Ben Stone at Oakdale

CHAPTER XXIV.

CLOUDS GATHER AGAIN

Again Ben Stone found himself confronted by a problem that demanded immediate solution. It disturbed his pillow long after Jerry, wearied to the extreme, was sleeping soundly; and when at last he slept it gave him troubled dreams.

He was first to waken in the morning, and, when he would have slept still longer, the great question swooped upon him and tore away the last shred of slumber. The little dog welcomed him with wagging tail as he crept softly out of bed that he might not disturb his sleeping brother. He was nearly dressed when Jerry awoke with a startled cry, sitting up on the bed and thrusting out his thin arms, his hands spread open as if to hold away some fearsome thing. In a twinkling Ben was at the bed, speaking reassuringly to Jerry.

“Oh – oh, is it you, brother?” gasped the blind boy, as he felt himself gathered into the embrace of Ben’s strong arms. “I thought they had caught me. I thought they were going to take me back.”

“You were only dreaming, Jerry. You’re quite safe with me.” Tenderly he caressed the little lad, who, trembling, clung to him.

“You won’t let them take me away, will you, Ben?”

“No, Jerry, they shall not take you away.”

Mrs. Jones would have had them down to breakfast, but when she came to call them they had eaten from Ben’s small store of apples and sandwiches, and they seemed quite happy and contented, so that she had no glimpse of the threatening shadow which hovered near.

During the greater part of that Sunday the brothers remained in the little room, having many things to talk about and being unwilling to advertise for the general public the fact that Jerry was in Oakdale. Late in the afternoon, however, they walked out together, turning westward to avoid the main part of the village and passing the academy. Before reaching Turkey Hill they left the road and set off across the fields toward a grove of pines upon the shore of Lake Woodrim. Pilot, unleashed, frisked before them. On the shore of Bear Cove they found a seat beneath one of those pines where the ground was carpeted with soft brown needles.

They were sitting there, talking, when a small, flat-bottomed punt containing a single occupant rounded Pine Point in full view and was paddled toward them. The person in the boat was Spotty Davis, who, despite the fact that it was Sunday, had been fishing. He discovered them almost immediately, and, recognizing Ben, called loudly:

“Hello, Stoney, old fel; what ju doin’? Thought mebbe I could ketch a pick’rel or two here in the cove.”

Although Ben had not found Spotty’s friendship wholly unwelcome, he was now far from pleased by the chap’s appearance. It was too late to get away, however, and so he waited until Davis, paddling straight in, grounded the punt upon a bit of gravelly beach and sprang out. Pilot regarded the stranger doubtfully, growling a little.

“Say, who’s your friend, Stoney?” inquired Spotty, advancing unhesitatingly. “Gee! what an ugly lookin’ dog!” he added, with a derisive grin. “Don’t let him chaw me up, will ye?”

“Down, Pilot! Be still!” commanded Jerry. And, although he obeyed, the dog continued to regard Davis with suspicious eyes.

“This is my brother Jerry,” explained Ben. “He arrived in Oakdale last night. Jerry, this is one of my friends, Tim Davis.”

“Your brother, hey?” said Spotty, taking the thin hand Jerry held forth. “Say, what’s the matter with his blinkers? They look awful funny.”

“He’s blind,” explained Ben in a low tone.

“Sho! Can’t see nothin’? Jerusalem! that’s tough. Can’t he really see nothin’ at all?”

“As far as sight is concerned, he can’t distinguish daylight from darkness.”

“Whew!” breathed Spotty, sitting down and staring at Jerry. “I never see nobody like that before. You never told me about him, Ben; you’ve never said much of anything about your folks.”

“I thought possibly you had heard some stories from Bern Hayden.”

“Well, not much; he just sorter knocked you, and I s’posed that was ’cause he was sore on you. Say, I guess you proved that you could play football yesterday. Bern didn’t have much on you in that game. Wasn’t it tough I got knocked out? Them fellers kind of picked me out and soaked me. They’ve always had a grudge against me, them Clearporters. Last time I played baseball against them Harry Hutt spiked me, and that put me out of the game, too. Eliot he was mad, ’cause he said I wasn’t hurt so bad I couldn’t play; and I s’pose he was mad yesterday, too. He’s awful stiff-necked sometimes; but you certainly got on his soft side through what you done for his sister, and I guess he’d back you up in anything. He brought Hayden to terms all right when Bern tried to force you off the team by gettin’ the fellers to quit. I wish you’d heard a few things Bern had to say yesterday ’cause Roger invited you to ride home in the automobile.”

“I’m decidedly glad I didn’t hear them,” returned Ben. “All I ask is that Bern Hayden keeps away from me and lets me alone.”

“He didn’t like it much when some of the fellers said we couldn’t ever won that game only for you. That was a hard pill for him to swaller. He’s always used me all right, in a way, though I know he thinks he’s better’n I am ’cause his father’s got the dough. I don’t think it’s right, either, for some folks to have so much money and other folks to have so little. Now there’s lots of things I’d like if I only had the chink to buy ’em. Look a’ the rotten old fishin’ tackle I’ve got in that bo’t; if I had money I’d buy an elegant jointed rod, a triple action reel, a silk line, and any amount of hooks and flies and baits. How long is your brother goin’ to stay?” Spotty concluded suddenly with that question.

“I – I don’t know about that,” faltered Ben. “We haven’t quite decided. Isn’t it pretty late in the season for fish to bite?” he asked, seeking to turn the drift of conversation.

“Guess ’tis,” admitted Davis. “I ain’t had a bite. We can generally ketch pick’rel pretty late, though.”

Ben rose and assisted Jerry to his feet. “I think we’ll go back,” he said.

“What’s your hurry?” asked Davis. “It’s kinder comf’table here. The wind don’t cut into this cove, and the sun’s warm.”

But they left him, and, after they had passed through the grove and were recrossing the open field beyond, Jerry said: “Somehow, I don’t like your friend, Ben. There’s something about his voice and the way he talks that I don’t like.”

“Oh, I reckon he’s a harmless fellow, and he was one of the first in Oakdale to be really friendly toward me; I can’t forget that.”

When they reached the house they learned that Roger Eliot had been there asking for them.

“He seemed real disapp’inted,” said the widow. “P’raps y’u’d better walk ’round to his house an’ see him.”

But it was late and growing dark, and Ben decided not to call on Roger that night.

Stone appeared at school the following day wearing a gravely troubled face, which led Eliot to question him, and he was on the point of telling Roger everything and asking his advice when several other boys came up and the opportunity was lost. All day long Ben’s mind dwelt on the perplexing problem, and gradually he came to believe there was only one solution; he must give up school, leave Oakdale, and find a job of some sort by which he could support himself and Jerry. It meant the shattering of all his plans, but he faced the alternative bravely, and even became a bit more relieved and cheerful when he had decided to accept it as the only thing that could be done.

When the boys came out for practice that afternoon neither Stone nor Hayden was with them. Spotty Davis was on hand, however, and, after a consultation with the coach, Roger called Spotty aside for the purpose of telling him as kindly as possible that he would be no longer needed upon the team.

Davis instantly showed his resentment and anger. Hayden, coming up, heard him shrilly saying:

“That’s all right, Mr. Eliot, you can fire me. I’ve seen other fellers knocked out in football games, and they wasn’t fired. Mebbe you’ll need me yet, and mebbe you won’t get me if you do.” With which he walked away and sat down alone on one of the lower rows of seats, his sly face wearing a sour expression of resentment and anger.

Practice was begun without Stone. In the midst of it he appeared, wearing his plain, homespun clothes, and called to the captain.

“Roger,” he said, “I can’t play football any more.”

Eliot uttered an exclamation of surprise. “Why not, Ben? What’s the matter now?”

“I told you my story some time ago; you’re the only one who has ever heard it from me. Uncle Asher, who took my blind brother to care for, is dead, and now someone must look after Jerry. I haven’t money enough to attend school and take care of him too, so I’m going to leave school. I must find work; I’ve settled on that.”

“Oh, say, that’s too bad, Stone, old chap! Now don’t be hasty; let’s think this matter over. Perhaps my father will do something for Jerry.”

Ben shook his head. “I couldn’t permit my brother to accept charity, Roger; I thank you very much for the generous thought, but I’ve made up my mind. I’ve left the suit you loaned me, and everything else, in the gym. Perhaps I’ll see you again to-morrow before we leave Oakdale. I couldn’t practice to-night if I wanted to, for Jerry is all alone. I went to see him after school was over and tell him my decision; that’s why I wasn’t here promptly. Don’t say anything to the rest of the fellows now. I’d like to bid them all good-by, but I don’t want to do so here at this time.”

Roger found it useless to advance argument, and finally Ben departed, watched by the eyes of Hayden, who had sauntered past in time to catch a few words of the conversation.

Five minutes later Hayden excused himself and left the field in the wake of Spotty Davis, who was finally going away in a sullen and resentful frame of mind.

Stone went down into the village to purchase a pair of shoes for Jerry, whose footwear was almost wholly gone to the uppers. In his timidity the blind boy had remained all day long in that room at Mrs. Jones’, again beset by fear that the pursuers he dreaded might find him; and he was even unwilling to be seen in the village with his brother.

Ben spent some time selecting the shoes, for he wished to get a stout and serviceable pair at a moderate price, which was no easy matter. Having made the purchase at last, he was on the point of leaving when the shopkeeper said:

“There was a man here in town a while ago asking for a boy by your name, only the front part of his name was Jerry instead of Ben, and the man said he was blind.”

For a moment Ben’s heart ceased to beat. “How long ago was that?” he asked huskily.

“Oh, less than an hour, I guess. He’d just struck town, and he’s gone over to the hotel for supper.”

Ben ran all the way back to Mrs. Jones’ house. At the door he met Spotty Davis, who had just come down the back stairs.

Davis seemed a trifle startled. “Hello, Ben!” he exclaimed. “I just dropped round to see ye. Found your brother all alone. Saw you wasn’t practicin’ to-night, and sorter wondered what the matter was. You know, Eliot he’s fired me. What do you think of that? I didn’t believe he’d do it.”

“I can’t stop to talk with you, Spotty,” said Ben; “I’m in a great hurry. Excuse me, will you?”

“Sure,” said Davis, with great willingness, as he passed on.

At the gate Davis paused an instant to glance back; but Ben had disappeared, and Spotty scudded away into the gathering twilight.

CHAPTER XXV.

FLIGHT

Ben mounted the stairs in haste. “Here, Jerry,” he said, “let me try these shoes on you. Let’s see if they fit.” His hands trembled a bit as he removed the remnants of the shoes the blind boy had worn and tried the others upon Jerry’s feet. “How do they feel?” he asked, as he hastened to lace them.

“All right,” was the answer. “But what’s the matter, Ben? You’re panting and excited. Has anything happened?”

“I’ve been hurrying,” said Ben evasively.

But even the little yellow dog seemed to realize that something was wrong, for he moved about uneasily, eying the brothers and whining.

“I’ve decided we had better leave Oakdale at once – right away,” said Ben, as he rose to his feet. “Sit still, Jerry, while I gather up the things I must take.”

“Ben,” said the younger lad, with conviction, “something has happened. You’re nervous and alarmed; I know it by your voice. Why don’t you tell me, Ben – why don’t you tell me?”

At any rate, it would be necessary to tell him in a few moments, and so, seeking to frighten the blind boy as little as possible, Ben did so at once. The moment Jerry learned a man had appeared in Oakdale asking for him he became panic-stricken; his face grew pallid and he trembled in every limb.

“They will take me away from you, brother – they will separate us!” he exclaimed.

“They shall not!” cried the older lad fiercely. “I had decided already to leave Oakdale to-morrow; we’ll leave to-night – we’ll slip away at once. Keep still, Jerry, and I’ll make all the preparations.”

“But what if that man should come – what if he should come before we can start?”

“He’ll have to get here in a hurry to find us.”

Indeed, it did not take Ben Stone long to make a bundle of the few belongings he felt he must take. A great deal of his poor personal property he had resolved to abandon for the time being, confident that Mrs. Jones would take care of everything for him. Sometime when there was no longer danger he could recover it all.

“We’ll get out of the house without saying a word to anybody,” said Ben. “That’s the best way, although I hate to do it, for we seem to be running away like criminals.”

At the last moment, smitten by regret because fancied necessity seemed to compel him to leave without bidding the kind widow good-by, he seized a piece of brown paper and the stub of a pencil and sat down to write a few words of farewell – Jerry urging him to hasten even while he was scribbling. This was what he wrote:

“My Dear Mrs. Jones: —

“I’ll never be able to thank you enough for all your kindness to me and to my little blind brother. I’m forced to do what I am doing, though I regret it very much. I wish I might say good-by to you and to Jimmy, but I do not dare. I know I shall always be ashamed and sorry for this last thing I have done, but I couldn’t help it. I hope you’ll forgive me and always think as well of me as you can, no matter what you may hear about me.”

At this point Jerry’s impatient pleading could be no longer resisted, and, hastily signing his name, Ben left the note of farewell where it could not be overlooked by Mrs. Jones. With all possible stealth they descended the stairs and got softly out of the house.

The night had come on overcast and dark, heavy clouds veiling the moon. A raw wind, chill and dank, came from the east, soughing fitfully through the bare limbs of the trees and sending fallen leaves scurrying along the ground. Just outside the gate Ben turned to look back at the lighted windows. Mamie, accompanying herself on the melodeon, was singing, and there was a choking sensation in Ben’s throat as he listened.

“Come,” entreated Jerry; and they fled on past the silent academy, the gym and the athletic field – on into the bleak night. The blind boy had brought his violin, and it was swung by the cord over his back.

With the village behind them, Ben paused once more to look around. The lights of Oakdale twinkled far down the road. It was there he had dreamed pleasant dreams; it was there he had fought his fight until victory seemed within his grasp; but those dreams were over, and he had been conquered by cruel fate in the hour of his triumph. Fear, which frequently perverts the soundest judgment, had forced him, without reasoning or sober thought, into this flight by night.

They went on, and soon a barren shoulder of Turkey Hill shut out those lights and they were alone on the highway that led to the northwest.

“We’ll be followed, Ben,” said Jerry apprehensively. “What can we do?”

“If you, blind and alone, save for Pilot, could avoid pursuers so long, surely together we must find it a simpler matter. Trust me. This is not the first time I have been forced into running away.”

“I know – I know; but they didn’t try to catch you, Ben. They let you go and thought it good riddance. Now it’s different.”

“I don’t understand why they should put themselves to so much trouble and expense to find you, Jerry, and shut you up in an institution. Perhaps they’ll give it up after a while.”

Hand in hand they went on through the black night. At times Pilot, having trotted a short distance ahead, would pause to peer at them through the blackness, and whine. The wind moaned across the open spaces and crashed the limbs of trees together while they were passing through strips of woods. The dampness in the atmosphere added to the penetration of the chill, and Jerry’s teeth chattered.

They came to Barville, ten miles from Oakdale, and were in the outskirts of the dark and silent village before they were aware of it. They were tempted to try to circle round the place, fearing someone might see them, but only two or three dim lights gleamed faintly from windows, and not a soul did they encounter on the streets of the town. Once a dog barked in a house they were passing, but Jerry was swift enough in bidding Pilot be still to prevent the little animal from answering.

Beyond Barville they paused to rest, and Ben, hearing Jerry’s teeth chatter, persisted in pulling off his coat and buttoning it about the blind lad’s shoulders. In this manner the violin on Jerry’s back was protected when, later, a fine, drizzling rain began.

“But you’ll be wet through, Ben, and you’ll catch cold,” said Jerry. “I wish you’d take your coat.”

“I’m all right,” laughed the elder brother. “I’m tough, and there’s never anything the matter with me. Perhaps we can find shelter somewhere.”

The rain, driven in the teeth of the wind, soon drenched him through; and when at last he perceived near the road an old barn with no house at hand, even Ben was more than willing to stop.

“I think the house must have burned down,” he said, “for there isn’t any to be seen. It’s a good place, Jerry. We must be eighteen or twenty miles from Oakdale. We can stop here and keep out of sight all through the day, if necessary.”

So they tried the door of the barn and found it unfastened. In the black darkness they felt their way cautiously, at last climbing upon a haymow, where Jerry sank down exhausted.

“Perhaps they’ll give it up when they find we’re gone, Ben,” said the blind boy, shivering. “Maybe they won’t try to follow us.”

“Maybe not. We’ll hope so, anyway. Bern Hayden will be glad when he finds out. He’ll rejoice over it.”

They burrowed into the hay and talked for a time of various plans, while gradually, in spite of their drenched condition, the heat of their bodies as they snuggled close together warmed them through. Pilot crept up against Jerry and contented himself. The wind swept against the old barn and moaned through cracks, while the rain beat unceasingly upon the roof.

Ben thought of Bern Hayden’s fine home, and he had a wrestle with the bitter resentment against fate which sought to claim him. At first it seemed that everything in the world was wrong and that those who least deserved it, or did not deserve it at all, were most favored by fortune; but then he remembered Roger, to whose home he had been welcomed, and he knew that some who were worthy were privileged to bask in prosperity’s sunshine.

Finally the mournful sweep of the wind and the fitful beating of rain lulled his senses, and he slept – slept to dream of Hayden leering triumphantly upon him. In his sleep he muttered:

“Wait – wait; my time will come!”

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE ARREST

A lance of sunshine, piercing a crack in the old barn, struck squarely into Ben Stone’s eyes and awoke him. For a few moments he lay still without comprehending, the odor of the haymow in his nostrils; his head alone was uncovered by the hay into which the fugitives had burrowed. High up in the peak of the barn the morning light streamed in through a broken, dusty, cobwebby window; with the passing of the night the storm had passed also, and the new day was bright and fair.

Ben turned his head slowly, softly, and saw his brother sleeping beside him, which sight brought back with a rush the memories of recent events leading up to and including the flight by night from Oakdale. They were fugitives, he and Jerry – fugitives and wanderers upon the face of the earth.

Jerry awoke; the sightless eyes unclosed and a faint smile crept over his face. “Ben,” he called, moving a hand to touch the lad at his side – “Ben, is it you?”

“Yes, Jerry. Did I wake you up? I didn’t mean to do so.”

“Oh, I’m glad you did; I’m glad to know we’re together again. It is morning.”

“Yes, it is morning; the sun is shining.”

“I’m warm and dry and comfortable now. I was so wet and cold when we found this place last night!”

“It was a mean old night. If it hadn’t stormed, we’d got a much bigger start – we’d be lots further away from Oakdale now.”

“We’d better stay here all day long, Ben, for anyone won’t be likely to find us. That’s the way I did at first – hid in the daytime and traveled at night.”

“But we brought no food, and we must have something to eat. I’m afraid you’re hungry now, Jerry.”

“Oh, not a bit,” was the assurance. “It ain’t so hard for a feller to go all day without eating if he only tries; I know, for haven’t I done it lots of times! Perhaps when night comes again we’ll be able to find something to eat somehow.”

“I have money,” said Ben. “I can buy food.”

“But if you try it now somebody who sees you may send word back to Oakdale. Please don’t try it now, Ben, for truly I’m not hungry. Where’s Pilot?”

For the first time they thought of the little dog, and, to their surprise and dismay, he was gone. Ben, however, was far more concerned than Jerry over this.

“He’ll come back,” declared the blind boy. “He’s gone to hunt for his breakfast, and I know he’ll come back; he always does.”

They lay there for some time, talking of the past and planning for the future. The ray of sunshine that had aroused Ben crept on across the mow, leaving them in shadow, and presently Jerry once more betrayed tokens of drowsiness, slumber again claiming him at last.

“Poor little chap!” murmured Ben with infinite tenderness. “You’ve had a hard time of it, but I’m going to stick by you now and take care of you always. I can do it, and I will.”

The silence in the barn was so profound that he could hear crickets fiddling in the thickets of brown, rain-washed grass outside. With a clatter of hoofs and a rumble of wheels, a horse and carriage passed on the road near by. Ben listened till the sounds died out in the distance, and then after a time he likewise slept once more.

It was the barking of Pilot that next aroused the brothers, and the little dog came scrambling up onto the low mow and sniffed around them, whining strangely. He barked again, a short, sharp note, whereupon Jerry clutched his brother with both hands, whispering excitedly:

“Danger, Ben – danger! Pilot is trying to tell us.”

Even as these words were uttered they heard the voices of men and the tramp of heavy feet. One of Jerry’s hands found Pilot’s collar, and beneath that touch the dog crouched upon the hay and was still.

There seemed to be two men. “The critter sartainly come right in here,” said one of them. “Mebbe ’tain’t the same dorg, but he answers the deescription the Widder Jones give; and it’s mighty queer a dorg should be hookin’ it round here, where there ain’t no houses nigher than a quarter of a mile.”