Wally's first impulse had been to get to the scene of excitement at the earliest possible moment, in order to lose nothing of the spectacle. Like most boys, he regarded himself as unfairly treated if fun was going on in which he had no share. But here he had met an obstacle. He was alone—and, as everybody knows, a boy can have no fun alone. Moreover, when he came to think of it, he had really done nothing and seen nothing. He had no tale to tell the boys the next morning that would not be met with "Then what did you do?" Close on the heels of these impressions followed the reflection that it was a dirty trick to play on the captain of the nine in the baseball season, that Poole was a friend of his, and that the kidnappers belonged to a class to which by all rules of tradition and custom his own class was to be antagonistic. Poole's pre[Pg 225]dicament appealed to his sympathy. When he imagined the insolent delight of the captors at the success of their raid, they seemed in some way his own enemies, striking at him. Would the seniors find their president and bring him back? He sincerely hoped they might.
Wally mounted his bicycle and rode homeward. As he went a great purpose gradually swelled his heart and put force into his pedal strokes. He left the bicycle at the usual place, but avoided the front door as too perilous and crept in through the kitchen and up the backstairs to his room. There he pulled on a dark jersey, slipped into his pocket the flash lamp which Uncle Joe had given him at Christmas, and crept out by the kitchen door again to his faithful wheel.
Ten minutes later Wally sat in his canoe, paddling vigorously up the river. Dusk had faded into darkness, but the stars gave appreciable light, and the river was familiar to him. He knew every turn and shallow in the stream, every clump of bushes on the banks, every group of trees, every leaning stump. He passed the wide mouth of Little River, lying silent at the[Pg 226] foot of the new Playing Field, and entered the straight stretch beside the Park, where the tall, overhanging trees on either side and the sluggish, murky water beneath formed a gloomy tunnel through which the wind blew, chill and dispiriting. But Wally was not one to be frightened by the bugaboo of darkness; the mysterious depths had no terrors for him. His work kept him warm, despite the wind, while the strip of stars above his head cheered with their friendly presence. He could see, too, on the water, not clearly but well enough to make his course; and his thoughts, set eagerly on his destination, were unaffected by the perils of the way.
So the little craft pushed its nose steadily upward against wind and current, while the gurgle of water from the paddle was hardly audible above the sighing of the wind through the naked branches.
And now he was abreast of the entrance to the cove, a broad inlet stretching deep into the woods, and crossed midway by a causeway and bridge. Over the bridge led the forest road along which[Pg 227] the kidnappers had taken their victim. It came out close to the river again beyond the next point, and Wally, fearful that hostile eyes might peer at him from the darkness, put into practice the trick of silent paddling he had learned the summer before,—dipping the blade vertically into the water and lifting it cautiously at the end of the stroke. Another bend would bring him in sight of his goal!
The sound of voices and of laughter reached his ears and set his heart beating hard. Some one was thrashing about in the undergrowth, sticks were being broken; as he advanced the glint of fire flashed occasionally past the tree trunks. They were there! As he rounded the last point, the scene was partially revealed. He worked his way still farther along the bank to a tree which sagged over the river, affording a protecting shadow. From here he had a satisfactory view.
They had built a fire near the bank. Some one—it looked like Barclay—was piling fuel on. Around were standing or moving a dozen fellows, while against a big oak in the background, stand[Pg 228]ing as if his hands were tied behind him, was Poole. The flames, flaring up through a fresh armful of brush, threw a bright light on the faces of those beyond, behind whose moving figures Poole's form was alternately eclipsed and revealed. The whole scene reminded Wally of an incident in one of his favorite Indian tales, in which young braves dance around their camp-fire and jeer at their captive bound to a tree.
When Wally played Indians with his boy friends he always chose the part of the white man taken captive rather than of the Indian captors. He chose the same part now. Over behind Poole's tree was a clump of spruces in which he and another boy had once hidden for an hour, while the Indians vainly searched the woods all about them. A big rock was there, with side sloping outward in an overhang and a group of young spruces growing close against the edge. If Poole could escape like the white captive in the story, what an elegant hiding-place lay ready at hand! Wally slipped his moorings and let his canoe drift back around the point. Then he made fast the painter to a root, and went cautiously ashore.
[Pg 229]
Poole had obeyed the false summons to the telephone office without a suspicion. Even when the elderly stranger in the hack had beckoned to him, he had hesitated only from reluctance to waste time already pledged to other uses, not from any fear of treachery. When, therefore, he felt himself precipitated into the carriage, he was for the moment too much surprised by the sudden attack to reason about the situation. Instinctively he turned to strike back at the fellows who were amusing themselves in this cheap way by shoving him into a carriage. As he fell, he brought down the old man's beard, and the old man's very muscular arms folded about him, while Milliken and Barclay came diving in upon them both. Then when it was too late the true explanation flashed upon him.
They held him securely pinioned, with Milliken's big hand covering his mouth, and all three urging continuously their great regret at being compelled to use such rough measures, the folly of any attempt to escape or make outcry, and the wisdom of submitting calmly to the inevitable, during the rapid but somewhat roundabout drive[Pg 230] to the Gilman barn. Once out of hearing of the street they stopped the hack, got out with their burden, and took the remainder of the way on foot, the exulting company surrounding the captive in a mock bodyguard and paying sarcastic homage. Puzzle his brains as he would, Poole could see no chance of escape. His only hope was that his classmates would not wait long for his appearance.
Among the pines, while some prepared material for the fire, others argued with the prisoner. If he would give his word not to escape, they would leave him unbound. But Poole was not to be persuaded. He was there by force, and force alone should keep him. He would make no promises; they must take ful............