Scott Morgan
Boys of Oakdale Academy
CHAPTER XIV.
A NARROW ESCAPE
The following morning, not a little to his wonderment, Rod found his legs were lame and his ankles a trifle stiff. Being a fellow of active temperament and athletic mold, and having ridden the range and punched cows, it vexed him to find his efforts at skating, having lasted less than two hours, should have done him up to such an extent.
“I must be getting soft,” he muttered, as, following a sponge bath, he rubbed himself down and massaged the sore muscles of his legs. “I’ll slump out of any sort of condition if I don’t look out.”
Gradually, as he moved around, the lameness passed away, although it did not wholly disappear. At school he heard the boys talking ice hockey and discussing the organization of a basketball team to furnish sport when, later, snowfalls should put an end to skating; and once more, with a sensation of resentment, he felt himself barred from their circle, although as a student at the academy he should have been one of them. This led him openly to accept the friendly overtures of Spotty Davis, observing which, Ben Stone, who had remained faithful despite public sentiment, did not seem to be wholly pleased. Nevertheless, Stone made no comment.
Lander was not a student at the academy; he had never completed his course in the grammar school, and he now spent his time loafing around the village, being closely watched by the people who knew him of old; for no one trusted him.
With suppressed impatience, Grant waited the coming of another night. It fretted him to see the boys and girls skating on the lake during noontime intermission, yet he found a fascination in watching them, and he noted that Barker and Eliot seemed to be the most graceful, accomplished and proficient of all the fellows. Not until he had acquired much more skill would he be ready to make a public appearance on skates.
Leaving his aunt clearing the table after supper, with the monkey watching her from its perch on the back of a chair and the parrot grumbling in its cage, Rod secured his skates and again turned his steps toward Bear Cove. As he approached the cove he was surprised to hear voices and laughter, and, pausing to listen, he learned that Davis and Lander were there ahead of him.
They were sitting on the shore in the shadow of the pines, and their voices sounded strange, while their laughter was of a high-pitched, unnatural sort. They looked up with a start as he paused beside them, for the carpet of pine needles had muffled his footsteps.
“Who the dickens – ” cried Spotty.
“Why, it’s Rod – our friend Rod, Spot,” said Lander. “’Lo, old chap. We’re waiting for you. How is the weather in Texas to-night?”
“’Tis Rod, ain’t it?” whooped Spotty familiarly. “Good old Rod, the cow-puncher and fabricator. Glad to see you, old man. Say, Bunk, where’s that flagon of joy juice?”
“Here ’tis,” said Lander, handing something over. “Great stuff for a cold night; it’s good as an overcoat.”
“Have a nip, Rod,” invited Davis, holding it out as Grant sat down at the edge of the ice.
“What is it?” asked Rodney.
“Some of old Gran’ser Lander’s bottled elixir of life. Gee! it does stir up a feller’s blood and make him feel good and warm. Don’t be afraid of it; take a good pull.”
Davis thrust a gurgling bottle into Grant’s hand.
“Oh, I don’t believe I want any of that stuff,” laughed Rod. “I’m not cold.”
“Do you good, just the same,” declared Bunk. “You don’t know what we’re offering you. It’s nothing but harmless cider. Go ahead and try it.”
Thus adjured, the boy from Texas removed the stopper and tipped the bottle to his lips. One small swallow was quite enough; he spat out the second mouthful.
“Cider!” he exclaimed. “It tastes like vinegar to me. You don’t mean to say you like that stuff?”
“No vinegar about it,” said Lander, with a touch of indignation. “It’s just plain hard cider, doctored and bottled by my old grandpop. I had hard work sneaking it out under my coat. Perhaps you may not like the taste of it at first, Rod, but you’ll get so you’ll like it if you keep trying it.”
“It gives you that funny feeling, that funny feeling,” chanted Davis, ending with a silly laugh.
Disgusted with them, Rod forced the bottle into Spotty’s hands.
“My father is a temperance man,” he said. “He won’t have a drop of booze around the ranch, for he’s seen the bad effects of it. One of our best men got his skin full and was lost in a norther. When they found him he was pretty near gone, and he lost both hands from that freeze – made him a cripple for life.”
“Oh, that was different,” said Bunk. “He had been drinking the real stuff; this is only cider.”
Nevertheless, Grant, preparing to clamp on his skates, firmly refused to touch the bottle again. Lander and Davis had another drink, and then they attached their own skates to their feet.
“I’m afraid,” Said Spotty, rising somewhat unsteadily, “that you’re a rather tame old cowboy, Rod. I’m afraid that’s why the fellers don’t take much stock in you. You duck at everything.”
“They’re welcome to take as little stock in me as they choose,” said Grant, a trifle warmly. “I came out here to learn to skate, not to guzzle old cider.”
They followed him onto the ice, and Spotty, attempting to do some fancy tricks, sprawled at full length, whereupon he sat up, whooping with laughter.
“Hold on, Grant,” called Lander, as Rod started off. “We’re going to give you further instructions, you know. Don’t mind Spotty. That upper story of his is so light he can’t keep his balance.”
“Never mind me,” returned Rodney; “I reckon I’ll get along all right.”
He was gratified to find he had lost none of the slight knack at skating acquired on the previous night, and this gave him so much confidence that he rapidly improved. At first his lame ankles protested, but they soon ceased their rebellion, and a sense of exhilaration came to him as he found himself swinging back and forth across the cove with fairly long strokes and remarkable steadiness. Nevertheless, he was annoyed by his companions, who persisted in following him and getting in his way, offering suggestions and making silly remarks. To get away from them he skated out toward the open lake.
Suddenly round Pine Point flashed a light, followed by another and another. Half a dozen boys, bearing torches, came upon Grant and his persistent mates ere they could escape. Three of the torch bearers were Eliot, Barker and Rollins. Berlin flashed the light of his torch upon them, and then, whirling to skate backwards as he went past, cried out to the others:
“Here’s a fine collection! The cow-puncher has found some company to suit his taste.”
This produced a laugh, which appeared greatly to irritate Lander, who shouted:
“Go on, you bunch of dubs! Nobody wants anything to do with you, anyhow.”
Spotty Davis broke into a series of derisive cat-calls and taunting jeers, to which the torch bearers gave no heed. Some of the party turned back at that point, but two or three continued on round the northern end of Bass Island.
“They make me sick!” snarled Lander. “I’m going to get at that feller Barker some day, and when I do he’ll know something has happened to him.”
In spite of himself, Grant could not wholly smother a feeling of regret over having been seen with those two chaps. Barker’s sneer had left a sting, a fact which he would not have acknowledged had any one intimated as much. Wishing to get away by himself, he improved an early opportunity to skate off, leaving Bunk and Spotty still telling each other what they thought of certain fellows in Oakdale; and he paid little heed to his course until, of a sudden, he discovered the shore of Bass Island not far away at his right.
“Jingoes!” he muttered, attempting to check his progress suddenly. “This must be the dangerous place they told me about. Those ‘breathing holes’ in the ice – ”
In spite of his efforts, his momentum had carried him onward, and suddenly both skate-irons cut through beneath him. There was a terrifying, cracking sound, and in a twinkling he felt himself plunged into the icy water. A cry was cut short on his lips as he went under.
Although he rose almost immediately to the surface and clutched at the thin edge of the ice, he could feel the current which swept round the island pulling at his legs. The ice gave way, and he clutched again and again, struggling to keep himself from being sucked beneath it.
“Help!” he cried.
A moving, flashing light gleamed across the glassy surface of the lake. It was followed by another and still another. The three torch bearers, who had circled round the island, were now speeding southward. Two of them seemed to be racing far over toward the western shore of the lake. Apparently the third had not joined in this contest, and he was much nearer.
“Help!” called Rod once more.
The nearest skater heard the cry and swerved suddenly in Grant’s direction.
“What’s the matter?” he shouted. “Where are you?”
“Here – here in the water. I’ve broken in.”
Grant’s teeth rattled together as he uttered these words, the icy chill of the lake seeming to benumb him through and through. Nevertheless, he fancied he had recognized the voice of the approaching fellow as that of Hunk Rollins, and a moment later the waving torch, lighting the face of its bearer, showed beyond question that it was Rollins.
At a safe distance Hunk came to a full stop. “Who is it?” he called again.
“It’s I – Grant. Can’t seem to lift myself out. I can barely hang on.”
“Jerusalem!” gasped Hunk. “I don’t dare to get near you. It’s dangerous there.” Then he whirled swiftly and went skating away as fast as he could, yelling at the top of his voice: “Hi! hi! fellers! Come back! Grant’s broke in!”
To the dismay of the boy in the water, the racing torch bearers did not seem to hear Rollins, who continued to pursue them, repeating his calls. Farther and farther away they went, the sound of their skates ringing over the surface of the lake.
“By the time he overtakes them I’ll be done for,” thought the unfortunate lad; and even as this passed through his mind the ice broke again, compelling him to make another struggle to fling his arms out upon it. In that terrible moment it seemed that Rollins had deliberately deserted him – had even been willing to leave him there to perish.
“I must get out alone. I must get out somehow,” he mumbled huskily. “If it wasn’t for the current I might – ”
Again the ringing sound of skates reached his ears, and hope flared up strong as that sound became more and more distinct. It came from the direction of Bass Cove, and, approaching across the ice, he discovered two figures, one in advance of the other.
“Hi, there! Hi, Grant! Is that you? Where are you? What’s the matter?”
It was the voice of Lander.
“Here! here!” answered Rod, as loudly as he could. “I’ve broken in. Can’t you help me?”
“Look out, Bunk,” warned Spotty, who was behind. “It’s dangerous there.”
One of Lander’s skates raked along the ice as he set it sidewise to check his speed.
“I see him!” he cried. “There he is, Spot! Hang on, Grant, old feller; we’ll get you out somehow. Hang on a little longer.”
Away he went toward the nearby island, while Davis, getting down on all fours, crawled cautiously toward Rodney. From the shore of the island came a cracking sound, like some one thrashing amid the underbrush and saplings which grew upon it.
“We told ye,” said Spotty – “we told ye to keep away from here. Gee! you’re in a bad fix. If we had a rope or something, we might haul you out.”
“You’ll have to get busy pretty soon,” returned Grant. “The way this current pulls is something fierce.”
Out from the shore of the island flashed Lander, bearing a long pole in his hands. Making a half circle, he passed Spotty, who uttered some cautioning words, slowing down as he drew near Grant.
“Come on, Spot,” he urged. “The ice seems to be solid here. We’ve got to pull him out of that. Here, Rod, old man, get hold of the end of this pole if you can – get hold and hang on for your life.”
Grant grasped the end of the pole with both hands, having lifted the upper part of his body onto the edge of the ice, which buckled and permitted the water to flow up around him, although it did not break. Urged by Lander, Davis ventured nearer and added his strength in pulling. Together they dragged the weakened and nearly exhausted lad out onto the solid ice.
“Come,” said Bunk, seizing the water-soaked chap and lifting him, “stand on your pins if you can. We’ve got to hustle you under cover before you freeze stiff. Just stand up, and we’ll push you along.”
Down the lake they swept with him, meeting Rollins, Barker and several others, who, still bearing torches, were returning.
“Oh, you’ve pulled him out, have you?” cried Hunk.
“No thanks to you,” flung back Lander. “We heard him hollering to you. Why didn’t you stop and help? He’d ’a’ drownded for all of you.”
“I went after the other fellers,” said Hunk.
“And if you’d had any sense at all,” sneered Lander, “you’d known he’d ’a’ gone down before you could bring them. You didn’t have nerve enough to give him a hand, that’s all. Here’s your friend Barker with Mr. Rollins, Grant.”
“So I observe,” said Rod. “He’s found some company to suit his taste.”
CHAPTER XV.
WHEN A GRANT FIGHTS
Rod Grant appeared at school the following day apparently none the worse for his unpleasant experience. Ben Stone congratulated him on his escape, but his distant and repellant air held the other boys aloof, if any of them were disposed to make advances.
As soon as he had concluded a hasty supper that night, Stone set out for the home of Priscilla Kent. Following the dark footpath upon which Grant had been ambushed by the hazers, Ben reached the lonely little cottage and knocked at the door.
Miss Priscilla Kent answered the summons, a lamp in her hand and her pet monkey perched upon her shoulder. As she opened the door the caller was startled to hear a harsh voice within the house crying:
“Up with the anchor! Heave ho! Shake out another reef! Salt horse for mess! Kill the cook! Kill the cook!”
“I beg your pardon,” said the spinster in a surprisingly mild and gentle tone of voice; “it’s only my parrot. I got him from an old sea captain.”
“Oh!” said Ben, plainly relieved. “I didn’t know. I thought – ”
“Some one was being murdered, I s’pose,” smiled Miss Kent. “Living alone, as I have, my pets have served as company. Won’t you step in?”
Was this mild, fragile, gentle woman the person all Oakdale declared cracked in the upper story? Ben wondered; and then he remembered hearing it said that she was afflicted only at intervals.
“My name is Stone,” he explained. “I’m a scholar at the academy, and I thought I’d call on Grant.”
“You’re the first caller he’s had. I think he’ll be s’prised to see you.”
A door opened at the head of the stairs, and Grant appeared in the light that shone from a room beyond.
“Who is it, aunt?” he asked.
“A caller to see you, Rodney. He says his name is Stone.”
“Oh, Ben!” exclaimed Rod, in apparent wonderment. “Is that you, Ben? Come up.”
“All right,” said Stone, starting to mount the stairs as Miss Priscilla closed the door.
“You’re off your course, you lubber!” squawked the parrot. “Salt horse for mess! Kill the cook!”
“Polly is very noisy to-night,” remarked the spinster apologetically.
Involuntarily Stone dodged as something went darting past him up the balustrade. Then he laughed a bit, beholding the monkey perched on the newel post at the head of the stairs.
“Come down, Nero! Come back here, sir!” called Miss Priscilla. “He wants to get inter your room, Rodney.”
“And tear up my books and papers again,” laughed Grant. “Chase yourself, you Roman emperor!”
The monkey dodged, chattered, and slid tauntingly down the balustrade.
“He’s a lively rascal and sure plumb full of mischief,” said Rod. “Come into my den, Ben. Hardly expected to receive a caller here to-night – or any other time.”
The room was small but comfortable, being warmed by a tiny air-tight stove. Two Navajo rugs brightened the old-fashioned rag carpet on the floor, and there were some pictures on the walls which plainly had been hung there by Grant himself. An old oak bedstead took up considerable space, although it had been set as far back as possible in a corner. On a table, bearing a shaded lamp, were books and papers and some playing cards carefully laid out face upward in a series of small piles. A chair stood where Rod had pushed it back from the table on hearing some one at the door.
“Just amusing myself for a few moments with a little game of solitaire,” explained the boy from Texas, observing the visitor glance toward the cards. “Have to do something to pass away the time, you know. Have the easy chair, won’t you?”
“I – I’m not going to stop long,” faltered Ben. “The other chair will do just as well.”
But Rod laughingly forced him to take the easy chair. “If you’re comfortable, perhaps you won’t be in such a great hurry. It’s a sure enough novelty for me to receive a visitor, and you’ve got me wondering a plenty how you chanced to come round.”
“I wanted to see you,” said Ben slowly. “I wanted to have a talk with you, Rod.”
“Well, we can talk ourselves black in the face, and nobody to bother. Go ahead and string it off.”
“You were lucky to escape being drowned last night.”
“Sure thing. I reckon I’d gone under right there if it hadn’t been for Bunk Lander. He stood by like a man.”
The embarrassment of the visitor became more apparent.
“Doubtless Lander deserves all the credit you give him, Rod.”
“He certain does.”
“But if you had not been with those fellows – ”
“Oh, I know what you’re driving at now. Look here, Stone, I like you; you’ve treated me like a white man. I can’t say as much for some other chaps around here. Just because I kept my mouth shut and minded my own business when I came here, a lot of pin-heads began to sneer about me and say I was a fake who’d never even seen the State of Texas. I was born in Rogers County, which is located in the Panhandle of the Lone Star State. Those fellows didn’t disturb me a whole lot, Ben; but, just for a joke, I decided to give them something really worth talking about. As long as they had the notion that every Texan must talk dialect and act like a half-civilized man, I took a fancy to play the part for them. It was a sort of a joke with me. I’ll say right here and now that I reckon we’ve got as decent and refined people in Texas as you can find anywhere around these parts, though doubtless it would be right difficult to pound this fact into the heads of some chaps.”
“That’s not what I’m driving at,” said Ben, “and I don’t believe your statement that you hail from Texas had anything to do with turning the fellows against you. The team needed strengthening; they wanted you to play football, and – ”
“I claim, as a free and independent individual, that I have a right to play football or not, just as I choose.”
“Of course you have, but loyalty to the school – ”
“Whatever I may do or decline to do, Stone, you may be sure I have good and sufficient reasons. A fellow’s motives are sometimes misunderstood.”
“That’s quite true,” agreed Stone. “I had an experience decidedly more unpleasant than yours when I first came to Oakdale.”
“But you pulled out on top. Why? Because you played football?”
“No, not that; because circumstances and events made me understood at last. I’ve never questioned your courage, Grant, but you know lots of times a fellow has to prove himself before he’s estimated correctly. I don’t believe you’re a quitter; I don’t believe you’ve a yellow streak.”
“Thanks,” said Rod, with a slight touch of sarcasm which he could not wholly repress.
“But you know how most fellows estimate a chap,” Ben went on hastily; “they judge by outward appearances.”
“Evidently my appearance is decidedly against me,” laughed Rod.
Involuntarily the visitor lifted a hand to one of his ears, half of which had been cut away cleanly at some time by a sharp instrument. He could not have been called a prepossessing or attractive lad, but there was a certain rugged honesty and frankness in his eyes and his manner which stamped him as the right sort. Nevertheless, during the first weeks of his life in Oakdale, being misunderstood and misjudged by nearly every one, he had passed through a cloudy and bitter experience.
“It’s not wholly by a fellow’s looks that he’s estimated, Rod; actions count, you know. I came here an unknown, just as you did; but you have the advantage of me, for you’re a good-looking chap, and I’m simply ugly. Now if you’d happened to hit the fellows just right at first, and you’d deported yourself according to their views regarding the code of behavior for an Oakdale Academy man, you might have become popular at once.”
Rod snapped his fingers, rising to fling a leg over one corner of the table, on which he half seated himself, the other foot upon the floor, leaning forward toward Ben.
“Who are these narrow-minded, Puritanical, half-baked New England cubs that allow they have a right to lay out a code of deportment and behavior to be followed by me?” he cried scornfully. “It was chance that corraled me in this wretched hole, not choice. What do these fellows here really know about me, anyway? Nothing. Disgusted with their nosey, prying ways, I’ve amused myself by stringing them – by telling preposterous tales of my wild adventures and hairbreadth escapes. Evidently it hasn’t helped my cause much, for the blockheads seem to lack imagination and a real sense of humor. Why, they really thought I was trying to make them believe those yarns, while all the time it was apparent on the surface to any one with the slightest horse sense that I was joshing. They think me a braggart. Bah!”
Ben twisted uneasily upon his chair. “They don’t understand you, Rod, any more than they understood me at first,” he said soothingly. “Now I’m willing to take your word for it that you had some good reason for refusing to play football – even for swallowing the slurs and insults of Hunk Rollins and Berlin Barker.”
The eyes of the young Texan flashed and a flush deepened in his bronzed cheeks.
“Rollins is a cheap bully,” he declared, “and it seems to me Barker showed himself up for a coward when he ran away from Oakdale with the idea in his head that he had been chiefly concerned in driving me dotty.”
“Your estimation of Rollins is pretty near correct,” nodded Ben, remembering his own experience with the same fellow; “and if you had come out boldly and faced Barker when he returned from Clearport I’m sure the situation would be different to-day.”
“That would have made it necessary for me to fight him,” said Rod, “and I have my reasons for avoiding anything of that sort. It may make me look like a coward, but if anybody will take the trouble to look up the records of the Grants in Rogers County, Texas, he will find there never was a cowardly drop of blood in one of them. Beginning as a nester or small rancher, my father found himself up against the big ranchers who wanted his acres and were determined to drive him out. He’s there now, and he owns a pretty sizeable ranch for these days. But he had to fight for his rights, and I don’t allow the remembrance of some of the things he went through is any too agreeable. He’s carrying a bullet in his right hip which made him lame for life, and his left arm is gone at the elbow, the result of a gun fight, in which he received a wound that didn’t get proper attention for three days. You haven’t heard me blowing about these things, but they’re straight facts, with no fancy touches added for effect. And as long as I have said this much, let me add that the other man, whose name, by the way, was Jennings, didn’t come out of it as well. There’s been a white stone standing over him for a good many years.”
“Gracious!” muttered Ben.
“This is between us, Stone. I’ll ask you not to repeat it, for if you should, the fellows around here would believe it another of my fanciful fabrications. Things are somewhat more peaceful in Texas these days, but the old grudge, a sort of feud between the Jennings and the Grants, has never died out. I was sent to school in Houston before I came here. Fred, the only son of old man Jennings, attended that same school. I won’t go into detail, but he picked his time to get at me. They took him to a hospital, and I went home to the Star D Ranch in something of a hurry. When a Grant finds it necessary to fight, usually something happens to the other fellow.”
