Cattle-Ranch to College Part 31

"I hope not; but how are you going to get there? It's a long way."

John looked up quickly: he had not thought of that before. It was a serious question.

"I don't know; but I'll get there somehow." He spoke confidently but he was much perplexed, for he was without money, his clothes were threadbare, and it was a necessity to study all summer, with no chance to earn money. It was certainly a question that could not be answered offhand. He studied over this matter for days and no solution presented itself. Borrow he might, but this he would not do without giving security, and of security he had none. He left it for a while, hoping to be able to think of a way out of the difficulty later.

Before he realized it Commencement had arrived, and with it the open meeting of the Debating Society at the Opera House. To his astonishment he found that he was appointed one of the two orators of the occasion.

In vain he protested that he was busy, that he was unfitted; he had to accept. "Orator--Opera House--Me!" he fairly gasped with astonishment.

He was rather worried about it, but Gray, whom he consulted that night, rea.s.sured him.

"Don't worry, anyhow," he advised. "Take a subject you're interested in, write out what you think about it, boil it down so you can repeat it in twenty minutes, then memorize it."

John also consulted Beeman, the other orator, who said he was going to speak about the Chinese Question.

"Against them," he said, in answer to the other's sharply put query.

"That's the only way to please a crowd--take the popular side."

"Well, I'm going to take the side I want, and I'll tell 'em what I think about it, too," said John vehemently, his spirit thoroughly roused.

"Go ahead," said Beeman, visions floating before him of an opportunity to hurl his thunders at a definite champion (and an inexperienced one) of an unpopular cause.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE SUN RIVER RANCH HOUSE. (_Page 241._)]

John set to work on his speech with his usual eagerness and energy. His heart was in it, and the prospect of a contest of wit or muscle always stirred him. He wrote, rewrote, cut down, filled in and polished until Gray, his friend and critic, p.r.o.nounced it "good stuff."

In the meantime, he not only kept at work at his studies, his duties as janitor and paper boy, but he was at work at something else that he thought might prove most important.

At a half-mile race track, a little distance out, a very early rising citizen, if he happened to be in that vicinity at daybreak, would have wondered greatly to see a half-clad figure on an old bicycle go flying round and round the track. If, overcome by curiosity, he had waited a while, he would have seen the same figure, neatly clothed, appear from under the grand stand carrying a bundle of papers under his arm. Then if he watched he would see him mount an old bicycle and ride off. But this performance took place so very early that no one witnessed it.

At last the day of the Debating Society's open meeting came--the day on which John was to make his first public appearance. His speech was complete, memorized, and ready for delivery. He spouted it for the last time to Gray, who put the stamp of his approval on it and advised him to forget it all till the time came to speak.

The Opera House was crowded when John and Gray reached it, for the town's people took great interest in its inst.i.tutions, and of these the academy was one of the most important.

John looked out from the wings on the sea of upturned faces, appalled.

Beeman came first. He went out before the audience, cool, self-possessed, graceful, and delivered his oration smoothly, forcibly, and well. He chose the popular side, and the audience rewarded him with generous applause.

Then John heard the chairman announce, "Oration by John Worth."

He walked out from the dimness of the flies into the full glare of the brightly lighted stage, bewildered, and, without any preliminaries, began:

"In the history of every country, however just, however good or great, there are certain pages besmirched by the record of black deeds of wrong."

So his carefully written, carefully memorized speech began. As he stood before his audience he saw nothing but the pages of his ma.n.u.script: he felt that he must keep his mind on them or he would be lost. He followed down the first page, mentally turned it over, and began the second.

Beeman had touched a point on the second page, and treated it in a ridiculous way, he thought. His concentration was broken, and he began to fear for the first time that his memory would fail. A dozen lines down the second page he faltered, stopped, and stood riveted, miserable.

The few moments' pause seemed endless. He tried to think of the next line, next page, anything; in vain, it was all a blank. The pile of ma.n.u.script, a minute ago so clearly before his mind's eye, had vanished, and he stood staring at the crowd before him. Some one behind tried to prompt him; it brought him to life. Beeman's fallacies had incensed him; he'd tell them so, and in no uncertain way. With a whole-arm gesture he mentally cast away his carefully prepared speech.

"It's wrong! All wrong!" he said intensely, and with conviction in his tones. His own voice electrified him. His first few sentences were mere bursts of indignation, his tongue went on of its own volition, it could scarcely give utterance to his stirred feelings. As he went on, his emotions grew more quiet but none the less earnest. Constant yodelling to cattle for years had given him a voice which carried to the farthest corner of the building. He had carefully studied his subject, and now that he had regained his nerve he spoke his mind with enthusiasm and vigor. His arguments were well chosen and his language terse and to the point. Stimulated by excitement, new ideas came, and he uttered them with a confidence that afterward amazed even himself. Parts of his own prepared oration came back to him and he spoke it as if it was impromptu, with force and freedom.

The time had come to stop, and without a pause he launched out on his original peroration with the ease, confidence, and fire of a veteran orator. The closing sentence rang out clear and strong: "Men and women of America, let us wipe out the blot from this page of our country's history and make her in truth the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave."

His speech over, John stumbled, rather than walked, off the stage to the street. The reaction was great. He did not hear the applause, the cheering; he did not know that he had aroused the enthusiasm of people naturally prejudiced against his side of the question.

John went straight to his room and to bed, but not to sleep--his nervous tension would not allow that. The thing uppermost in his mind, the thing that worried him, was that he had forgotten his speech--the speech he had so carefully prepared and learned by heart.

The papers had to be delivered in the morning, however, and a certain self-imposed engagement at the racetrack kept, so he was up betimes.

After these two duties were finished, he rode down the street to discover if possible the depths of ignominy to which he had been brought by forgetting his speech. The idea that he had disgraced himself still clung to him. Two fellows appeared right away, and before John could voice his greeting they called out: "Say, Worth, you just ate Beeman up last night. Are you sure you wrote it yourself?"

"He doesn't know that I forgot it," thought John, who hesitated a minute before he answered aloud: "Of course, it was all my own."

"Well, it was a rattling good speech, anyhow."

John thanked him, and then the talk drifted to the games to be held next day, and to the bicycle race especially, where the winner would receive a brand new up-to-date bicycle as a prize.

"That's going to be a hot old race," said Searles, one of the two students. "Every pedal kicker in town is after that new wheel."

"Yes, that's a prize worth riding for," and John had a look in his eyes that Searles did not understand till later.

Several times that day persons of various degrees of importance--among them Mr. Haynes, the financial and political corner-stone of the community--stopped John, called him by name, and chatted pleasantly with him. Mr. Haynes said that he was a credit to the school and the town. So John's self-respect began to come back. His good fortune was dawning, now that he was making preparations to leave it all.

Field day came clear and beautiful, and the crowd came en ma.s.se to see the sports. A series of well-advertised events were to be run, the climax of which was the one-mile bicycle race. The prize wheel had stood labelled in the donor's window for a week, and every wheelman and boy in the neighborhood had gazed at and coveted it.

The early events were well contested, and worked the spectators up to a fever heat of interest. By the time the bicycle race was announced the crowd was wildly enthusiastic. Discussions as to the probable winner were rife.

"There's none of them that'll beat Tucker," said one. "He'll have a walk-over."

"He won't walk over Bolton," declared another.

And so it went, till the contestants appeared on the track. Tucker and Bolton were the favorites.

As the men lined up at the stake some one remarked: "Why, there's Worth, with the old bike, too. He's the fellow that made the speech. I thought he had more sense than to go out with that old rattle-trap."

"They're off!" The shout went up as the starter's pistol cracked.

Tucker jumped to the front, and everybody cheered him; but Bolton was near, and as the riders pa.s.sed the stand for the first time it was seen that he was close behind. Following Bolton's rear wheel closely was a strange rider on an old wheel, whom the crowd did not recognize at first.

"By George! It's Worth," said a student, surprised. The men swept by, closely bunched, their wheels rattling, their legs going like pistons, and the bodies of some swaying as they exerted themselves to the utmost to keep up.

"Bolton's going past. He's leading!" And the speaker jumped up and down in his excitement. But John clung to the leader's rear wheel and went with him. Faster and faster they raced, past Tucker, opening a big gap between the bunch. Bolton was riding for glory, but John was riding for something besides glory: his success meant position, standing, a great opportunity, a future.

A hundred feet from the finishing tape he bent his head and made a tremendous effort. Early morning training stood him in good stead now, for he began to gain on Bolton, and inch by inch to pa.s.s him. The old machine groaned alarmingly, but it stood up to its work in spite of its protests. Twenty feet from the finish John seemed to leap forward, and crossed the tape just ahead of the laboring Bolton.

The crowd was rather disappointed to see its favorites beaten, but applauded the winner generously as he went up to the judge's stand to receive his shining prize.

Gray was the first man to wring his hand; his was an honest, unfeigned, glad congratulation.

"Say, Gray," said John, "you ride her home. I want a farewell ride on this old wheel. I pull out to-morrow."