ye a ride to-day.”
“What are you going to do with me?”
“Goin’ to take ye back to Oakdale, of course.”
“What for? What have I done?”
“I ruther guess you know. You’re a slippery rascal, and you’ve left a record behind ye everywhere you’ve been. Gimme the irons, Hubbard.”
There was a clanking, rattling sound as the constable brought forth a pair of handcuffs, at sight of which all the resentment in Ben Stone’s outraged soul rose.
“Don’t you put those things on me!” he shouted furiously. “I haven’t done anything.”
Both men held him, and, in spite of his struggles, the manacles were snapped upon his wrists; while Jerry, still sitting on the mow, pleaded and sobbed and wrung his hands, the little dog vainly seeking to soothe him by trying to lick his face.
“He’s a desp’rate character, sheriff,” said the constable. “’Twouldn’t be safe not to iron him.”
“I ain’t takin’ no chances,” declared William Pickle grimly. “I had one prisoner break away once, and that learnt me a lesson. Now it’s no use to raise sech a fuss, young feller; you might jest as well take your medicine quiet. You ought to know what alwus comes to them that plays the tricks you’ve been up to.”
“I haven’t done anything to be arrested,” protested Ben wildly. “I have a right to take care of my own brother, for he’s blind and can’t look out for himself.”
“Purty good bluffer,” grinned Abel Hubbard.
“That’s all right; ’twon’t do him no good,” returned the deputy sheriff. “Course he’s got sense enough to know anything he owns up to may be used as evidence against him.”
Again and again Ben protested that he knew not why he had been placed under arrest. “Why don’t you tell me?” he cried. “What’s the charge?”
“Robbery,” said Pickle; “and there’s sartainly evidence enough to put ye behind the bars. You might jest as well come along quiet, for it won’t do ye no good resistin’. We’d better be movin’, Hubbard.”
They dragged him down from the mow, Jerry following, dumb with anguish. At a distance from the barn a horse, attached to a carriage, was hitched beneath a roadside tree, and toward this conveyance the manacled prisoner was marched between the two officers. His brain was in a whirl, for he could not understand the meaning of this hideous accusation against him.
“Unhitch the hoss, Hubbard,” directed the deputy sheriff. “I’ll put this feller inter the wagon.”
“Take me with my brother!” pleaded Jerry, who had followed to the spot.
“We ain’t got no orders to take only jest him,” said William Pickle. “The wagon ain’t roomy enough to carry you, too, and so we can’t bother with ye. Mebbe ’twas an oversight we wa’n’t give’ orders to fetch ye, for you might serve as a witness against him; but, having neither authority nor room, we won’t cumber ourselves with ye.”
With the captive between himself and Hubbard, William Pickle took the reins and turned the horse toward Oakdale. Looking back, the manacled lad saw Jerry standing there, his face hidden in his hands, the yellow dog gazing up sympathetically at him, a spectacle never to be forgotten; and the frightful injustice of fate seemed to crush and smother the last spark of hope and strength in Ben’s soul.
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE DARKEST HOUR
The Oakdale lockup was beneath the Town Hall, and into that cage for culprits Stone was thrust. Curious and unfriendly eyes had seen him brought back into the village. As the post office was passed, one of a group of men lounging on the steps called out: “I see you got the critter, Bill.”
“Yep,” answered the deputy sheriff, with a grin of triumph; “we ketched the rascal all right, Eben.”
The afternoon session had begun at the academy, and therefore Ben’s plight was not witnessed by any of the scholars, for which he was doubly thankful. When they were inside the lockup Pickle removed the handcuffs from the boy’s wrists.
“There,” he said, “I don’t guess you’ll break out of here. There’s a chair and a bunk, and you better make yo’rself as comf’table as ye can. Hubbard will have charge of ye now till you’re brought to trial.” The door closed heavily behind the departing officer, the bolt grating harshly in the lock.
On the journey back to Oakdale Ben had tried in vain to learn the particulars of the crime with which he was charged. While avoiding or refusing to answer his questions, the two men had craftily sought to lead him into compromising statements; failing in which, they disappointedly told each other that his attempt at “slickness” would do him no good.
The boy sat on the heavy, broken-backed chair, resting his elbows on his knees and bowing his face in his hands. There he sat motionless for a long time, trying to divine by what baleful freak of circumstances he had been brought to this wretched plight; but, without knowledge of the facts to work upon, he found himself floundering helplessly and blindly in a mire of uncertainty.
He was aroused by voices outside the door, above which an iron-barred window admitted light and air.
“I say it’s just inhuman to treat the poor boy in sech a fashion! You ain’t fed him, y’u say; y’u ain’t even found out if he’s hongry an’ starvin’. I’ve brung him some vittles, an’ the least y’u can do is feed him. I don’t b’lieve he ever stole nothin’, an’ I’ll never b’lieve it till it’s proved ag’in’ him. He’s a good boy, an’ a kindhearted boy. He was good to my little Jimmy, an’ I’ll never forgit it as long’s the Lord lets me live.”
Ben thrilled, for it was the voice of Mrs. Jones; and here was one, at least, who still had faith in him.
“That’s all right, Mis’ Jones,” said Abel Hubbard. “Your sympathetic heart sartainly does you credit, but in this case it’s a dead sure thing you’re a-wastin’ your sympathy on an undeservin’ objec’. Why, there ain’t no doubt in the world but he’s the thief, for wasn’t the watches and the rings and some of the money found hid under the straw tick of his bed right in your own house? That’s proof enough, Mis’ Jones, and there ain’t no gittin’ round it.”
“I don’t b’lieve he put them things there, Abel Hubbard – no, siree! I dunno how they come to be there, but that boy never stole ’em.”
“He’s been up to things wuss’n that, and his father before him was a jailbird. Blood will tell, Mis’ Jones – blood will tell. I s’pose he orter have somethin’ to eat, but we’ve been so busy we ain’t got ’round to feed him yet. I’ll give him the grub you’ve brung. Yes, I’ll give it to him now, Mis’ Jones; but you better stand back from the door, ’cause he’s a desperate critter, and there’s no tellin’ what he may try. He’ll never play no snigdums on me, though; he’ll find me ready if he tries ’em.”
When the heavy bolt was shot back and the door opened cautiously by the constable, Ben was seen standing at a distance, showing no disposition to attempt anything desperate. The widow was there, bearing in her hands a large dish covered by a napkin, snowy white, though somewhat frayed. Her broad, kindly face was softened with sympathy and sorrow.
“Oh, my poor boy!” she said. “I’ve brung y’u something to eat to keep y’u from starvin’, for these heathen ’round here don’t seem to have no thought about that. I’ve brung the best I had in the house, which, goodness knows, is poor enough – cold beans left over from Sunday, an’ bread an’ butter an’ doughnuts an’ a piece of blueb’ry pie. I’ll fetch y’u a warm supper by and by, for I bought a piece of lamb to stew a-purpose, an’ Sadie is tendin’ it. You must be awful hongry, an’ I know cold beans won’t hurt your deejeshun, though they alwus sot monstrous hard on Joel’s stummick. You jest keep up your pucker, Ben, an’ don’t lose courage; for you’ve got some friends left, an’ they’re goin’ to do everything they can for y’u. I wisht the constable would let me in to see y’u, but he says no, an’ so I can’t come.”
Ben had advanced slowly toward the door, closely watched by the suspicious eye of Abel Hubbard. He had fought back his emotions until once more he seemed to be the stolid, indifferent fellow who had won so little sympathy when he first appeared in Oakdale. Nevertheless, there was a catch in his voice as he took the dish and sought to express his gratitude. The door closed upon him, and he was again alone.
He had eaten some of the beans and one of the doughnuts when Hubbard reopened the door on a crack and thrust in a pitcher of water, which he left standing upon the floor.
The time passed with leaden feet. He had ceased trying to understand; he waited dumbly. Far away a bell clanged, sending a slight shudder through him; it was the academy bell, telling that mid-afternoon intermission was over. Doubtless his schoolmates knew all about it by this time; they had heard of his arrest and imprisonment in the lockup, and they had told one another what they thought of it. Hayden was rejoicing and his friends were satisfied, while probably still others had said they knew all along it would come to something like this. It was the darkest hour of Ben Stone’s life.
He did not think wholly of himself, however; indeed, his thoughts dwelt far more upon his helpless blind brother, whom he had promised to stand by and to protect, but from whom he had been ruthlessly and unfeelingly separated. His soul was heavy and faint with the weight laid upon it, when again there were voices at the door and again the lock grated harshly.
Roger Eliot entered, followed by a smooth-faced, middle-aged man; and the constable, stepping inside, relocked the door and stood grimly on guard.
Ben had risen. His eyes met those of Roger squarely, and in a moment the latter rushed forward with his hand outstretched.
“Stone, old fellow,” said Eliot, “this is tough luck.”
Their hands met, and there was strength and reassurance in the grip Roger gave.
“I didn’t hear what had happened to you until intermission time, Stone,” said the football captain apologetically; “if I had, you’d seen me before this. My father sent me word. He has engaged Lawyer Marsh to defend you. This is Mr. Marsh, Ben.”
The lawyer likewise took the hand of the accused boy, looking earnestly into his face. “Mr. Eliot,” he said, “seems to think there must be some mistake. He is unwilling to believe you are guilty, my lad.”
Ben’s face, which had been quite pale, flushed deeply; for, of a sudden, his heart sent the blood leaping through his body. So Urian Eliot did not believe him a thief! Roger had faith in him and was ready to stand by him! After a moment he spoke with strange calmness:
“I am not guilty.”
“I knew it!” cried Roger. “I would have staked my life on it.”
“As your counsel,” said the lawyer, “I have come to talk the matter over with you, that I may prepare to defend you when the trial is called at ten o’clock to-morrow. I shall ask you some questions, and you must answer them frankly, fully and truthfully.”
“You shall have a truthful answer to every question you ask, sir.”
“I suppose you know the circumstances which have led to your arrest?”
“I only know that I am charged with robbery. I have been told nothing more.”
“Then you may not be aware that two lockers at the gymnasium were broken open, that of Roger and of Bernard Hayden.”
“I know nothing about it, sir.”
“They were broken open and pilfered while football practice was in progress last night. Roger’s watch and some money belonging to him were taken; Hayden likewise lost a watch, two rings and some money. These watches, the rings and a part of the money were found after you had disappeared, concealed beneath the straw tick of the bed in your room. That is the evidence against you, and to most people it must seem decidedly convincing.”
“I never touched any of those stolen articles, sir. I did not hide them in my room. If I had stolen them why did I leave them there when I ran away?”
“That’s it!” cried Roger. “The very question I asked.”
“But why did you run away?” interrogated the lawyer, watching Ben intently.
Stone answered that question without hesitation. In doing so, he went back to the cause of Jerry’s flight from the home of his dead uncle, explaining how the blind lad had been pursued even to Oakdale, and how while purchasing that pair of shoes Ben had learned that a man had arrived in the town and made inquiries for the fugitive.
“They told me the man was at the hotel getting supper,” concluded Ben. “I knew he would have no trouble in finding Jerry after that, and so we lost not a minute in getting away.”
“This clears up that point, which I could not understand,” smiled Roger in great satisfaction. “I knew there must be some other explanation than that Ben had fled to escape arrest. The man arrived at Mrs. Jones’ house while Deputy Sheriff Pickle was searching Ben’s room. He was intensely disappointed when he found he had delayed just long enough to baffle himself.”
“Where is he now – where is he?” asked Stone eagerly.
“He left this morning, after doing a lot of telephoning. I think he fancied he had a clew to the course you had taken. I doubt if he has yet learned of your arrest.”
“He will catch Jerry!” said Ben dejectedly.
“Which doubtless will be the best thing that could happen,” was the lawyer’s opinion. “We must bring the man and your brother back to Oakdale. We’ll need them both at the trial to establish the motive for your flight. It’s really unfortunate that the officers who arrested you didn’t bring Jerry along also.”
“But we’ll find them both – we’ll find Jerry and the man,” declared Roger. “The telephone will do it, and my father’s car will bring them to Oakdale in a hurry.”
“My boy,” urged the lawyer, “tell me your exact movements on leaving the academy yesterday afternoon.”
“I went directly to my room, where I knew Jerry was waiting all alone. I hurried away from the academy without saying a word to anyone. We had a talk, Jerry and I, and I told him I had made up my mind at last to leave school and take him away to some place where I could find work; for what money I had was not enough to support us both while I finished the term at the academy. When we had talked it all over, I took some things Roger had loaned me and left them in the gymnasium, after which I crossed over to the field that I might let Roger know. From the field I came straight back into town and purchased a pair of shoes for Jerry at Mr. Doyle’s store. It was there I heard of the arrival in town of a man who had made inquiries about a blind boy and a little yellow dog. I knew what that meant, and I ran back to Mrs. Jones’, where as soon as possible I made up a bundle of things most needed, fearing every moment that the man would appear. We slipped out of the house and got away on the road to Barville. That’s all I can tell you, sir, and every word is true.”
He had spoken in a convincing manner, and the lawyer nodded his head slowly. “A straightforward statement, my lad; but how that stolen property came to be concealed in your bed is a staggering question.”
“Someone must have placed those things there – some enemy of mine. I have a bitter enemy.”
“He means Bern Hayden,” said Eliot; “but Hayden could not have done it – that’s out of the question. Nevertheless, Bern is determined to push this matter. I have refused to press it, for which Hayden has been pleased to sneer at me.”
“Oh, he thinks he’s got me now!” cried Stone. “He’s glad, and he’ll make me suffer, if he can.”
“We’ll do our best to get this business straightened out and cleared up,” promised the lawyer; “and, in order that we may make all possible haste, I’ll have to telephone right away and try to locate the man who gave his name as Henry Bailey – the man who was trying to catch your brother. Keep up your courage, my boy, and we’ll talk this matter over again when there’s more time to go into the minutest details. You have a loyal friend in Roger, and one in his father, who will stand behind you and fight it out to a finish. If you’re innocent – and since hearing your statement I myself believe you are – we’ll leave no stone unturned to establish that fact.”
“That’s right, old fellow,” assured Roger, his face lighted by that rare smile as he placed his hands on Stone’s shoulders. “A man is never down and out till he loses heart and gives up. I’ve seen you play football, and you’re a good fighter at that; be a good fighter at this, and you’ll win.”
Their hands met again, and once more Eliot’s firm, friendly grip imparted some of his own optimism and strength. They left Ben feeling greatly heartened and encouraged.
“Roger is right,” he said after a time; “the fellow who knows he’s right and quits isn’t worthy to come out on top.”
As night was coming on Mrs. Jones brought a huge steaming bowl of lamb stew, and with it more words of cheer. Ben ate the stew, every bit of it. The window above his prison door he left open to admit air when he finally lay down upon the hard bunk. Occasional sounds from the village drifted in upon him. Once he heard some of the boys calling to one another. He had uttered a prayer for Jerry, and the sleep that came to him at last was full and peaceful, unbroken by dreams.
Nevertheless, he awoke suddenly, fancying that he was dreaming; for to his ears floated the sound of a violin, on which someone was playing the tune that had so moved him as he was beginning his flight from Oakdale, “Home, Sweet Home.” For a few moments he lay listening like one in a trance. Then he leaped up, stumbled against his chair, seized it, felt his way in the darkness to the door, placed the chair and mounted it, till, grasping the iron bars above, he could peer out through the grating.
A thin, pale moon was in the sky, and by its light he saw beneath his door the little lad who was drawing that plaintive melody from the old fiddle. At the feet of the player sat a small dog.
“Oh, Jerry,” cried Ben – “Jerry, Jerry!”
