Czytaj książkę: «Bobby Blake on the School Nine: or, The Champions of the Monatook Lake League»

CHAPTER I
FLYING SNOWBALLS

“Ouch!”

“That was a dandy!”

“How’s that for a straight shot?”

“Thought you could dodge it, did you?”

“Have a heart, fellows! I’ve got a ton of snow down my back already.”

A tumult of shouts and laughter rose into the frosty air from a group of boys, ranging in age from ten to twelve years, who were throwing and dodging snowballs near the railroad station in the little town of Clinton.

Even the fact that four of the group were on their way back to school after the Christmas holidays was not sufficient to dampen their youthful spirits, and the piles of snow heaped up back of the platform had been too tempting to resist.

As though moved by a single spring they had dropped the bags they were carrying, and the next instant the air was full of flying snowballs. Most of them found their mark, though a few in the excitement of the fray passed dangerously near the station windows.

Flushed and eager, the panting warriors advanced or retreated, until a stray missile just grazed the ear of the baggage man, who was wheeling a load of trunks along the platform. He gave a roar of protest, and the boys thought it was time to stop. But they did it reluctantly.

“Too bad to stop right in the middle of the fun,” said Bobby Blake, a bright wholesome boy of about eleven years, with a frank face and merry brown eyes.

“Bailey’s got a grouch on this morning,” remarked Fred Martin, better known among the boys as “Ginger,” because of his red hair and equally fiery temper.

“I never saw him any other way,” put in “Scat” Monroe, one of the village boys, who had come down to the station to bid his friends good-bye. “I don’t believe Bailey ever was a boy.”

“Oh, I guess he was – once,” said Bobby, with the air of one making a generous concession, “but it was so long ago that he’s forgotten all about it.”

“Perhaps you’d be grouchy too if you came near being hit,” ventured Betty Martin, Fred’s sister, “especially if you weren’t getting any fun out of it.”

Betty formed one of a party of girls who bad accompanied the boys to the station to see them off. With flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, these girls had stood huddled together like a flock of snowbirds, watching the friendly scuffle and giving a little squeal occasionally when a snowball came too close to them.

Fred looked at his sister coldly. He was very fond of Betty, but as the only boy in a large family of girls, he felt it was incumbent on him to maintain the dignity of the male sex. He had pronounced ideas on the necessity of keeping girls in their place, and Betty was something of a trial to him because she refused to be squelched.

“Of course, girls feel that way,” he said loftily. “They’re afraid of the least little thing. But men aren’t such scare-cats.”

“Men!” sniffed Betty scornfully. “You don’t call yourself a man, do you?”

“Well, I’m going to be some day,” her brother retorted, “and that’s more than you can say.”

This was undeniable, and Fred felt that he had scored a point.

Betty was reduced to the defensive.

“I wouldn’t want to be,” she rejoined rather feebly.

Fred cast a proud look around.

“Sour grapes!” he ejaculated.

Then, elated by his success, he sought rather imprudently to follow it up.

“As for me,” he declared, “I wouldn’t care how hard I was hit. I’d only laugh.”

Betty saw an opening.

“You wouldn’t dare let me throw one at you,” she challenged, her eyes dancing.

Fred went into pretended convulsions.

“You throw!” he jeered. “A girl throw! Why! you couldn’t hit the – the side of a house,” he ended lamely, his invention failing.

“I couldn’t, eh?” cried Betty, a little nettled. “Well, you just stand up against that post and see if I can’t.”

Fred was somewhat startled by her prompt answer to his taunt, but it would never do to show the white feather.

“All right,” he responded, and took up his position, while Betty stood some twenty feet away.

The laughing group of boys and girls gathered around her, and Bobby and Scat began to make snowballs for Betty.

“No, you don’t!” cried Fred. “I know you fellows. You’ll make soakers. Let Betty make her own snowballs.”

“What do you care, if you’re so sure she can’t hit you?” said Bobby slyly.

“Never you mind,” replied Fred, ignoring the thrust. “You leave all that to Betty.”

The boys desisted and Betty made her own missiles.

“How many chances do I have?” she asked. “Will you give me three shots?”

“Three hundred if you like,” replied her brother grandly. “It’s all the same to me.”

He stiffened up sternly against the post. Somewhere he had seen a picture of Ajax defying the lightning, and he hoped that he looked like that.

Betty poised herself to throw, but at the last moment her tender heart misgave her.

“I – I’m afraid I’ll hurt you,” she faltered.

“Aw, go ahead,” urged “Mouser” Pryde, one of the four lads who were leaving for school.

“Aim right at his head,” added “Pee Wee” Wise, another schoolmate who was to accompany Bobby and Fred to Rockledge.

“You can’t miss that red mop of his,” put in Scat heartlessly.

“N-no,” said Betty, dropping her hand to her side. “I guess I don’t want to.”

Fred scented an easy victory, but made a mistake by not being satisfied to let well enough alone.

“She knows she can’t hit me and she’s afraid to try,” he gibed.

The light of battle began to glow in Betty’s eyes, but still she stood irresolute.

“I’ll give you a cent if you hit me,” pursued Fred.

“My! isn’t he reckless with his money?” mocked Pee Wee.

“He talks like a millionaire,” added Mouser.

“A whole cent,” mused Bobby.

Fred flushed.

“Make it a nickel, then,” he said. “And if that isn’t enough, I’ll give you a dime,” he added, in a final burst of generosity.

“Have you got it?” Betty asked suspiciously. She knew that Fred was usually in a state of bankruptcy.

“I’ve got it all right,” retorted her brother, “and what’s more I’m going to keep it, because you couldn’t hit anything in a thousand years.”

Whether it was the taunt or the dime or both, Betty was spurred to action. She hesitated no longer, but picked up a snowball and threw it at the fair mark that Fred presented.

It went wide and Fred laughed gleefully.

“Guess that dime stays right in my pocket,” he chuckled.

“Never mind, Betty,” encouraged Bobby. “You were just getting the range then. Better luck next time.”

But the next shot also failed, and Fred’s mirth became uproarious.

“I might just as well have made it a dollar,” he mocked.

But his smile suddenly faded when Betty’s third throw caught him right on the point of the nose.

Fortunately the ball was not very hard. It spread all over his face, getting into his eyes and filling his mouth, and leaving him for the moment blinded and sputtering.

The girls gave little shrieks and the boys doubled up with laughter, which increased as the victim brushed away the snow and they caught sight of his startled and sheepish face. Betty, in swift penitence, flew to his side.

“Oh, Fred!” she wailed, “I hope I didn’t hurt you!”

To do Fred justice, he was game, and after the first moment of discomfiture he tried to smile, though the attempt was not much of a success.

“That’s all right, Betty,” he said. “You’re a better shot than I thought you were. Here’s your dime,” he added, taking the coin from his pocket.

“I don’t want it,” replied Betty. “I’m sorry I won it.”

But Fred insisted and she took it, although reluctantly.

“Too bad you didn’t make it a dollar, Fred,” joked Pee Wee.

“Couldn’t hit you in a thousand years, eh?” chuckled Scat.

“Oh, cut it out, you fellows,” protested Fred. “I didn’t dodge anyway, did I? You’ve got to give me credit for that.”

“That was pretty good work for short distance shooting,” remarked Bobby Blake, molding a snowball. “But now watch me hit that rock on the other side of the road.”

“Look out that you don’t hit that horse,” cautioned Betty.

But the snowball had already left Bobby’s hand. He had thought that it would easily clear the scraggy old horse that was jogging along drawing a sleigh. But the aim was too low, and the snowball hit the horse plump in the neck.

The startled brute reared and plunged, and the driver, a big hulky boy with pale eyes and a pasty complexion, had all he could do to quiet him.

He succeeded at last, and then, grasping his whip, jumped over the side of the sleigh and came running up to the boys, his face convulsed with rage.

CHAPTER II
A FRIEND INTERFERES

“Oh,” gasped Betty, “it’s Ap Plunkit!”

“Yes,” added Fred, “and he’s as mad as a hornet.”

Applethwaite Plunkit was the son of a farmer who lived a short distance out of town. He was older and larger than the rest of the boys gathered on the station platform, and they all disliked him thoroughly because of his mean and ugly disposition.

Bobby and Fred had had several squabbles with him when he had attempted to bully them, but their quarrels had never yet got to the point of an actual fight. But just now, as he strode up to them, it looked as though a fight were coming.

Bobby was a plucky boy, and though he never went around looking for trouble, he was always willing and able to take his own part when it became necessary. But Ap was a great deal bigger and heavier than he, and just now had the advantage of the whip. So that Bobby’s breath came a little faster as Ap came nearer. But he never thought of retreating, and faced the bully with an outward calm that he was very far from feeling.

“Which one of you fellows hit my horse?” demanded Ap, in a voice that trembled with rage.

“I did,” replied Bobby, stepping forward a little in advance of the group.

“What did you do it for?” cried Ap, at the same time raising his whip.

“I didn’t aim at the horse,” replied Bobby. “I was trying to hit a rock on the other side of the road.”

“I don’t believe it,” snarled the bully.

“I can’t help whether you believe it or not,” answered Bobby. “It’s the truth.”

“You needn’t think you’re going to crawl out of it that way,” Ap snapped back. “You hit my horse on purpose and now I’m going to hit you.”

He lifted his whip higher to make good his threat. Bobby’s fists clenched and his eyes glowed.

“Don’t you touch me with that whip, Ap Plunkit,” he warned, “or it will be the worse for you.”

“You bet it will!” cried Fred, rushing forward. “You touch Bobby and we’ll all pitch into you.”

“That’s what!” ejaculated Mouser.

“Sure thing,” added Pee Wee, who, though lazy and hard to rouse, was always loyal to his friends.

For a moment it seemed as though a general scrimmage could not be avoided, and the girls gave little frightened shrieks.

Ap hesitated.

“Four against one,” he muttered sarcastically. “You’re a plucky lot, you are.”

“Throw down that whip and any one of us will tackle you,” cried Fred hotly, his fiery temper getting the better of him.

But just then a diversion came from a new quarter.

A boy who was just about equal to Ap in age and weight, who had a lot of freckles, a snub nose, a jolly Irish face and a crop of red hair that rivaled Fred’s own, pushed his way through the crowd that had gathered.

“It’s Pat Moriarty,” cried Betty in relief.

“Hello, Bobby! Hello, Fred!” called out the newcomer cheerily. “What’s the rumpus here?”

“It’s this Ap Plunkit,” explained Bobby. “I hit his horse with a snowball by accident.”

“And the big coward’s brought his whip over to get even,” volunteered Fred.

“To git even is it,” said Pat, as his eyes fell on the bully, who was beginning to move backward. “Well, I’ll give him the chanst.”

He went over rapidly to Ap.

“Why don’t you tackle a feller of your size?” he asked scornfully. “Like me, fur instance?”

“You keep out of this,” muttered Ap uneasily.

“Keep out of it!” jeered Pat pugnaciously. “A Moriarty never keeps out of a scrap when he sees a big feller pickin’ on a little one.”

With a sudden movement he snatched Ap’s whip and threw it on the ground.

Resentment flared up in Ap’s eyes.

While the two antagonists stand glaring at each other, it may be well, for the benefit of those who have not followed the fortunes and adventures of Bobby Blake from the beginning, to give a brief outline of the preceding volumes in this series.

Bobby was the only child of his parents, who resided in the little inland town of Clinton. Although their hearts were bound up in their son, they had been sensible enough not to spoil him, and he had grown into a bright, manly boy, full of fun and frolic, and a general favorite among the boys of the town.

Fred Martin, whose family lived only a few doors away from the Blakes, was Bobby’s closest friend and companion. The boys were very different in temperament, and it was this very unlikeness, perhaps, which had made them chums. Fred had a hot temper which was constantly getting him into scrapes, and Bobby, who was much cooler and more self-controlled, was kept busy a good deal of the time in getting his friend out of trouble. They seldom had any differences between themselves and were almost constantly together.

Mr. Blake was once suddenly called to South America on business, and it was arranged that Mrs. Blake should go with him. What to do with Bobby during their absence gave them a good many anxious moments. They finally decided to send him to Rockledge School, of which they had heard excellent reports, and to Bobby’s great delight, Mr. Martin consented to let Fred go with him.

The school opened a new world for the boys. They had to study hard, but a lot of fun was mixed in with the work and they had many exciting adventures. They formed warm friendships, but there were two or three bullies in the school who tried to make their lives burdensome. How they finally defeated these petty tyrants and came out on top is told in the first volume of the series, entitled: “Bobby Blake at Rockledge School; or, Winning the Medal of Honor.”

The steamer on which Mr. Blake and his wife had sailed was lost at sea, and for a time it was feared that all on board had gone down with her. Bobby was heart-broken; so when news came later that his parents had been rescued his joy can be imagined. The end of the spring term was near, and Bobby and Fred accepted the invitation of one of their schoolmates, Perry (nicknamed “Pee Wee”) Wise, to spend part of the summer vacation on the coast, where Perry’s father had a summer home. There they had a splendid time. Their most stirring adventure involved the search for a missing boat. This is described in the second volume of the series, entitled: “Bobby Blake at Bass Cove; or, The Hunt for the Motor Boat Gem.”

They would have stayed longer at this delightful place, had it not been for a message brought to Bobby by an old sea captain who was a friend of Mr. Blake. He told Bobby that his parents were on their way home but would stop for a while at Porto Rico, where they wanted Bobby to join them. Bobby was wild to see his parents again, and his joy was increased when Mr. Martin said that he would go too and take Fred along. They expected adventure, but got more than they bargained for, and the story of how they were cast away and finally picked up by the very ship on which Bobby’s father and mother were sailing is told in the third volume of the series, entitled: “Bobby Blake on a Cruise; or, The Castaways of Volcano Island.”

Once more at home, the two boys were preparing to go back to Rockledge for the fall term, when they suddenly came into possession of a pocketbook containing a large sum of money. A strange series of happenings led them at last to the owner. In the meantime, their school life was full of action, culminating in a lively football game where Bobby and Fred helped to defeat Belden School, their chief rival. How well they played their part is shown in the fourth volume of the series, entitled: “Bobby Blake and His School Chums; or, The Rivals of Rockledge.”

The uncle of “Mouser” Pryde, one of Bobby’s particular friends at school, owned a shooting lodge up in the Big Woods, and he invited Mouser to ask some of his friends up there to spend part of the Christmas holidays. Bobby and Fred were members of the party, and they had a glorious time, skating, snowshoeing, fishing through the ice and hunting. In turn, they were themselves hunted by a big bear and had a narrow escape. Incidentally they were fortunate enough to rescue and bring back to his right mind a demented hunter who proved to be Pat Moriarty’s father. How they did this and won the everlasting gratitude of the red-headed Irish boy is described in the fifth volume of the series, entitled: “Bobby Blake at Snowtop Camp; or, Winter Holidays in the Big Woods.”

Pat and Ap seemed to be trying to outstare each other, and the rest waited in breathless silence during this silent duel of eyes.

But Ap’s eyes were the first to fall before the blaze in Pat’s.

“I’ll get even with that Bobby Blake yet,” he mumbled, stooping to pick up his whip.

“Well, the next time don’t bring along your whip to help you out,” replied Bobby.

“An’ when you feel like lookin’ for trouble, I can find it for you,” added Pat. “You’ll be rememberin’, Ap Plunkit, that I licked you once when you gave a hot penny to a monkey, an’ I can do it again.”

It was evident that Ap did remember perfectly well the fact which Pat referred to, for he did not seem to want to stay any longer in the Irish lad’s vicinity. He picked up his whip, went over to the wagon and climbed in. Then he took out his spite by giving his nag a vicious slash and drove away. But first he doubled up his fist and shook it at the boys, a gesture which they answered with a derisive shout of laughter.

“I think that Ap Plunkit is just horrid,” declared Betty, with a stamp of her little foot.

“I don’t blame him for feeling a little sore,” said Bobby, “especially before he knew I didn’t do it on purpose. But I guess he has a grudge against me anyway.”

“He was just looking for an excuse to make trouble,” put in Fred, “and it was just like him to bring his whip along. He never has played fair yet.”

“He’s got a yaller streak in him, I’m thinkin’,” chuckled Pat, a broad smile covering his jolly face. “I just couldn’t help buttin’ in when I seen him a swingin’ of that whip.”

“You always stand up for your friends, don’t you, Pat?” said Mouser admiringly.

“Sure thing,” grinned Pat. “Especially when they’re the best friends a feller ever had. I’ll never forget what Bobby and Fred have done for me an’ my folks.”

“Oh, that was nothing,” put in Bobby hastily.

“Nothin’!” exclaimed Pat. “It was just everything, an’ there isn’t a day goes by in our house but what we’re talkin’ about it.”

“How did you happen to be Johnny-on-the-spot this morning?” asked Bobby, anxious to change the conversation.

“I just was doin’ an errand at the grocery store when I heard some one say that you boys were goin’ off to school this mornin’,” answered Pat, “an’ I dropped everything an’ came down here on a dead run to say good-bye and wish you slathers of luck. I guess me mother will be after wonderin’ what’s keepin’ me, an’ she a waitin’ fur the butter an’ sugar,” he added, with a grin, “but she won’t care when I tell her what the reason was.”

“I wish you were going along with us, Pat,” said Bobby, who was genuinely fond of the good-hearted Irish boy.

“Yes,” drawled Pee Wee. “We’ve got a couple of fellows up at Rockledge that I’d like to see you handle just as you faced down Ap this morning.”

“If there’s any kind of a shindig, I’d sure like to be in the thick of it,” laughed Pat. “But I’ll trust you boys not to let them fellers do any crowin’ over you.”

“Right you are,” put in Mouser. “There aren’t any of ’em that can make Bobby and Fred lie down when they get their dander up.”

“Oh, dear,” sighed Betty, as the toot of the train’s whistle was heard up the track. “Here it comes. I just hate to have to say good-bye to you boys.”

“Never mind, Betty,” cried Bobby cheerily. “It won’t be so very long and you’ll hear from us every once in a while. And maybe we’ll be able to come home for a few days at Easter.”

There was a scurrying about as the boys got their hand-baggage together and brushed the snow from their clothes. The train had now come in sight, and a minute later with a great rattle and clamor and hissing of steam it drew up to the platform.

“All aboard!” shouted Mouser, and the four boys scrambled up the steps, Pee Wee as usual bringing up the rear.

They rushed up the aisle and were lucky enough to find two vacant seats next to each other. They turned over the back of one of them, so that two of them could sit facing the others, and tucked away their belongings in the racks and under the seats. Then they threw up the windows so as to have a last word with those they were leaving behind.

The girls had their handkerchiefs out ready to wave a good-bye, and Betty was applying hers furtively to one of her eyes.

“I hope your nose isn’t hurting you, Fred,” she questioned, the mischief glinting out in spite of the tears.

“Not a bit of it,” answered Fred hastily, as though the subject was not to his liking.

“And you’re sure you don’t need the ten cents?”

“Need nothing,” declared Fred, with the magnificent gesture of one to whom money was a trifle. “I’ve got plenty with me.”

Betty drew back a little, and Scat and Pat came along and grasped the four hands that were thrust out to meet theirs.

“Good luck, fellows,” said Scat. “I hope you’ll get on the baseball nine this spring and lay it all over the teams you play against.”

“We’re going to do our best,” Bobby replied.

“Good-bye, boys!” called out Pat. “I sure am sorry to have you goin’. It won’t seem like the same old place when you ain’t here no more.”

“Good-bye, Pat!” the four shouted in chorus.

“If you have any mix-up with Ap while we’re gone, be sure to let us know,” laughed Bobby.

“There won’t be any mix-up,” put in Fred. “Not if Ap sees Pat first, there won’t.”

“Ap will crawfish all right,” confirmed Mouser.

“He’s a wonder at backing out,” added Pee Wee.

The bell of the engine began to clang and the train started slowly out of the station. The little party left behind ran alongside until they reached the end of the platform, shouting and waving.

The travelers, with their heads far out of the windows, waved and called in return until they were out of sight and hearing.

“Betty’s a bully girl, isn’t she, Fred?” remarked Bobby, as they settled back in their seats. “You’re a lucky fellow. I wish I had a sister like her.”

“Ye-e-s,” assented Fred, rather hesitatingly. “Betty’s a brick. That is,” he added hastily, “as far as any girl can be. But don’t be wishing too hard for sisters, Bobby,” he went on darkly. “Girls aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.”

“Especially when they know how to throw,” put in Bobby, with a roguish glint in his eyes.

Fred pretended to think this remark unworthy of an answer, but he rubbed his nose reflectively.