Part 10 (1/2)

BRISTLES' SURPRISE PARTY

”That's a queer coincidence, if you'd care to call it by that name,”

remarked Colon, who liked once in a while to make use of some long word.

”It simply shows that we had long heads when we made up our minds to lug this old tramp dog all the way here, just to prove our story,” Fred observed.

”That was your scheme, Fred, all right,” Bristles quickly a.s.serted.

”No more than the rest of you,” he was instantly told, for Fred never liked to be given sole credit for anything unusual, when he had chums along. ”All the same, I guess the old farmer will be tickled half to death to know the sheep-killing pack has been broken up for good.”

”You think our knocking the leader out is going to do that, do you, Fred?” asked Colon.

”In nine cases out of ten that's the way things go. There's a keystone to every arch, and when you remove that, the whole thing tumbles down.”

”My idea to a dot,” a.s.serted Bristles, doggedly. ”Chances are the rest of those curs have started on the run for their old homes before this; and unless another leader springs up, which isn't likely, we've seen the last of the sheep-killers. But hold on, fellows, perhaps we can have a little fun with the old farmer.”

”How?” asked Colon, not at all unwilling.

”He doesn't seem to be about his wagon just now, you notice?” ventured Bristles.

”Knows the toll-gate keeper right well,” explained Colon, ”because he's been coming past here, year in and year out, a long time now. Like as not he's stepped in to sit and talk, or else sample something wet. But I hope now, Bristles, you don't mean to start the team off on the run, or something like that, just to see an old man rush after 'em?”

”What d'ye take me for?” demanded the other, indignantly. ”I leave all such mean tricks to Buck Lemington, Clem Shooks, Ben Cus.h.i.+ng and that crowd. Here's where we might play an innocent little joke on the farmer, and he'll laugh as hard as we do when he catches on. It's the dog---let's sneak up back of the wagon, and lift the thing in. Then you leave the rest to me.”

Colon waited to hear what Fred said. He was accustomed to depending to some extent on the opinion of this chum, to whom the boys usually looked as their leader.

”I should think that was fair enough, Bristles,” Fred quickly announced.

”We're intending to give the farmer a pleasant little surprise party, that's all. Have it your way, then. Here, let's move around a little, so they won't sight us from the open door of the toll-gate house.”

It was a very simple matter to do this, and presently they had deposited the already stiffening body of the sheep-destroying dog in the bed of the wagon, where it certainly presented a very gruesome appearance, with its four feet sticking up in the air.

This done, the boys walked around, and onto the little porch that was spread out before the door of the cottage.

Voices reached their ears, and it was evident that their presence had been discovered, for two men immediately came out. Bristles noticed that the old farmer was even then brus.h.i.+ng the back of his hand across his lips, thus indicating that he had been sampling a gla.s.s of hard cider, a specialty of the toll-gate keeper.

”h.e.l.lo! Mr. Jenks!” remarked Bristles, who, it seemed, knew the keeper.

”We're up here to look over the ground for the big Marathon race that's coming off before long.”

The farmer had started toward his team, but hearing this, he stopped to listen.

”I reckoned as much as soon as I see you boys in your running togs,” the tollgate keeper went on to say, affably enough, ”because there was a gent up here only yesterday that said he represented the committee, and that they expected to have what they called a registering station here at the toll-gate, though I don't just know what that really means.”

”Why, you see, in a long gruelling run of twenty-five miles,” explained Bristles, ”it's necessary to have certain places a few miles apart, and especially at turns in the course, where every contestant enters his name in his own handwriting, as well as the time he pa.s.sed there.”

”You don't tell me!” exclaimed Mr. Jenks. ”But what's all that tomfoolery for? Strikes me they go to a heap of trouble for next to nothing.”

”Why, you see,” continued Bristles, ”these races have to be above suspicion. The committee doesn't want anybody to be able to say there was any crooked work about the run. The fellow who wins must have beaten every compet.i.tor fairly. And by this system of registering they have a complete record of the race. No one can cut across lots and cheat, without its showing in the record.”