Part 22 (1/2)

Being guided by directions which Tom gave them, they found how a road wound through the woods to the road, striking the main thoroughfare just above where they had come out on their previous trip, and with the toll-gate in sight.

”Here's where we gain something, boys,” Fred told them, ”and this Good Samaritan job may count in our favor next week when we make that run.”

Fred had been thoughtful enough to write a little note, addressed to the owner of the wretched outfit, whose name it seemed was Ezekial Parsons.

In it he explained just how they happened to find poor Tom, and that they had borrowed the rig to get him to his home, where he could have proper care.

He had also promised that the horse and wagon should be returned in due time, and hinted that his father and mother might be expected to run up and make the acquaintance of the old couple who had been so kind to Tom, although not really able to keep a hand about the place.

The man at the toll-gate stared, as well he might, when that antiquated rig came in sight, with the four boys partly bundled in faded horse blankets and gunny-sacks. The weather had not yet cleared, and the air was chilly for fellows as devoid of clothing as runners always are.

When he heard about the accident that had happened to Tom, he was loud in his praise of the action of the boys in giving up their trial spin just to get the injured boy home.

”If I had a hoss myself, I'd gladly loan him to you, boys,” he told them.

”Oh! never fear but we'll be able to get there before sun-down,”

laughingly declared Fred, while Bristles ran around in front, and held the measure of oats close to the nose of the horse, starting him to snorting wildly, and taking a step forward in the effort to obtain the feed, kept so tantalizingly just beyond his reach.

Bristles continued backing away, and always keeping just so far in front, so that the horse was impelled to move along quite briskly. If he lagged at any time the measure was moved closer, and once Bristles even let him thrust his nose into it.

On the wagon the boys had a very merry time of it, singing, and laughing at the actions of the poor old horse.

”Please don't excite him too much, Bristles,” begged Sid, ”for he's likely to strain so he'll smash this beautiful harness all to flinders.”

So they kept up the work, Bristles and Colon between them dancing on ahead, and tempting the animal between the shafts to renewed exertions.

With that measure of oats held within smelling distance of his nose he kept plodding steadily along, and mile after mile was placed in their rear.

Once they halted, and watered old Dominick at a wayside spring, besides letting him have a delightful five-minute communion with the oat crop.

Then the forward movement was begun, again, and the boy who held the measure of oats continued to dance just ahead of the deluded Dominick.

It was about two o'clock on that Sat.u.r.day afternoon when a great commotion broke out in the outskirts of Riverport. Boys and girls flocked to the spot, and loud cheers rent the air. Indeed, plenty of people actually made sure that the circus must have arrived ahead of time, and as this was an event in which every citizen was supposed to be interested, since he would be compelled to take his youngsters to the show, plenty of men were in the throng that gathered.

Dogs barked, chickens set up a cackling and crowing, and there was a perfect Bedlam of sounds along the main street. Down this came that wonderful vehicle with sundry creaks and dismal groanings, as though threatening to break down at any minute. Ahead strode a boy in running costume, tempting the tired old horse to walk along by holding a peck measure under his nose, and occasionally just letting him snap up a few of the oats.

Three other fellows sat in the wagon some of them trying to keep warm by covering themselves with gunny-sacks, and all laughing, and joining in the cheers of the crowd.

Of course everybody thought it was only a boyish prank, but when they saw the old wagon draw up in front of the Flanders home, and then those four boys start to gently lift a figure out from the bed of the vehicle, the noise ceased as if by magic.

”Why, it's sure enough Tom Flanders come back home, after his folks had given him up for lost!” one good woman told a new arrival. ”They do say Fred and the running boys found him up-country, where he'd broke his leg.

Poor fellow, he looks that peaked and pale I reckon he's had a terrible time. And see how his maw hangs over him, like she was the happiest woman in all Riverport this day. And we all hope that Tom'll turn over a new leaf after this, and make his folks proud of him. But wasn't it fine of Fred and his friends to bring him home that way?”

And certainly, when those four lads witnessed the wild delight of that mother and father at having their only son restored to them again, as well as noted how the erring boy cried when he allowed himself to be carried into the house, none of them had the slightest reason to regret that circ.u.mstances had caused them to take refuge from the storm in that old barn standing near the trail through the woods.

CHAPTER XXI

THE GREATEST OF DAYS

When the day set for the great Marathon race came around, everybody in Riverport agreed that the weather clerk had certainly outdone himself in order to give the runners an ideal occasion. There was not a cloud in the sky. Then, while the air was sparkling and inclined to be cool, the breeze was not so strong that it would make running difficult.