Barry Locke, half-back
could he find the step with his right foot. All he could do was hold
agonizingly with that one hand. Beside him the rocky bank of the cut
rushed past, at times dangerously close. To let go would mean certain
injury, if not death; indeed, it seemed hardly possible that, dropping,
he would not be hurled beneath the wheels. He cried out frantically,
but the noise of the train, doubled as it was thrown back by the rocky
wall, almost drowned his voice. It seemed to Clyde that he had dangled
there many minutes, although in reality his plight had lasted but a few
seconds, when absolute terror came to him with the knowledge that his
grasp on the rail was slipping. One trailing foot struck the end of a
tie and he drew his legs up and put his remaining breath in a shrill,
agonized shout.
Barry had remained on the car platform until the train was well under
way, ignorant of the narrow escape from being left behind that had
threatened the handful of adventurous youths who had gone back to the
bridge, an escape that had moved the remaining occupants of the car to
laughter. Slamming the door behind him, he stepped back to his seat
beside Smythe and settled his feet again on his suit-case.
As he did so a sound came to him above the rattle and jar of the train,
a sound that startled him until he laid it to the screeching of the
wheel flanges against the curving rails. It came again as, discovering
that his backward thrust at the door had failed to close it, he
once more arose and approached the platform. As he stood there, the
door-knob in his hand, the strange sound fell once more on his ears and
seemed to turn his heart over. Instinctively he sprang outside, drawing
the door shut behind him, and stared about. The platforms and steps of
the swaying cars were empty. Still shaken, he turned to reënter the
coach and saw a straining hand clasped about a railing.
CHAPTER XXIII
EVEN-STEVEN
“You’d better stay out here a minute,” said Barry, “and get your
breath.”
Clyde, seated on the platform, his back against the car, nodded
silently. His lungs still fought convulsively for air, but the blood
was coming slowly back to his white cheeks. Barry, who had displayed
no hesitation, felt no fear when he had pulled the other back to
safety, now found himself rather faint and wabbly and was glad enough
to accept the advice he had offered to Clyde. He crouched by the other
for several minutes while the train, meeting stiffer opposition now,
labored slowly up the mountain. Finally Clyde gave a long sigh and
spoke shakily:
“Thanks, Barry. I――I couldn’t have held on another moment.” He
shuddered. “Gosh, that was fierce!”
“Must have been,” agreed Barry, none too firmly. “All right now?”
“In a minute,” Clyde muttered. “My arm――” With a trembling hand he
explored his right shoulder. “I guess it won’t be much good for a
while. I had my whole weight on it, you see. I couldn’t get hold of
anything with the other hand. Just dangled there. Couldn’t have held
much longer. Afraid to drop. Kept thinking of the wheels. Ugh!”
“Better forget it now and come inside,” said Barry. “Fellows will be
wondering where you are.”
“Rather they didn’t know, Barry. You won’t say anything? Don’t believe
any one saw, eh? I’ll stay here. We’ll be there in a few minutes. I’m
all right now, but――I’d rather not go inside.” He took a deep breath
and attempted a smile.
Barry wished there weren’t the matter of that letter between them. He
wanted to speak warmly, but he couldn’t. All he could do was to ask
carelessly:
“Want me to bring you some water?”
Clyde seemed not to notice anything lacking in the other’s voice or
manner. He shook his head.
“I’m all right,” he repeated. “Just want to sit still a minute longer.”
Barry started to scramble up, but Clyde went on with:
“I guess it’s even-Steven now, Barry. Fifty-fifty, eh? I saved your
life that time and now you’ve saved mine. Funny!”
“Well, you might have rolled clear of the wheels,” replied Barry,
unemotionally.
“Not a chance! I’d have hit the bank and rolled right under. I’m sure
of it. Well――” Clyde drew another long breath――“well, I didn’t, old
man, and you’re to thank for it.” A hand groped for Barry’s and Barry
took it. Clyde’s clasp was almost painful.
“Thanks,” he said simply.
“That’s――all right.” Barry climbed hurriedly to his feet. “I’d better
go back,” he muttered. “There’s the whistle now.”
Larry Smythe turned from the contemplation of the scenery and gave
Barry a long questioning stare.
“You’re a real fresh-air fiend,” he observed. “What have you been doing
out there? Counting cinders? You’ve collected a good many, by the way.”
Barry laughed and tugged at his suit-case.
“Guess we’re about there, Larry,” he said. “Get a move on you!”
In the confusion of arrival Clyde escaped notice. A few minutes later
the march up the trail had begun, and bags, while lightly packed,
became increasingly burdensome. But every one remained cheerful to
the end of the journey, although after a while conversation and song
petered out. Clyde had elected to walk with Barry, but, to the latter’s
relief, was almost silent.
The cabin proved to be a huge log structure fronted by a low, unrailed
porch. Already the big stone chimney was sending smoke into the
deepening dusk as the expedition came within sight of it, and an
approving cheer arose. Joey, one of the school cooks, appeared at the
doorway and waved a mighty carving-knife in response. Joey and an
assistant had been up there since early forenoon, and everything was in
readiness. One end of the cabin held the bunks. At the other was the
big fireplace and a long pine table facing it, a table sufficient to
accommodate many more than were to gather about it now, and which, even
so, escaped the walls on each side by several yards. A near-by door
gave a glimpse of a lean-to kitchen and emitted the fragrant smoke of
broiling steaks.
The great building, beamed with gleaming birch logs, glowed with the
mellow light of the crackling fire and was alive with dancing shadows.
While the arrivals trooped in, shouting joyously, and chose their
bunks by the simple expedient of tossing their bags upon them, the
hanging lamps were lighted. Through the open, unpaned windows along
the front the tops of the trees showed below, dropping away until at
a distance, seen in the first darkness, they gave the appearance of a
dark-hued carpet. It was chill but sparkling, that mountain air, and
Barry found his depression gone before a sudden feeling of buoyancy and
well-being and――yes, most certainly――ravenous hunger!
It was all very merry, very noisy, very jolly during the half-hour
before supper. If any one thought of the morrow’s test, at least none
spoke of it, nor would he have been suspected of dwelling on it. There
were singing and a deal of laughter and a few practical jokes, and
presently Joey appeared with the first platter and a jovial shout
of, “Come get it!” After that, for a long while, comparative silence
reigned, a silence that was itself a tribute to Joey’s talent.
After supper many of the party went out to the long, deep veranda
and watched the stars sparkling in a frosty sky and the home lights,
tiny yellow pin-points, gleaming in the valley. Hal Stearns, who had
observed with evident disapproval Clyde’s renewed intimacy with
Barry, bore the former away to an end of the porch. Barry, feeling
very peaceful and very lazy, stretched himself flat on his back,
his legs over the edge of the porch floor, and gave himself up to
thought. A few yards away Captain Buckley and three or four others were
talking busily, and Barry’s ruminations were at first punctuated with
the frequent rounds of laughter. But presently his thoughts took so
interesting a turn that he was no longer conscious of neighbors.
When most of a half-hour had passed he sat up abruptly and climbed to
his feet. Clyde and Hal and Goof Ellingham were seated at the end of
the porch, and as Barry approached he heard the conclusion of a remark
of Goof’s:
“And Al said he understood Rusty had been given a cut until to-morrow,
the lucky beggar!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Hal, yawning. “This isn’t so rotten, Goof!”
“Clyde,” asked Barry, “may I see you a minute?”
“Sure!” Clyde’s response was prompt, even cordial, but it held
surprise. He joined Barry and the latter led the way across the small
plateau on which the cabin was built, to a ledge that jutted out from
the end of the trail. Clyde said:
“We were talking about Rusty Waterman. He didn’t come along, and Al
Sampson says the Major gave him a cut.”
“I noticed he wasn’t with us,” replied Barry. Then: “You said a while
back, Clyde, that I’d saved your life,” he said.
“I say it again,” asserted Clyde. “You sure did, Barry!”
“And that we were even on that score.”
“One-all,” agreed Clyde.
“Then,” went on the other, “I don’t owe you anything, as I see it. I
mean there isn’t any reason now why I ought to let gratitude stand in
the way of――of straight talk.”
“Why, no,” said Clyde, in a puzzled tone. “But I don’t see what you’re
getting at, youngster.”
“I’ll tell you. We’ve been friends――sort of――for a good while, Clyde,
and――”
“‘Sort of’! Where do you get that? We’ve been mighty good friends! Of
course I know that lately I haven’t――well――hang it, Barry――I’ve been
rather a blighter. I’ve wanted to tell you this for a week or so, but
you’ve been pretty upstage with me and I didn’t get a chance. Fact
is――” Clyde paused, evidently searching for words, and Barry cut in.
“That part’s all right,” he said. “I can forgive that, but that letter
is different, Clyde. That――that’s――”
“What letter?”
“You know, I guess,” Barry answered patiently. “The letter to Coach
Prince.” He dropped his voice cautiously, although the darkness held no
others nearer than the porch. “I want to talk about that, Clyde, and
get it off my chest. Maybe you didn’t mean――”
“But――suffering cats!” interrupted Clyde. “I don’t know what you’re
talking about!”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Barry asked:
“Honest, Clyde? You mean that you didn’t write it? Or have a hand in
it?”
“I don’t know what _it_ is!” exclaimed the other, in an exasperated
voice. “I haven’t written any letter to any coach――hang it!”
“Gosh!” said Barry, softly. “Gosh, that’s great! I thought of course――”
“What letter is it?” demanded Clyde, impatiently.
Barry told him all the circumstances, while Clyde expressed bewilderment
and resentment, by various sounds that were not quite words. And when
Barry had explained, Clyde had many questions to ask, and got so excited
and angry that the other had to caution him against being overheard.
“Whoever pulled that stunt ought to get kicked out of school!” declared
Clyde, hotly. “And――and you thought it was me!”
“I didn’t want to,” said Barry, “but I couldn’t help it. You said that
night in your room that you’d see that I didn’t play against Hoskins――”
“But――great Scott!――I was only talking, you idiot! I was mad, all
right, that time, I’ll own, but――but――say, you make me tired! You ought
to know me well enough to know that I wouldn’t pull a dirty trick like
that, Barry!”
“I’m sorry,” said the other. “But you did say it, and just as if you
meant it; and then there was that typewriter of yours that printed the
B’s above the line.”
“Yes, that’s so,” Clyde admitted, somewhat mollified. “And that’s
funny, too. Look here, you don’t suppose Hal――”
“I thought of him,” replied Barry “but he wouldn’t have any reason,
would he?”
“He might have,” murmured Clyde, thoughtfully. “But――hang it,
Barry!――there may be other machines that print the B’s crazy.”
“Of course, there must be. You didn’t write the letter, and I don’t