Airship Andy Or The Luck of a Brave Boy Part 5

Andy wondered how he had managed to get it out of his pocket, but he had, and there it lay.

"It's worth about eight dollars," explained the man. "You can probably get four for it. Anyhow, you can trade it off for some shoes and clothes, which you seem to need pretty badly."

"Yes, I do, for a fact," admitted Andy, with a slight laugh. "But see here, mister, I don't want your watch. I couldn't ask any pay, for I wanted to come down the creek myself, and I was just waiting to find the chance to work my way when you came along."

"You'll take the watch," insisted the stranger in a decided tone, "so say no more about it, and put it in your pocket. There's only one thing, youngster-I want to ask a favor of you."

"Yes, sir."

"Forget you ever saw me."

"That will be hard to do, but I will try."

"What's your name?"

"Andy Nelson."

"I'll remember that," said the man, repeating it over twice to himself.

"You'll see me again some time, Andy Nelson, even if I have to hunt you up. You've done me a big favor. You said you were headed for the city?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, if you'll follow back to the river, and cut south a mile, you'll come to a road running in that direction."

"Aren't you going to use the barge any farther, mister?" inquired Andy.

"No, and perhaps you had better not, either," answered the man, with a short nervous laugh.

"Well, this is a queer go!" ruminated Andy, as the man started inland and was soon lost to view. "I wonder who he is? Probably on his way to some friends where he can get rid of those handcuffs. Now, what for myself?"

Andy thought things out in a rational way, and was soon started on the tramp. His prospective destination was the city. It was a large place, with many opportunities for work, he concluded. He would be lost from his pursuers in a big city like that, he theorized.

Andy soon located the road his late pa.s.senger had indicated. He looked at the watch a good many times. It was a plain but substantial timepiece. It was the first watch Andy had ever owned, and he took great pleasure in its possession.

"I don't think I'll part with it," he said, as he tramped along. "I feel certain I can pick up enough odd jobs on my way to the city to earn what clothing I need and enough to eat."

It was about seven o'clock when Andy, after a steep hill climb, neared a fence and lay down to rest in the shade and shelter of a big straw stack. He was asleep before he knew it.

"What in the world is that!" he shouted, springing up, wide awake, as a hissing, flapping, cackling hubbub filled the air, mingled with shouts of impatience, excitement and despair.

"Head 'em off-drive 'em in! Shoo-shoo!" bellowed out somebody in the direction of the road.

"Geese!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Andy-"geese, till you can't rest or count them!

Where did they ever come from? Hi, get away!"

As Andy stepped out of range of the straw stack, he faced a remarkable situation. The field he was in covered about two acres. It was enclosed with a woven-wire fence, and had a gate. Through this, from the road, a perspiring man was driving geese, aided by a boy armed with a long switch.

Andy had never seen such a flock of geese before. He estimated them by the hundreds. Nor had he ever viewed such a battered up, dust-covered, crippled flock. Many, after getting beyond the gate, squatted down as if exhausted. Others fell over on their sides, as if they were dying. Many of them had torn and bleeding feet, and limped and hobbled in evident distress.

The man and the boy had to head off stupid and wayward groups of the fowls to get them within the enclosure. Then when they had closed the gate, they went back down the road. Andy gazed wonderingly after them.

For half a mile down the hill there were specks of fluttering and lifeless white. He made them out to be fowls fallen by the wayside.

The man and boy began to collect these, two at a time, bringing them to the enclosure, and dropping them over the fence. It was a tiresome, and seemed an endless task. Andy climbed the fence and joined them.

"h.e.l.lo!" hailed the man, looking a little fl.u.s.tered; "do you belong around here?"

"No; I don't," replied Andy.

"I don't suppose any one will object to my penning in those fowls until I find some way of getting them in trim to go on."

"They can't do much harm," suggested Andy. "I say, I'll help you gather up the stray ones."

"I wish you would," responded the man, with a sound half-way between a sigh and a groan. "I am nigh distracted with the antics of those fowls.

We had eight hundred and fifty when we started. We've lost nigh on to a hundred in two days."

"What's the trouble? Do they stray off?" inquired Andy, getting quite interested.

"No; not many of them. The trouble is traveling. I was foolish to ever dream I could drive up to nearly one thousand geese across country sixty miles. The worst thing has been where we have hit the hill roads and the highways they're ballasting with crushed stone. The geese get their feet so cut they can't walk. If we try the side of the roads, then we run into ditches, or the fowls get under farm fences, and then it's trouble and a chase. I say, lad," continued the man, with a glance at Andy's bandaged foot, "you don't look any too able to get about yourself."

"Oh, that isn't worth thinking of," declared Andy. "I'll be glad to help."

He quite cheered up the owner of the geese by his willingness and activity. In half an hour's time they had all the disabled stray fowls in the enclosure. Some dead ones were left where they had fallen by the wayside.

"I reckon the old nag is rested enough to climb up the rest of the hill now," spoke the man to his companion, who was his son. "Fetch Dobbin along, Silas, and we'll feed the fowls and get a snack ourselves."

Andy curiously regarded the poor crowbait of a horse soon driven into view attached to a ramshackly wagon. The horse was put to the gra.s.s near the enclosure, and two bags of grain unearthed from a box under the seat of the wagon and fed to the penned-in geese.

Next Silas produced a small oil-stove, a coffee-pot and some packages, and, seated on the gra.s.s, Andy partook of a coa.r.s.e but substantial breakfast with his new friends.

"There's a town a little ahead, I understand," spoke the man.

"Yes," nodded Andy; "Afton."

"Then we've got twenty miles to go yet," sighed the man. "I don't know how we'll ever make it."

Andy gathered from what the man said that he and his family had gone into the speculation of raising geese that season. The nearest railroad to his farm was twenty miles distant. His market was Wade, sixty miles away. He had decided to drive the geese to destination. Two-thirds of the journey accomplished, a long list of disasters spread out behind, and a dubious prospect ahead.

"It would cost me fifty dollars to wagon what's left to the nearest railroad station, and as much more for freight," said the man gloomily.

Andy looked speculative. In his mechanical work his inventive turn of mind always caused him to put on his thinking-cap when he faced an obstacle.

"I've got an idea," declared Andy brightly. "Say, mister, suppose I figure out a way to get your geese the rest of the way to market quite safely and comfortably, and help drive them the balance of the distance, what will you do for me?"

"Eh?" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the man eagerly. "Why, I'd-I'd do almost anything you ask, youngster."

"Is it worth a pair of shoes, and a new cap and coat?" asked Andy.

"Yes; a whole suit," said the man emphatically, "and two good dollars a day on top of it."