Dick Randall Part 4

d.i.c.k's own aim was scarcely as good. He put a number of good shots to his credit, stopping a pair of widgeon with one barrel, just as they drew together in the air; again knocking three redheads from a flock of five, pa.s.sing at full speed overhead, without swinging to the decoys; and twice scoring a clean right and left on blackheads as they lowered handsomely to the blind. Yet his kills were offset by some villainous misses, over which he could only shake his head dejectedly, and turn away in shame from the reproachful glance of the retriever's eye. Once, indeed, just at sundown, a flock of about fifty redheads swung in, at just the proper range, just the proper elevation, just the proper everything; and yet somehow, flurried by the magnitude of the opportunity, he waited too long, sighted first at one bird, then at another, and finally fired one ineffectual barrel, just as the last bird in the flock was getting out of range. For a moment he almost wept, and then found a crumb of comfort in the thought that only Colonel was there to see, and that he could not tell of it, even if he would.

All too soon the sun sank behind the hills at the westerly limit of the lake. d.i.c.k left the stand, walked around to relieve his cramped muscles, and then counted up his bag. Eight blackheads, five redheads, two widgeon, a black duck and two teal, eighteen in all. He stood regarding them with pride. Now and again in the dusk he could hear the whistle of pa.s.sing wings overhead; once, halfway down the lake, Cluff and Putnam, returning, fired at some belated flock, and with the report of their guns two jets of living flame leaped upward against the dark. A little later and he could hear the sound of their oars; then presently a dim black shape loomed up ahead and Cluff's friendly hail sounded through the gloom. "Well, son," he called, "I heard you dottin' it into 'em. And I saw there was some that didn't get away.

How many did you kill?"

"Eighteen," d.i.c.k called back, "and if I'd shot straight I'd have killed forty. How many did you folks get?"

"Jim got fourteen," answered Cluff, "and I scored up twenty-two. Guess maybe Mr. Fenton's going to be a mite surprised. I told you we'd do well. You just wait, now, till I take in these decoys, and we'll come ash.o.r.e and get you."

They rowed home through the darkness and trudged up the path, well-laden with their spoils, glad when the lights of the farm-house gleamed cheerfully across the clearing, welcome enough in any case, but now suggesting, as well, the thought of supper preparing within.

And what a supper it was! Just comfortably tired and hungry, the boys made an onslaught on the fare which surprised even their host, accustomed as he was to the demands of a healthy country appet.i.te.

"Well, I don't know," he remarked at last, "I rather thought I had you fellows beat on shooting ducks, but when it comes to putting away turkey I guess you've pretty well squared up the count."

By seven o'clock their horse was at the door, and putting in their guns and their share of the game, they bade good-by to Cluff and his wife, thanking them again and again for their kindness, and set out on their homeward way. They were scarcely as talkative, after the first few miles, as they had been on the way out, but sat in silence, each living the day over again in his mind. Retrospect had taken the place of antic.i.p.ation, and their pleasure, while perhaps fully as great, was of a kind more tranquil, and less keen. Perhaps, too, the spell of the night quieted their tongues. The full moon rose high in the heavens, putting the stars to rout, and lighting the long, straight road ahead of them almost as clearly as if it had been day. And thus they jogged steadily along in silence until they had traversed the greater part of their journey home. Scarcely a sound had disturbed the quiet of the drive. Now and again they heard the hooting of an owl; once a fox yapped sharply, and in answer there came a distant, long-drawn chorus of barks and howls, as if every dog within a dozen miles was giving answer to the challenge. But of fellow-travelers, either driving or on foot, they saw no sign until they had come within a mile or so of town. Then d.i.c.k, half lulled to sleep by the steady, monotonous thud of the mare's feet on the road, started up suddenly, rubbing his eyes, for ahead of them he saw two shadowy figures, one tall, one short, striding along the path in the gloom. "Look at those men, Jim," he said. "I wonder what they're doing out here at this time of night?"

As he spoke the figures rounded a bend in the path and disappeared from sight. And then, before Putnam could answer, all in the same breath, there arose ahead of them a quick, sharp outcry, the sounds of a scuffle, and then a shrill and frightened scream, echoing wildly through the silent forest, "Help! Help!"

As quick as thought Putnam leaned forward, s.n.a.t.c.hed the whip from its socket and brought it down with all his force across the mare's flanks. Old Rosy bounded forward under the blow and Putnam cried, "Load up quick, d.i.c.k! Load up your gun!"

It had been Randall's first thought. Even as Putnam uttered the words he reached down, drew out the ten bore from under the seat, slipped in two sh.e.l.ls, and sat alert and ready, his body bent a little forward, his weapon across his knees, as they sped forward, the buggy rocking and swaying beneath them like a ship in a gale of wind. A moment later they rounded the curve and Putnam, with a mighty jerk on the reins, pulled the mare back almost to her haunches to avoid running over the huddled group of figures fighting in the road. At the same instant d.i.c.k leaped from the buggy and ran forward.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

A quick glance revealed the situation. One man was being attacked by three others, while on the outskirts of the group a little boy hovered, terror-stricken, still crying out for help. The man upon the defensive was holding his own manfully. He was tall and active, and made shrewd play with a stout cudgel, apparently his only weapon, striving constantly to prevent his adversaries from attacking him in the rear. Yet three to one was heavy odds; knives gleamed in the moonlight; and while two of the attacking force advanced warily on him the third was creeping stealthily around behind just as the boys appeared on the scene. With a shout d.i.c.k leaped forward, discharging his right hand barrel over the heads of the contestants as he ran. The effect of his shot was well-nigh magical. On the instant the three men broke and ran, diving into the bushes as if they knew the country well. The tall man started to follow, fumbling vainly in his pocket as he did so, then drew up with a suppressed cry of pain and turned to his rescuers. "Much obliged," he said. "Just about in time, I guess; they pretty nearly had me--"

He broke off suddenly, lurching unsteadily toward the buggy. "Don't know but what they've done me, now," he muttered.

d.i.c.k could see that his face was deathly pale. "Here, Jim," he called, "take him and the boy. Drive right in to the hospital. I'll get back, all right; it isn't far--" He helped the man into the wagon and lifted the boy in behind. Putnam gave the mare a cut with the whip and the buggy shot forward toward the town.

CHAPTER V

DUNCAN MCDONALD

On a Sat.u.r.day afternoon, a fortnight after the shooting trip to the lake, d.i.c.k Randall and Jim Putnam, on their way across the yard, came face to face with Harry Allen and Ned Brewster, sauntering leisurely over toward the gym. The day, although the month was December, was warm and clear; the ground lay bare of snow; altogether it was an afternoon when out of doors seemed far more attractive than in.

Allen, halting them, struck an att.i.tude, raised one arm, and started to declaim. "Whither away, whither away--" he began, and then, as Brewster planted a well-aimed blow in the small of his back, he came abruptly to a stop. "Confound you, Ned," he said, "that hurt. Can't you appreciate good poetry? I never saw such a fellow. Well, if I've _got_ to descend to vulgar prose, where do you chaps think you're going, anyway?"

Randall laughed, and in a tone of exaggerated deference, answered, "With your kind permission, Mr. Poet, we are 'whithering away' to the rustic cottage of Mr. McDonald, leader of strike-breakers, who has now recovered, and has been out of the hospital for some days. Mr.

McDonald has won his fight; the 'pa.s.sel o' furriners,' as my friend at the livery stable calls them, has been put to rout, and Mr. McDonald wishes to have an opportunity to thank his gallant rescuers in person.

Isn't that what we are, Jim? Gallant rescuers? Of course we are."

Putnam nodded. "Sure," he answered, "of course. At least you are. I don't know whether I can qualify or not. I was driving the mare, you know. But still, on the whole, I believe that took more courage than fighting strikers. Oh, yes, we're heroes, all right, and we're going down to be properly thanked."

Brewster groaned. "My, but you're a chesty pair," he scoffed. "I don't suppose you'd let two ordinary mortals come along and breathe the same air with heroes, would you, now? Harry and I were just saying that the gym doesn't seem to offer much attraction on a day like this."

Randall bowed low. "My dear young men," he said, "if my co-hero, Mr.

Putnam, the gentleman on my left, has no objection, we will permit you to go. I think that the sight of virtue rewarded would be a most useful lesson to you both. Perhaps Mr. Tennyson here might immortalize the whole thing in what he thinks is verse."

Brewster mournfully shook his head. "Oh, this is awful," he said, "we'll have to go with them, Harry. I wouldn't trust them alone, now.

They're so puffed up that one good gust of wind would blow them clear away, and then we'd be minus our best high jumper, and our star quarter miler. So come on and we'll look after them. It's hard on us, I know, but it's our duty to the school."

They left the yard, walked down past the track, and then struck out straight across the fields on their long tramp. As they left the school boundaries behind them Allen turned quickly to d.i.c.k. "Well, all jokes aside," he exclaimed, "your friend's recovered, hasn't he?"

"Yes," Randall answered, "he's all right again now. They hit him a pretty good crack on the arm--broke a bone in his wrist, I believe--and he had a nasty cut in the shoulder, and lost quite a lot of blood. But they fixed him up at the hospital. It wasn't really anything serious."

"How did the boy come into it?" asked Brewster.

"Why," returned Randall, "it was quite a story. The boy was a French Canadian. His mother's dead and he was living alone with his father, up north of the village. The father was one of the strikers, but I guess he was rather a chicken-hearted kind of individual, for when the strike-breakers arrived and things began to look squally he got out of town, and left the little boy up there in the shanty, all alone.

McDonald was the head man among the strike-breakers, and in the course of the evening he happened to hear about it and he said right away that he was going up to get the boy. His friends told him he was a fool to do it, but he said no one was going to bother him, anyway, and if they did he guessed he could look out for himself. Well, the strikers got wind of it and three of them laid for him when he was coming back with the boy. He said it was the neatest ambush you could imagine. He was on the watch for them, he thought, and he had a revolver in his pocket, and yet he walked right into them before he knew it. And I imagine he was having about all he wanted when we blew along and pulled off the great rescue scene. So that's all there was to that."

It was a good hour later when they finally came in sight of the cottage, standing by itself, far to the southward of the town.

Everything about the place looked neat and clean. There was no sign of McDonald, but a little wisp of smoke curled upward from the chimney, seeming to hang motionless against the still, clear air. Putnam turned to Randall. "Think we've struck the right place, d.i.c.k?" he asked.

d.i.c.k nodded. "Seems to answer the description," he replied, and then, as they started to climb the fence surrounding the field which lay between them and the cottage he gave a little exclamation of surprise.

"Why, for Heaven's sake," he cried, "talk about your track sports.

What do you think of that, now?"

The others paused to follow the direction of his gaze. Sure enough, in the center of the field, between them and the cottage, were a set of high-jump standards, a take-off board for the broad jump, a shot ring, and three or four circles for throwing the hammer. They walked hastily forward, and then stopped, wondering, for, allowing for the necessary roughness of the field, everything was arranged in excellent style.

d.i.c.k examined the ground in front of the standards with a critical eye, then voiced his approval. "The fellow who fixed up this place,"

he said, "knew his business. I believe, on a dry day like this, I could jump as high here as I could on the field at home. Who on earth do you suppose is interested in athletics around here? Couldn't be McDonald, could it, Jim?"

Putnam shook his head. "No, of course not," he answered. "A man who works in a paper mill all day isn't going to bother to build a place to practise jumping and throwing weights. Some of the boys from the village, most likely, I suppose."

They walked on across the field and knocked at the door of the cottage. Immediately they heard footsteps within, and a moment later McDonald himself appeared on the threshold. He was a tall, active-looking man, splendidly proportioned, with a keen and intelligent face. A slight pallor, and a little stiffness in the way he held his left shoulder, were the only signs which he showed of his recent encounter.

"Come in, come in," he cried, "the whole of you. I'm glad to see you, boys. I had considerable courage to ask you to come way over here, but the doctor wouldn't let me walk to the school, and I wanted to see you before I started back to work, to get a chance to thank you, fair and square, for that night. I guess, if you hadn't happened along, I wouldn't be here now. There isn't much I can do, I'm afraid, in return, only to tell you that I shan't forget it, if I ever have a chance to pay you back for what you did. And I thought--" He rose, took from the mantel two small leather cases, oblong in shape, and held them out to Randall and Putnam, one in either hand. "I thought maybe you'd like to have these for a kind of souvenir--most young fellows nowadays are interested in such things--perhaps, though, you boys aren't--"

The boys took the cases from his hand, pressed the spring which opened them, and the next moment were gazing with delighted surprise at the heavy gold medals within. At the same instant they read the inscriptions upon them, and then, both at once, gave a gasp of surprise, for the name, traced in tiny letters on the gold, below the word "Championship," was that of the man who had been known, a dozen years before, through the length and breadth of the country, as the foremost athlete of his day. Both boys cried out in chorus. "Oh, golly!" from Putnam; and from d.i.c.k, "_Duncan_ McDonald! Why, for Heaven's sake! We never guessed--"

There was a moment's silence; McDonald flushing a little under the gaze of frank hero-worship which the four boys bent on him. And then, to break the pause, "Yes, I'm Duncan McDonald," he said, "or what's left of him. Not quite so spry, I guess, as when I won those, but I still answer to the same name."

There was another pause, until Brewster suddenly exclaimed, "Then that's your athletic field out there. We were wondering whose it could be."

McDonald smiled. "Athletic field is rather a big name for it," he answered. "It's a little place I fixed up so that I could go out once in a while, on a Sat.u.r.day afternoon, and throw weights, and jump, just for the sake of old times. Why, do you boys care for that sort of thing?"

"Do we?" cried Brewster. "Well, I should say we did! You see--" and for ten minutes he talked steadily, telling the story of the cup, the Pentathlon, and everything else concerning the rivalries of the schools. As he finished McDonald nodded. "I see, I see," he said.

"Well, that's a nice sporting situation, isn't it? Perhaps I could help you boys out a little, after all. When the weather gets better, along toward spring, if you would send your all-around man--Ellis, did you say his name is--over here, I might be able to show him something about his events. I'd be glad to try, anyway."

"Oh, that would be great," cried Brewster, "that would help a lot, I know. And we've another Pentathlon man right here. We think he'll be almost as good as Ellis by spring. Stand up, d.i.c.k, and be counted."

Randall laughed. "Don't talk about Pentathlon men," he said, "in present company. I don't believe Mr. McDonald would see much hope for me."

McDonald eyed him critically. "Well, I 'don't know about that," he said at length. "You've a good build for an all-around man. We all have to make a start. No one gets to be a champion all at once. By and by, if you like, we'll walk over to the field; I'll lend you a pair of spikes and we'll see what you can do. How would you like that?"

d.i.c.k's face was sufficient answer. "That would be fine," he replied.