The Crimson Sweater Part 14

Then they were past, trotting along a frosty, rutted country road.

"Anyone want the lead?" grunted Pryor.

"How about you, Roy?" asked Jack.

But Roy shook his head dumbly and Chub moved up to the head of the group. The wind had increased and was blowing icily out of the north-east, but it was almost behind them and so helped them along.

Pryor nodded towards a dead beech tree beside the road. Jack nodded back.

"Two miles more," he said.

"Road or hill?" asked Chub, looking around a moment.

"Don't care," answered Pryor.

"Hill," said Jack.

At a turn of the road Chub left it to the right and the others followed.

"Is this--shorter?" asked Roy.

"About--even thing, I think," answered Pryor.

"A whole minute shorter," said Jack.

Roy sighed for the road as he dragged his feet up a little hill and saw before him a rough bit of country in which rocks and stunted bushes sprang everywhere. For the next quarter of a mile they were always either going up hill or going down; level ground was not on the map thereabouts. Jack took the lead again presently and Chub fell back to where Roy was heroically striving to keep his place. At last Roy stumbled over a root, went head over heels into a clump of bushes, and sat up with the last bit of breath knocked out of him. Chub had stopped, grinning. Roy shook his head and waved his hand for the other to go on.

"Hurt?" asked Chub anxiously.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "At last Roy stumbled over a root, went head over heels into a clump of bushes."]

Roy shook his head, found a little breath and gasped:

"I'm--all right. Go ahead. I'll--follow--presently."

Chub glanced hesitatingly from Roy to the others. Then he nodded and went on. At a little distance he turned, waved a hand to the right and shouted something about the road. Roy nodded indifferently and then fell back onto the turf and didn't care a rap what happened. It was blissful just to lie there, stretch his aching legs and get his breath back.

Anyone who wanted that d.i.n.key pewter mug could have it, as far as he cared. Only--well, he did wish he could have finished! Then it occurred to him that he could, that if he went on he might even finish well up on the list. He judged that five minutes had pa.s.sed since the others had left him. He already felt better and had regained his wind remarkably.

Well, he'd just go on and have a try; maybe he could help win the mug for the Second Seniors. So he climbed to his feet and set off in the direction taken by Chub.

But a minute or so later he concluded that he had lost the way, for now the wind instead of being behind him was coming against his left cheek.

Of course the wind might have swung around, but it was much more probable that he had unconsciously borne to the left. The best thing to do, he thought, was to get back to the road, which was somewhere in the direction he was going. So he pushed on, his trot becoming a walk as the bushes grew thicker and thicker about him. Ten minutes, fifteen minutes pa.s.sed and he had found no road. Up and down little hills he went, across open stretches and through tangles of leafless bushes. He kept the wind against his left cheek and went on. It was getting toward twilight and was still cloudy and cold. His legs began to feel stiff and his feet would drag in spite of him. A half an hour must have pa.s.sed--he had left his watch at school and so could only guess--and he was still travelling over wind-swept upland. He began to feel a bit uncomfortable; the prospect of spending the night up there wasn't enticing. Observing a little bush-crowned hill that looked higher than any he had yet found, he made his way to it. From the top he could perhaps see the road, or, failing that, discover where the river lay.

So he climbed up the rise, his feet slipping over loose gravel. At the top he paused and looked about him. There was no road to be seen, but behind him were a few twinkling lights, perhaps a mile away, and--yes, surely, that was the river over there, that ribbon of steely-gray! He would get to the river, he decided, at its nearest point and then follow along the bank until he found the school, if he did not stumble across a road or a house or something before that. So he got the direction firmly fixed in his mind, broke through the bushes in front of him, gave a cry of terror, grasped ineffectually at the branches and went plunging, crashing downward to lie in a silent, motionless heap thirty feet below.

CHAPTER XI

HARRY FINDS A CLUE

When Chub left Roy lying gasping for breath in the bushes and took up the race again he was a good hundred yards behind Jack and Pryor, who were just dropping from sight beyond the brow of one of the little hills.

"Keep over that way--get back to the road," he turned and shouted. He saw Roy nod wearily. Then he set out in earnest to make up lost ground.

That was the hardest bit of the whole run for Chub and it took him the better part of a mile to make up that hundred yards. Jack and Pryor did their level best to maintain their advantage. But when they were back on the road once more Chub was running even with them. Pryor tried to slip aside and make him take the lead and set the pace, but Chub was too wary. It could scarcely be called running now, for with less than a mile to go it became a question with each one of them whether they could stay on their feet long enough to finish and their pace was a slow jog that was little like the springy gait with which they had started out.

There was no breath wasted now in talk. They cast quick looks at each other, searching for signs of weakness and discouragement. It was every man for himself, Pryor struggling along with drooping head for the glory of the Middle Cla.s.s, Jack resolved to win the honor for the First Seniors, and Chub equally determined to gain it for the Second Seniors.

A quarter of a mile from the school, just as they turned into the Silver Cove road, Pryor's time came. He faltered once, stumbled, and Chub turning aside to avoid him, slowed down to a walk, his breath coming in agonized gasps. Chub and Jack went on without a turn of the head, side by side, their eyes glued doggedly on the red-tiled tower of the gymnasium visible now above the tree-tops a few hundred yards away. Then the road turned a bit and a group of waiting boys marked the corner of the school grounds.

Chub looked at Jack and the latter shook his head with a wry twisted smile. But when Chub threw his head back and strove to draw away from him Jack responded gallantly and refused to own himself beaten. So they had it nip and tuck down to the corner, pounding the hard road like cart horses and yet making but slow work of it, while the audience shouted them on, scattering away from the rail fence that they might have plenty of room. And they needed it. Twice Chub strove to throw his leg across the topmost bar and twice he failed. Jack, with set teeth, got over on the second attempt, and when Chub came tumbling after him he had a good six yards of lead. Ahead, at the gate across the field, stood Doctor and Mrs Emery and Harry.

"Hurry! Hurry!" cried the latter, dancing excitedly about. "Oh, it's Jack Rogers and Chub Eaton! Hurry, Jack! Hurry, Chub! Oh, _can't_ you run faster?"

"Which do you want to win, my dear?" asked her mother smilingly. Harry answered breathlessly without turning.

"Oh, I don't know! Both!"

Meanwhile across the gridiron Chub and Jack, accompanied by applauding friends and partisans, were fighting it out gamely. Chub had almost made up the distance between him and Jack when the track was reached. Across the cinders they staggered, the gate and finish but a few yards away.

Then fortune, thus far quite impartial, turned her face to Chub. Jack stumbled on the wooden rim of the track and, while he saved himself from falling, gave Chub his chance, and in another second the latter youth was through the gate and lying with tossing arms on the lawn. Jack finished a scant yard behind him and keeled over in his turn.

Horace Burlen set down the times on the list he held and others sprang to the aid of the exhausted runners. Then all eyes turned again toward the corner of the field, for someone was struggling over the fence there. Down he jumped and came trotting across, apparently much fresher than Chub and Jack. It was Townsend, of the Middle Cla.s.s. When he was half way across the field a fourth runner appeared, made several attempts to surmount the bars, leaned against them a moment, and found his breath and then came over.

"It's Pryor," said Horace. "That's two for the Middlers, and one each for the First and Second Seniors."

"What was Chub Eaton's time?" asked Forrest as Townsend finished.

"Four and three-eighths minutes better than the record made four years ago by Gooch," answered Horace.

"Well, I'm glad Roy Porter didn't win," said Harry vindictively. Chub rolled over on his elbows.

"He went down and out--two miles back," said Chub. He looked across at Jack, who was sitting up and breathing like a steam-engine. "Sorry I beat you, Jack. I wouldn't have if you hadn't stumbled."

Jack nodded with a smile.

"Glad you won, old man," he said. "It was a tough old run, and you can bet I'm glad it's over. Phew! but I'm tuckered."

"Same here. That last mile was the d.i.c.kens. There's someone else coming--two, three of them! One of 'em's fallen off the fence. Gee! I thought I'd never get over that thing!" He got up, followed by Jack, and pa.s.sed through the gate. "h.e.l.lo, Townsend! How was the road?"

"Rutty as anything and mighty hard running. I got a st.i.tch in my side about a mile back and had to let up for a while. Pa.s.sed Pryor moseying along down near the corner. Who's that coming?"

"Porter, by Jove!" cried Chub.

"Porter nothing!" said Horace. "That's Warren. And the next two are Glidden and Chase. That makes First and Second Seniors and Middlers tied for first so far. Chase is a Junior, isn't he?"

"Yes," answered Townsend.

Chase, a youngster of thirteen, made a plucky race across the field and beat Glidden of the Second Senior Cla.s.s by three yards. Then for a while no more finished. Chub and Jack and the others disappeared into the gymnasium, and Doctor and Mrs. Emery returned to the Cottage. Harry, however, still remained. It was getting dim now, and when, after five or six minutes had pa.s.sed, more runners reached the fence it was impossible to identify them. But when they drew near a shout went up. Two of them were First Seniors, one was a Middler and one a Junior. The First Seniors needed but one more runner now to give them the cup. And a few minutes later he came in the person of Bacon and received the biggest sort of a welcome. From then on until almost dinner time the others straggled in to find the finish deserted and to crawl weariedly up the gymnasium steps. Harry had taken her departure when Bacon had finished, returning to the Cottage through the gathering twilight, looking, unless her face belied her, rather disappointed, and telling herself over and over that she was awfully glad Roy Porter hadn't won.